Page 8 of Rock Star

“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.

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