The head of my record label, Maxwell Sterling, emerges from a shadowy corridor. Standing in front of me, he represents three generations of record-industry power wrapped in Savile Row suits.
“Excellent performance—” he begins, his voice smooth as aged whiskey.
I cut him off with a look. “Song has been performed. Contract obligation met.”
A blur of motion catches my peripheral vision. I glance out at the patrons through the one-way mirror lining the corridor's wall.
There’s the girl I saw from the stage, the beauty with the strands of fake pearls and blonde curls. Her booth is close to the wall. It looks like she's guarding her friends' purses while they dance.
From the way she looked at me onstage, I know all I’d have to do is drop the word, and she’d be mine for the night. That said, she doesn’t have the jaded look of a club regular.
Her clingy dress leaves little to the imagination, but it looks like a budget knock-off. And instead of the usual skyscraper heels, she's wearing clean white Converse.
On anyone else, that combo might look ridiculous. On her? It's as sexy as hell.
There's something about her I find incredibly attractive, and it's not just her youthful good looks. I'd put it to her lack of artifice, something I'm valuing more and more these days.
“Don’t be flippant, Slayer,” Sterling continues. He keeps that smile plastered on his face so no one can tell he’s arguing with his label’s #1 star. “We need to talk marketing data?—”
But before he finishes his sentence, the elevator doors open. I step inside, leaving him behind, still talking.
In the elevator’s mirrored walls, I wipe away the black liner, revealing eyes that haven’t seen daylight in hours.
One of the advantages of living in Manhattan’s Mandarin Oriental hotel, inside the Columbus Circle retail complex, is that it’s just two minutes from Taboo. I never have to leave the block-long building.
As soon as I enter my apartment, I peel off the restrictive, sweaty jacket, loving the sensation of the cool air on my bare skin.
Then I lose myself in the freedom of a warm shower, lathering up with a cleansing gel that smells like I'm in the middle of a rain forest, not congested New York City with its rigorous demands.
Now it’s just a night to myself to relax.
I flop down on the couch, plotting my next move, but as soon as I do so, I realize it was a mistake.
Exhaustion turns my bones to lead, and suddenly, I can’t keep my eyes open.I’ll just close them a moment, I tell myself.
Sometime later, my stomach growls loudly enough to startle me awake. I look around wildly and then have to laugh. I must look entirely ridiculous—a grown man frightened by his stomach.
I rub my eyes and sit up as my belly rumbles again, reminding me I haven’t eaten since morning.
I reach for my phone to call room service, but then think better of it. The luxurious, mirrored walls of my penthouse apartment feel a bit confining.
I’ve spent too many hours being Slayer, playing the Dark Prince.
Time to let Sam Slater, my boyhood self, come out to play.
I stretch myself more fully awake and head down the hall. In the bathroom mirror, I pull my now-brown hair into a loose man bun.
Stepping into my walk-in closet, I select designer jeans, a gray cashmere jacket, and a simple white T-shirt. Sam’s clothes, not Slayer’s armor.
On a whim, I decide to head for the noodle bar on Tenth Avenue. It’s possibly the only place in Manhattan where nobody knows my name.
CHAPTER 3
BIX
The Champagne bubbles tickle my nose as Zaza tops off my glass for the second time.
Our table in the exclusive VIP section feels surreal. With its bordello-red accents and glowing candlelight, it’s like we’ve stepped into another world entirely.
