Rock Star (27 page)

‘Forget it,’ she interrupted quickly. ‘I can wait. In fact, if Bobby doesn’t mind, maybe I’ll watch him.’

‘Certainly, Miss Rafealla.’ Norton shot the bad-tempered executive a triumphant look. ‘I will show you to your suite first, and then I will ask Mr Mondella’s representative. If everything seems to be all right, I shall return for you immediately.’

*    *    *

‘Shit!’ exclaimed Speed for the tenth time. ‘I’m tellin’ ya, the broad set me up. She wiggled her fat ass in my face an’ demanded money. So I gave her a few bucks – just t’get
rid
of her. Big deal. Ya only gotta
look
at the witch t’know I wouldn’t touch her with somebody
else’s
hot rod! Shit!’

A bored detective burped in his face.

‘I gotta warn ya – I know people,’ Speed said, rapidly changing tactics. I got solid connections. My lawyer’ll make fartheads outta all of ya with this dirt-bag bust.’

‘Don’t threaten,’ said the detective mildly, ‘or I’ll knock your yella molars outta the backa your dumb head.’

‘Huh?’ demanded Speed, snapping to attention. He had lovely teeth. His incisors were a bit too pointed – but yellow? No way.

‘I don’t believe this crapola!’ he said indignantly. ‘I’m just an honest citizen who’s bin set up, an’ I wanna call my lawyer. You got no right t’hold me.’

The detective burped a second time, leaving no doubt in anyone’s mind that he loved garlic. ‘Fuck!’ he said mournfully. ‘I
hate
these Mickey Mouse arrests.’

*    *    *

Bobby could smell the sea as Sara led him down a winding pathway. He could hear noise and bustle, the sounds of clinking cutlery and glasses being placed on tables.

God! Since the loss of his sight he depended so much on smell, and feel, and sound and taste. He knew everything that was going on around him, he just couldn’t see it.

‘What does it look like?’ he asked, yearning for information.

‘Beautiful!’ Sara replied. ‘We’re balanced on top of the world.’

Very descriptive. What the hell did she think he was going to get out of that? Maybe he should employ a person who was only there to be his eyes. A soothing voice to give him an account of every little detail without him having to ask.

‘Sara,’ he said simply, ‘what colour is the sky? Can you see the sea? Are there clouds? Is the grass green?
Tell
me, goddammit, I need to know.’

Nobody could imagine what it was like. A world of darkness, with no way out.

Sara stopped walking. He felt her tension. And then a soft, insistent hand touched his arm, and the familiar scent of danger wafted through the air.

‘Hello, Bobby,’ said the unmistakable voice of Nova Citroen. ‘How very nice to see you again.’

*    *    *

‘Everything going okay?’ Vicki Foxe asked, creeping up behind Tom and treating him to a little back rub with her massive bosom.

‘You’re not supposed to come in here,’ Tom said sternly. ‘This is security headquarters.’

‘Don’t be silly,’ scolded Vicki. ‘You sound like a spy movie! Who do you think cleans in here? Anyway, I’ve brought you a nice, cold beer and a roast beef sandwich. You must be starving.’

‘I am,’ he admitted, his eyes automatically fixing on her outsize attributes, swivelling away from the bank of television monitors covering every key location on the estate.

‘I knew you had to be a hungry boy,’ she purred, taking the sandwich from the plate and feeding him a bite.

‘You’re some damn hot woman,’ he said, consecutively chewing and feasting his eyes.

‘And you’re some
big
man.’ Innuendo was thick in the air.

‘How would
you
know?’ he asked, a red flush suffusing his bull neck.

‘A girl can – well,’ she giggled, ‘sorta
tell.
’

His attention was all hers as Maxwell Sicily appeared on Monitor Three. He didn’t see a thing as furtively he darted a nifty hand up her skirt.

Parting her legs she allowed him a quick feel of warm thigh before squeaking with feigned indignation and slapping his hand away. ‘
Bad
big boy.’

‘Ya love it.’

‘Maybe. Maybe not,’ she responded tartly.

‘When am I gonna find out?’ He was almost panting with anticipation.

Licking her lips, she promised, ‘Tonight, if you’re
real
lucky.’

Out of the corner of her eye she watched Maxwell Sicily disappear from the monitor.

Timing perfect.

Mission accomplished.

