Rock Star

Chapter One: LOS ANGELES 1987SATURDAY, JULY 11THIt was a perfect cloudless Los Angeles day. The Santa Ana winds had driven offthe smog, and Saturday, July 11th, dawned crisp and clean, settling into aseductively lazy heat.Kris Phoenix awoke early. Unusual for him, but he had flown in from London theprevious afternoon and gone straight to bed. Fourteen hours later he surfacedin his oversize California King bed, in his oversize palatial Bel Air mansion,and rolled over to find that his Los Angeles girlfriend, Cybil Wilde, hadjoined him sometime during the night. Fortunately for her, she had not tried towake him. Sex was great, but woe betide anyone who came between Kris and hisjet lag.Cybil slept on, her nineteen-year-old body smooth and naked, long, honey-blondhair fanning out around her wholesomely pretty face.Cybil Wilde was a highly paid, extremely visible commercial model. Not quiteChristie Brinkley, but on her way. Recently she had appeared on the cover ofSports Illustratedin a revealing one-piece swimsuit. Now theoffers were pouring in, but Cybil never accepted anything without deferring toKris's superior judgment. And he preferred having her at home -- whether he wasthere or not.He debated waking her; after all, it was several weeks sincethey'd seen each other. Then he remembered the concert tonight, and decided hecould wait. Astrid, his London live-in, had not exactly let his motor idle. Infact, Astrid was a maniac in the sack, she never left him alone.Astrid, the clothes designer. They'd met four years ago in Paris, when hismanager hired her to design some leather pants for him, and she'd ended upfeeling a lot more than the material. At twenty-eight, Astrid was nine yearsolder than Cybil, but she had the requisite long blond hair and knockout body,plus she was Danish, and everyone knew about Scandinavian women. He liked hiswomen blond and long-legged, with a big bosom and an amiable disposition. Whatmore could any man ask?Silently Kris stepped from bed, making his way into his black, mirrored, hightech bathroom.Fortunately he'd managed to stay sober on the flight from London. It wasamazing the difference it made -- he actually felt like a human being. And onclose inspection in the mirror above his black marble sink, he actually lookedlike one.Kris Phoenix was thirty-eight years old. He had intense ice-blue eyes, longishdirty-blond hair subtly streaked by the sun (and if the sun wasn't around, anEnglish hairdresser called Spud took care of it), and rakish good looks.Neither tall nor short, he hit a comfortable five feet ten inches -- and sincetaking up weight training he was all dynamic body power and rippling muscles.Hardly Arnold Schwarzenegger -- more Bruce Springsteen fused with MickJagger.Kris Phoenix was a rock star. A very famous rock star indeed.In fact, some said, Kris Phoenix was a rock legend.All that talk never bothered him. As far as he was concerned he made music,sang songs, and played a mean guitar. So did a lot of other guys. Kris reckonedhe had a hold on reality. Just because he divided his life between twofantastic mansions, made millions of dollars a year, owned seven cars, and kepttwo beautiful live-in females, that didn't make him any different inside. Hewould always, deep down, be plain Chris Pierce from Maida Vale, London. Therewas no getting away from the fact that his mother once scrubbed other people'sfloors, and his stepfather drove a bus."... my...God! You... are...sooo...sexy!" Cybil barefootedher way into the bathroom, and it wasn't only her feet that lacked coverage."I've really missed you, Kris!" she sighed, throwing her arms around him.Suddenly Astrid the maniac began to fade from his thoughts."You too, kiddo," he replied, kissing her warm, inviting lips.Collins, Jackie is the author of 'Rock Star' with ISBN 9780671708801 and ISBN 0671708805.