He shrugs playfully. “Just your average drug dealer.”
“That thought crossed my mind. But then I was thinking actor. You’re certainly attractive enough.”
Before he can answer, his phone rings. He checks the screen and frowns slightly. “Sorry, I have to take this. Back in a minute.”
He steps through a door, closing it behind him.
Well, look at me, I think to myself.Having noodles with a stranger at 2 am, going home with him—an interesting way to start my 21st year.
I take out my red notebook and jot this down—after all, the most insignificant of notations could turn into the lyric of a hit song.
Back when Hilary and I had an act, audiences loved it when we’d read from our diaries, or even from the day’s newspaper, and turn it into a song.
I step away from the window to explore. The apartment feels vast and pristine, like an art gallery more than a home.
Champagne in hand, I wander the apartment and discover a small alcove tucked away behind the main living area.
A sleek bookcase filled with ancient-looking leather volumes contrasts with the surrounding white modernism.
Beside the books stand black beeswax candles in antique silver holders, their surfaces rippled from previous use.
I step closer, drawn by the rich bindings. My fingers trace leather-bound spines with gilt titles on alchemy, sacred geometry, Renaissance mysticism, and Carl Jung.
Intrigued, I note a few of the titles in my notebook.
CHAPTER 7
SLAYER
On the phone in my den, my eyes drift over the Grammy-winning records lining my walls as I listen to Rafe’s voice crack.
He’s the guitarist on my latest album, but we were once in a band together, and we’ve been friends since childhood.
His mother, Amanda, is in the hospital. And the pain in his words hits me hard. I’ve always considered her my second mother.
Back when Rafe and I were just kids with guitars and big dreams, she’d bring still-warm chocolate chip cookies to our garage sessions. I can taste them even now.
“Hang tight, man.” I try to keep my voice steady. My parents are still alive, though I rarely see them.
But Rafe’s mom—she’s different. Always supporting us, believing in us, even when everyone else thought we were wasting our time.
“Will you still make Saint-Tropez?” I hate asking, but Sterling’s breathing down my neck about this album launch.”
“Yeah.” Rafe’s voice goes quiet. “Mom insisted. Made me promise.”
“The gig’s not worth?—”
“She wants pictures,” he says with a chuckle. “Says she’s going to show everyone at the hospice.”
We both laugh, but it’s hollow.
As I end the call with Rafe, I study my first guitar, mounted on the wall like a museum piece. That’s a good analogy. More and more, my life has become a museum artifact.
I take a deep breath and head back out to the living room. But it’s empty. “Bix?”
Then I see her. A small figure in that white dress, standing in my bookshelf alcove. My private space. My sanctuary.
Everything in me goes cold. “What the fuck?” The words spew out before I can stop them. My brain suddenly registers that she could be a mole from one of those tabloid magazines.