‘See you later, Tommy, baby, when you’re not quite so busy. We’ll have a
very
good time.’ Blowing him a juicy kiss she undulated out of the room.

*    *    *

Nova Citroen stared at Bobby Mondella. Three years and he still looked exactly the same.

The body. Tall, powerful, sexy.

The face. Strong, handsome, ebony-carved perfection.

His eyes were covered by dark glasses. She had no idea what was hidden beneath them.

‘How are you?’ she asked.

He felt the rage seethe up inside him as this woman – this bitch – casually enquired after his health.

Where had Nova Citroen been when he needed her? Where the hell was she then?

‘Fine’, he said, remembering every inch of her pampered body. The smell of her special scent. The raw hunger of their lovemaking. ‘I’m glad you could come’, she said.
Hey – lady. I didn’t have a choice. I had to face you.

‘C’mon, Sara, let’s move it’, he said impatiently.

‘Yes.’ Nova withdrew her hand from his arm and looked directly at Sara. ‘The musicians are waiting for Mr Mondella. Be sure to let my people know if he needs anything.’

‘Hey – Mrs C. If I need anything you’ll be the first to get the message,’ he said roughly. ‘’Cos I
sure
know I can depend on you . . . anytime . . . anywhere . . .’, His sarcasm was not lost on either woman.

Feeling uncomfortable, Sara began to move off, guiding Bobby away from trouble.

Nova watched them as they walked away. She wondered if he was sleeping with the pretty black girl. If he was – what a waste. Bobby Mondella deserved a woman – in bed and out. He might be blind, but he was still all man.

Nova felt the thrill of stalking the forbidden, and shuddered with anticipation.

*    *    *

As Marcus Citroen sat in his spacious study overlooking the ocean, a cigar in one hand, a Chivas Regal on the rocks in the other, he was savouring the moment. The peace before the storm.

The wheels were in motion, and there was no going back.

For anyone.

Kris Phoenix

1979

For nearly two years Kris had been having an on/off affair with Sharleen. Not easy when an ocean separated them, and she was a big star in America and The Wild Ones hadn’t cracked it yet. Not easy when her main man was Marcus Citroen – the record tycoon – and if Marcus found out, Sharleen assured him, Kris would have both legs broken and a face full of smashed teeth. Charming! Nothing like living a dangerous life.

‘Whyn’t you get the fucker t’sign us to a record deal?’ he suggested one day as they lazed on the big bed in her Dorchester hotel suite.

Sharleen rolled over on her stomach and smiled lazily. ‘Are you shittin’ me, man? One mention of your name an’ he’ll suspect for sure. Marcus has an antenna for these things.’

Sliding his hand beneath her stomach and down towards her furry warmth, he asked wryly, ‘How many of
these things
have there bin?’

Giggling huskily, she said, ‘Let’s put it this way, honey – what Mr C don’t know ain’t gonna burn his balls!’

‘Mebbe it’ll burn mine,’ he retorted.

She laughed. ‘Oh,
suuure!
I just
know
when I ain’t around you got it wrapped in cotton an’ outta action.’

‘Shit! Somebody told you!’

They both fell about laughing, secure in the knowledge that what they had together was great sex. And neither of them made any other demands. Sharleen turned him on with a vengeance. She was devastatingly pretty, a big star, and old enough to know what she was doing without bitching about a commitment. Every time he climbed into bed with her he couldn’t believe his luck.

How had they met? He vaguely remembered meeting her in Annabel’s the night of their first big London gig. Sharleen, all eyes and teeth and come-on looks. But somehow he’d ended up with yet another enthusiastic groupie – making it in the back of his car, with the chauffeur driving slowly around Berkeley Square, sneaking surreptitious looks in the rear-view mirror.

He’d seen Sharleen again a few nights later at a Queen concert. This time she was without Marcus Citroen, who had flown back to New York. She was wearing a startling red dress and a wide smile.

He was with Buzz and Flower and a group of hangers-on, and she’d invited them all back to her hotel, where she’d plied them with food, booze, and the finest Colombian Gold grass, until eventually she’d taken Kris to one side and said, ‘Get rid of the entourage an’ let’s
really
party.’

He didn’t need asking twice.

