ROCK STAR

by Daiko, SC

  A slow smile spread over her face. “Okay.” She took a step backward. “Sounds good to me.”

  “I haven’t seen Camila since…” I pinched the bridge of my nose. “… since Ella passed. They were close friends, the two of them.”

  “I’m so sorry for your loss.” Phoenix’s gaze met mine, and I could have drowned in her beautiful sea-green eyes.

  Eyes that had filled with tears of sympathy.

  Fuck.

  My fucking heart panged.

  “Come with me,” I rasped, spinning on my heel. Didn’t want to break down in front of her. “Our monitor engineer, Bob, will get you sorted.”

  I waited for her in the studio, noodling on an acoustic guitar while Bob made molds of her inner ears. We only used floor monitors while rehearsing. On stage, the freedom given by IEMs was vital to our performance. The guys had already left, but I would meet up with them later on Sunset Strip for an evening of our usual shenanigans.

  The door swung open, and Phoenix poked her head into the room. “Thanks for waiting, Axel. If there’s nothing else, I should be heading home.”

  You could bend over the table, baby, and….

  Jesus, where had that come from?

  I put the guitar back on its stand. “I wanted to ask you something… Ella and I always used to practice together.” I paused, sucked in a quick breath. “Would you like to come to my place tomorrow?”

  “To practice with you?” She appeared to think for a moment and then said, “Sure, I’d love that.”

  “Awesome,” I released the breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding. “Joe will take you home now. He’ll collect you at eleven in the morning. Is that okay? Lunch will be on me.”

  “Thanks. I’ll look forward to it.”

  After she’d left, I paced the studio floor. I didn’t know what had gotten into me—I never invited women home. Either I fucked my hook-ups at their places or I took them to the apartment I rented specifically for that purpose in Beverly Grove. I didn’t want my one-night stands to turn up at my home and hassle me, so I kept my address secret.

  But Phoenix wasn’t a hook-up, I reminded myself.

  She was my backing singer.

  And I needed her help.

  Mike, my personal bodyguard and driver, drove me up into the Hollywood Hills. I’d bought my house two years ago, shortly after we’d moved to LA… part of a newly built gated community. Ella, Jake, Rhys, Foxy and Zach had snapped up the other properties. Each place had a two-bedroomed guest cottage where we accommodated our security teams. My sister’s house was empty now; she’d bequeathed it to our parents, but they’d yet to visit and, given my Dad’s attitude toward me, I doubted they ever would.

  Mike rolled my Audi SUV to a stop in the drive and I said I’ll call him when I wanted him to pick me up later. I was looking forward to some down time before I met up with the guys. I pulled my keys from my pocket, switched off the alarm, and opened the front door onto my living room. I stared at the floor-to-ceiling window which spanned the back wall, giving a panoramic view of LA… a view that never ceased to thrill me. With the flick of a switch, that glass would slide open, giving access to the decking and infinity pool beyond. I’d sit out and enjoy the panorama later, I decided.

  But first things first.

  I grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge and headed down to the basement, to my home gym, for ninety minutes’ circuit training. I sprinted on an inclined treadmill, in between bouts of lifting heavy weights, working like a dog for an hour and a half, pushing my muscles to the edge of their endurance with every set, then running like Hell. Adrenalin spiked in my veins. Exercising took away the ever-present need to snort coke, and I knew the guys were doing likewise in their own pads. I’d always gotten fit before touring; you couldn’t do what I did for three hours on stage without optimum fitness, but I’d only started bulking up while in rehab.

  After cooling down, I showered and put on a pair of black leather trousers and a black t-shirt. Then I went into the kitchen. My stomach was rumbling with hunger, so I grilled a steak and made myself a salad, which I ate before grabbing a beer and going out onto the decking. A sense of calmness stole over me. Home was where I enjoyed rare solitude. I didn’t have any permanent housekeeping staff—either I cooked for myself or ordered in, and a team of cleaners came once a week, also doing my laundry… the arrangement suited me fine.

