And then...
A knock on my door.
“It’s time,” Slayer says, his voice muffled through the wood.
Time for the press conference. Time to play our parts in Sterling’s carefully orchestrated performance.
I rise on shaky legs to dress, still wondering if Slayer’s jealousy means that beneath all the pretense, there’s something real between us after all.
CHAPTER 35
BIX
“Here you are,” says Sterling, dressed in another white suit. Slayer is by his side, looking quite the contrast in all black.
“Milo went to the yacht early to direct the staff,” Sterling explains. “Let’s go.”
He launches into the first of many calls, and we fall in step behind him.
Slayer plays the role of the brooding Dark Prince well, I think, his face a careful mask of indifference. Only I know the man beneath it—or thought I did this morning on the turtle trail.
I distract myself by noting the sights and sounds of this charming fishing village. Despite its glamorous reputation and expensive hotels, it’s really just a small town where normal people live and work.
Two teen girls in bright red T-shirts stop Slayer for autographs. I watch as he obliges, signing the scraps of paper they give him.
When I was that age, I’d barely had the confidence to order coffee at Starbucks, let alone approach a rock god like Slayer.
Even bolder, the girls ask to pose for a photo with him.
“Would you do the honors?” he asks, handing me a phone.
“Uh, sure,” I say, snapping the shots. When the girls squeal and hurry away, Slayer slips the pen back into his inner jacket pocket.
“That was nice of you,” I offer, trying to bridge the silence between us.
He shrugs. “I wouldn’t be anywhere without my fans.”
We pass a corner bakery window. I glance in to see pastries glistening like glossy magazine models.
Bright red berries looking like jewels in gelée. Strawberries peeking out from folds of pastry cream and impossibly thin dough.
“OMG,” I breathe. “I’m going to swing back and pick up those little treasures,” I say, trying to lighten the mood. “Maybe you’d like to join me for my afternoon snack?”
He doesn’t answer.
I stop walking to face him. “You’re angry at me. I feel it. But why? Carlos heard me sing last night and came to tell me he enjoyed it. Why is that a crime?”
Slayer’s gaze flicks toward the harbor where gulls skim the tide. He refuses to meet my eyes. Finally, he speaks.
“This morning, on the trail...I finally thought I could trust you. I believed your explanations. Thought you were real.”
“I am.”
“You make up stories as easily as you make up those mumbling scat lyrics, Bix.”
“What are you talking about?”
“You knew Carlos would be at Le Cave. You had it all arranged with Paul to take you there.”
