Then the lights drop, and a different energy electrifies the room. Whispers ripple through the crowd like wildfire.
The house lights extinguish completely, leaving only the glow of scattered candles and the dying sparklers on my cake.
A single guitar note cuts through the darkness. Low. Dangerous. It hangs in the air like a threat or a promise.
“Oh my God,” someone behind me shrieks. “He’s here.”
Curtains part at the front of the room. Slayer takes the stage like he owns the club, and the night itself. He commands the space under the spotlight like a dark god—all lean muscle and shadowed grace.
His black leather pants might as well be painted on, and the visible portion of his chest beneath his open black jacket reveals a canvas of intricate tattoos that disappear into his waistband.
That famous jet-black hair falls past his shoulders, partially hiding his mesmerizing face until he looks up and grabs the mic. The collective intake of breath in the room is audible as the crowd surges forward.
There's something about his music that reaches down into your soul, compelling you like the way a snake charmer mesmerizes a serpent. Or a vampire compels his victim.
When Slayer’s first guitar riff hits, my body responds before my brain can catch up. An electric shiver vibrates down my spine, my skin prickling with awareness.
The crowd goes wild for it. Women chant his name, reaching toward the stage with manicured fingers as if they could touch him from twenty feet away.
A spark of irrational jealousy ignites in my chest. I have no claimon him, never even met him—yet I feel bound to him in a way I can’t even explain to myself.
I force my attention back to his performance. Slayer’s fingers fly across the guitar strings, stirring an odd emotion in me—somewhere between lust and rapture.
And then his eyes find mine.
The world narrows to a single point of connection. My heart stutters, then races. The air between us feels charged.
My rational mind knows it’s impossible. He’s too far away to truly see me. I’m just another face in a sea of admirers.
I’ve sung on enough soapboxes to know the trick. Just sweep your eyes across the crowd, giving everyone the illusion of personal contact. And then in an instant, it’s over.
But still, this moment we shared, that connection meant something more. I’m certain of it.
“Hey you,” Zaza says, grabbing my hand just as the song ends and the stage goes dark. “Let’s finish that Champagne.”
“In a minute,” I say, still transfixed by what happened. Or what I’ve imagined happened. But by the time I look back at the stage, Slayer has disappeared.
Leaving only the echo of his presence and the frenzied energy of a crowd demanding more.
I exhale slowly, trying to ground myself. Maybe Keesha is right—maybe my obsession with his music has crossed into fantasy.
But deep in my bones, I know what I felt. For one brief moment,Slayer saw me.
CHAPTER 2
SLAYER
The screams follow me offstage, but I’m already stripping away the pieces of Slayer.
I hand my guitar off to the crew. Silver chains catch the light as I yank them free. Sweat makes my leather pants a second skin I can’t wait to shed.
Twenty years ago, performing in a club like this would’ve given me a rush. Now, it's just one more obligation to cross off my list.
“Slayer! Slayer!”
A crush of girls appears out of nowhere, phones raised like glitter-covered weapons.
I dodge through the VIP exit—muscle memory built over twenty years of finding escape routes. Market research says my fans want their Dark Prince mysterious, dangerous, and untouchable.