  I pulled the ring on my can of Bud and took a swig, gazing at the lights of LA twinkling below. I blew out a sigh. My life would have been perfect if I hadn’t become a cokehead and then fucked up viz-a-viz taking care of my sister. I creased my forehead and thought back to that crazy period when the guys and I had first arrived in the US, the time before we became so successful that the stress of performing had turned us into white powder junkies.

  I’d grown up in the UK watching imported American TV programs. The States had felt amazingly familiar to me, yet totally surreal… like I’d stepped out of a dream and onto a movie set. We’d gotten off the plane and immediately started a rollercoaster make-or-break tour across the continent. I remember us vowing that ChiMera wouldn’t piss the Yanks off by behaving like some Brits who’d tried to make it over here and had failed. Talent aside, we knew we needed to work fucking hard, charm the pants off everyone and show what we were made of.

  Initially, audiences were ambivalent toward a bunch of unknown limeys. Our number one UK hit ‘London Lovers’ had barely charted this side of the Atlantic. Determinedly, we kept it all together step-by-step, mile-by-mile, state-by-state. Clubs, then theatres, then national TV. Over fifteen months, ChiMera crisscrossed America six times, performing over 150 gigs and glad-handing endlessly with people in the business. Basically, we ‘whored ourselves around’, but it paid off. By the time we were playing sold-out shows at the Hollywood Bowl and Madison Square Garden, we’d become huge.

  Huge, but floundering under the pressure…

  The sudden ringing of my cellphone interrupted my thoughts. I pulled it from my pocket and checked the caller ID.

  Noah, my half-brother.

  I clenched my jaw.

  We hadn’t spoken for a while…

  I pressed answer. “Hey.”

  “Our parents have heard the news and they aren’t happy the band has seen fit to replace Ella,” he came straight out with it.

  I tensed. “We’re not ‘replacing’ her,” I said through gritted teeth. “She’s irreplaceable. We’ve simply found a sub and are dedicating the rest of the tour to Ella’s memory. She’d have wanted us to carry on.”

  “She’d have wanted to live a long and happy life,” he muttered.

  “I know. And believe me I feel terrible about what happened, but we can’t change the past.” I blew out a long, slow breath.

  “Mum wants you to move back to England.” Noah’s tone had turned conciliatory.

  “I can’t do that. My life is here now,” I groaned. “This is where me and the guys set up our record label. People depend on us…”

  “I know,” he said, “but you should at least try and mend the breach between you and Dad.”

  “I’ll be back in the UK in June. If Dad will agree, I want to see him… and the rest of you of course.”

  “I trust you are clean of drugs now?”

  I assured Noah that I was, and promised I’d give Mum a call before we left on tour. She, at least, wasn’t as unforgiving as my father. Mum and I had spoken a couple of times since Ella had died, but our conversations had always ended with Mum sobbing down the line.

  Noah and I said goodbye with assurances we’d speak again soon. My half-brother and I got on well enough; but having two different dads made us noticeably unalike. Went without saying that Noah was far more conventional than me. He’d taken over as CEO at Lombardi & Wainwright last year, after his dad had decided to retire from property development and focus on philanthropy. Noah had married the daughter of Mum’s best friend. He and Gwyneth had produced three kids, a girl and two boys, in t
he space of four years… and he was only two years older than me. I missed him, like I missed all my family. Even more now that Ella was no longer…

  I closed my eyes, remembering the sound of the ambulance sirens, then running footsteps as the EMTs burst into Ella’s dressing room. I’d found her minutes earlier, a livid bruise around her ankle where she’d tied it off to get at the veins on the top of her foot. She’d been unresponsive and had died in my arms.

  Anguish clogged my throat; the memory was fucking killing me.

  I picked up my cell and placed a quick call to Mike. Tonight, me and the guys were going to a wild party at one of our favourite clubs and would be surrounded by shameless displays of excess. Champagne spraying over tables. Beautiful women doing things they wouldn’t do within 200 miles of their mothers. It would distract me from my sadness, I hoped.