Now they got together every time she came to London. And she flew in whenever she could. She was a favourite of Prince Charles, and always obliged if he asked her to appear at one of his chosen charity events. Her records in England automatically went to number one, and the public adored her. This time she was visiting for a television appearance on the popular
Top of the Pops.

Kris had decided to use his connection. Mr Terence was getting nowhere with the Americans. Frankly, Kris suspected that when it came to the States, old man Terence didn’t know his ass from a hole in the ground. It was time for some long overdue action. Maybe dumping Mr Terence was the first move. He’d been thinking about it on and off Timing was everything.

There was no doubt that Marcus Citroen and Blue Cadillac Records would be a great label for The Wild Ones. They were among the best, along with Atlantic, Capitol and Warners. Kris only wanted the best. He’d turned down several offers from half-assed companies who wouldn’t guarantee shit on advertising and promotion. Without the right launch behind them they were nowhere.

Sharleen didn’t seem inclined to help, and he could understand why. He’d been toying with the idea of flying to New York himself.

‘Forget it,’ Buzz had said dismissively when he’d mentioned it to him. Doin’ things ourselves is strictly amateur night.
You
know that better than anyone.’

Buzz was perfectly happy with their present situation. They were big stars in England. Europe too. Buzz’s attitude was ‘Who needs the bleedin’ Yanks? We’re makin’ it here. What’s the panic?’

Kris wanted America. He wanted it so bad it made his teeth ache whenever he thought about it.

Every Sunday he visited his son at his in-laws’ house in Esher. Bo was a strapping three-and-a-half-year-old. A nice-looking kid, but Willow and her uptight parents were making the boy into a wimp. He could see all the signs.

‘I want to take him out on my own,’ he informed his ex-wife.

‘No,’ she said stubbornly. ‘I can’t allow that.’

‘A court’ll bleedin’ allow it,’ he argued hotly.

‘Take me to court then,’ she replied, red-cheeked and self-righteous. ‘We’ll
see
what a judge will allow.’

He couldn’t be bothered. It wasn’t worth the public hassle. Maybe when the kid was older.

Groupies were knee deep. He couldn’t move without falling over them. They gathered outside the tiny house he’d bought in a quiet side street near Hampstead Heath. They phoned at all hours of the day and night, forcing him to change his number every two weeks. They followed him along the street whenever he ventured out, and sent him passionate handwritten notes chock-f of all the lustful things they would like to do to him.

Buzz and Rasta revelled in the attention.

Kris and Ollie hated it.

Ollie was on the verge of getting married to his cellist girlfriend.

‘Do it!’ Kris urged.

‘Are you friggin’
mad?
’ exploded Buzz.

‘Not
another
wife to hide’, groaned Mr Terence.

Ollie did it on a summer’s day in the English countryside, with only close family and friends present. The news-hit the press two days later and caused a cyclone. The Wild Ones belonged to the female population of England. This was a hostile act, and the screaming teenyboppers were furious. Ollie, in his own quiet way, was very popular.

Hate mail rained down on Ollie’s new wife and her unassuming, middle-class family.

Within a week Ollie made a momentous decision. He resigned from the group.

They were all shocked – except Kris, who calmly accepted the fact that Ollie considered a life more important than rock stardom.

Ten days after Ollie’s defection they were auditioning for a new keyboard and bass player. Inadvertently that’s how Doktor Head entered their lives, and America became more than just a possibility.

Rafealla

1979

‘C’mere,
bitch.
’

‘Eddie. You’re drunk. Leave me alone.’

‘I said
come here.
You
do it.
NOW!
’

He was shouting, his eyes angry slits, his mouth slack and mean, as he sprawled on the chintz-covered couch in his mother’s sitting room, a full glass of vodka balanced precariously in one hand.

Warily Rafealla approached the couch. She hated Eddie when he was drunk. He turned into an appalling, rough animal, and she had no idea how to handle him.

As soon as she was within reach he grabbed her wrist, spitefully digging his nails into her soft flesh.

‘Hello, whore,’ he mumbled, with a sick grin. ‘Wadderya goin’ t’do for me today?’

‘Eddie.’ She could hear the pleading tone in her voice, and loathed herself for it. ‘Why don’t we go to bed? It’s late, and your mother will be home soon. You don’t want her to see you like this, do you?’

He laughed. An empty laugh, full of venom. ‘Fuck both of you cunts. I don’t give a damn what either of you whores think of me.’