  Tomorrow, I would see Phoenix. There was something I needed from her. Something I hadn’t shared with another soul. Everyone thought I’d been coming up with songs for our next album while in rehab and since. But I hadn’t. It wasn’t that I was suffering from writers’ block. Far from it. My well of creativity hadn’t run dry, but it was running fucking dark and depressing.

  I pulled my eyebrows together in a frown. ChiMera were known for songs that spoke to our fans’ hearts. Songs that reflected most people’s happy and loving life experiences. Songs they could relate to. We were due to start putting down tracks when we returned from the tour and I had nothing to show the guys. Nothing that I wanted to show them, that is.

  I needed inspiration from someone, someone ‘normal’ like Phoenix. I could take what was inside her head and put it in my notebook.

  Maybe.

  I didn’t know if it would work, but it was worth finding out.

  The sound of gravel crunching in the driveway outside alerted me to Mike’s arrival in the Audi. I switched on my alarm, grabbed my keys, and headed out the door.

  5

  Joe took me up into the Hills, the iconic Hollywood sign towering on the crest above us as we turned into a gated community. He parked up, and I waited obediently for him to open the car door.

  Axel was standing on the front step—he must have heard us come through the gate—and the sight of him took my breath. His jeans were slung low, drawing my eyes to the area of bare skin below his t-shirt. I stared at the V of his abs and my gaze lingered on his flat stomach displaying the start of a treasure trail of gold-brown hair. I was in danger of puddling to the ground, so I forced myself to look at his face, but his mussed-up hair, chocolate brown eyes and sexy grin made me feel even more flustered.

  “Come on in,” he said, “I’ll show you around before we make a start.”

  I waved to Joe as Axel ushered me inside for what turned out to be a guided tour. Clearly, he was immensely proud of his place and with good reason… houses in this neighborhood cost tens of millions. Upstairs, there were five bedrooms, complete with ensuite bathrooms. In the basement there was a wine cellar, a gym, a games room and a laundry. Back on the ground floor, he showed me the biggest kitchen I’d ever seen, an open plan living and dining room with views to die for, and finally the music room.

  Throughout the inspection I’d been surprised. Instead of a stereotypical rock star pad—I’d imagined evidence of wild parties and groupies jumping out at us around every corner—this was a really nice home… warm and inviting, with soft furnishings, colorful landscape paintings, plush cream carpets and dark hardwood floors.

  We stepped into the music room, which overlooked the flower-filled back yard. An array of guitars lined the far wall and, taking pride of place in the center of the floor, stood a grand piano. I let out a gasp and ran up to it. “Is this a Bösendorfer Imperial?” I gushed.

  “Yeah. Do you play?”

  A flood of emotion scurried through me as I thought about the Yamaha I’d practiced on for years, the piano my folks had sold when we’d moved from Pasadena.

  “Yeah, I play,” I admitted. “But I’m a little outta practice.”

  He caught his lip with his teeth as he smiled, making my lower belly flutter. “Play something for me.”

  “Only if you do the same for me,” I risked asking.

  His laugh was genuine. “Okay, but you start.”

  I sat on the stool, and he sat next to me, his warm thigh pressing against mine.

  Oh, God.

  I took in a deep breath and placed my hands on the keys, then started playing. I sang the first verse of ‘London lovers’ in a low breathy voice, with an open larynx to let the air through until I’d warmed up.

  I waited for her to take the train

  Mind the gap came the refrain

  She was leaving now and I started to plead

  You’re the one that I need

  My fingers stumbled on the keys and I stopped. But Axel carried on where I’d left off, playing and singing:

  London lovers, in a hurry

  Time stood still and I crushed her to me.

  The bridge fell down, but I carried on

  Underground where I belonged.

  I joined in with him and when we arrived at the end of the song, he said, “You sing beautifully, Phoenix. Your voice is really evocative.”

  “Thanks, but I should have warmed up properly,” I felt myself blush. “My teacher would have a fit…”

  “Let’s do it now.”

  He started a scale and we sang the notes together, a cappella. His deep baritone voice made my insides quiver.

  I tried to focus on the task at hand, and mostly I did just that as we ran through the entire set that we’d practiced yesterday, stopping occasionally to repeat sections until we’d gotten them right. He was a perfectionist, I realized, and I was lost in the music. It swirled around me, nearly melting my heart. The heart I swore would never melt for any man ever again. And it wouldn’t; I’d do everything in my power to prevent that happening.

  “Time for a break,” Axel announced eventually. “Remember I said lunch was on me?”

  We hummed until our throats had cooled down, then he pulled me to my feet and dragged me into the kitchen. “What do you fancy? I can grill us a couple hamburgers…”

  Axel Wainwright cooks for himself?!

  I leaned against the counter and watched him. “Can I do anything to help?”

  “How are your salad making skills?” he winked.

  “Awesome,” I said, still stunned at the weird domesticity of this rock god.

  He pointed toward the humungous fridge. “Lettuce and tomatoes are in there.”

  Axel

  We took our plates out to the table on the deck and sat facing each other. I stared down at my guitar-string-calloused-fingers holding my knife. “So, tell me about yourself, Phoenix Johnson,” I said, lifting my gaze. “Is there a boyfriend who’ll miss you while we are on tour?”

  She shook her head. “Just my parents.”

  “We could fly them out for one of the concerts, if you like,” I said, surprising myself. There was something about this girl that was bringing out my sincere nice side, a side I didn’t often show to the world.

  My balls had tingled when she’d intimated that she was single, which might be the reason for my sudden niceness. No way you’ll be inside her, I told my twitching cock. Shame, though; her body had fitted against mine perfectly while we’d sat next to each other on the piano stool.

  Phoenix stared at me with worried eyes. “Thanks for the offer, Axel. But my parents don’t leave the apartment much these days.”

  I speared a tomato with my fork. “Why?”

  “No particular reason…” She was lying and I knew it.

  I chewed a mouthful of hamburger, then swallowed. I’d find out. Maybe Jake had already run a background check on her but had omitted to tell us what was going down…

  “Why the name Phoenix?” I asked.

  “Why the name Axel?” she countered.

  I laughed. “My mum was a Guns N’ Roses fan, but she preferred the Scandinavi
an spelling of my name.”

  “My parents chose my name before they even conceived me.” A smile stole over her face. “They decided it would fit a boy or a girl.”

  “It’s a cool name. Firebird, right?”

  “Yeah. I’ve got a tattoo of one on my shoulder.” She giggled. “But it’s covered by my t-shirt.”

  I wanted to reach over and pull the damn thing off her. “No doubt Camila will have you wearing skimpy sparkly dresses on stage. You won’t be able to hide it…”

  “Oh. My. God. I’ve never worn a skimpy sparkly dress in my life.” Her voice had risen an octave. “There’s so much more to this gig than I ever imagined when I auditioned.”

  “No regrets, I hope?”

  “Hell, no.” Her smile was infectious. “I’m loving every minute so far.”

  This was just the kind of talk I wanted from her. It would give me something to think about when I next tried to write.

  Sudden lightness filled my chest as I realized that I hadn’t thought about my sister once since Phoenix had arrived. Which was good. I knew Ella wouldn’t have wanted me to dwell on the past. I was actually looking forward to writing again. First the words, and then the music— a catchy intro riff which we’d repeat throughout the song after every chorus. The band and I shared writing credits. But it was always me who came up with the initial ideas—they all contributed by layering them up before our producer had the final input—and I’d been dreading presenting them with the dark, dismal words that had been whirling around in my head these past several months.

  I bit down on a smile. “Tell me more about yourself, Firebird.”

  “What do you want to know?” She fixed me with a serious stare, like she’d guessed the importance of the matter.

  “Any quirks?”

  She giggled. “I’m a little OCD about stepping on the cracks in sidewalks. And, someone once told me it was unlucky to open an umbrella inside the house, so I avoid that at all cost.”

  “Nice one.” I thought for a moment. “Likes and dislikes?”