Chapter One
After all the illicit drugs he’d accessed so easily over seventeen years as rock’s bad boy, it struck Zander Freedman as ironic he couldn’t renew a legal prescription.
Everything had been going well until the young Canadian doctor opened his laptop and cross-checked the drug register, catching Zander in the lie that his steroid use was occasional.
“The drug isn’t designed to be taken long term because it’s systemic.” Over the top of the monitor, his gaze skated from the silver padlock on the heavy link chain around Zander’s neck to the tattoo peeping above the V of his powder-blue Hel-lo Kitty! T-shirt, clearly unable to reconcile the contradictions. “It affects the whole body.”
Zander leaned back into the hotel suite’s maple wood chair, resisting the urge to tell him that despite dropping out of high school he understood big words. And had an honorary doctorate in risk management.
“You may already have noticed changes in mood, appetite and sleeping patterns?”
“The only thing that would give me insomnia is disappointing fans.”
The other man didn’t take the hint. “Long-term use could lead to stomach ulcers, weight gain and osteoporosis.”
Zander replaced his late father’s Stetson on his shock of blond hair. Reminding this prairie town medic they had a commonality. The world-famous rock star and the Calgary doctor were both good ol’ boys. “I’m aware of that.” Did he think it was an easy choice for Zander to compromise his health? “But these steroids were prescribed by an otolaryngologist as part of a voice treatment program.” Someone more qualified than some Podunk med school grad making a hotel call.
Adjusting his spectacles, the medic checked his screen, the laptop at odds with the polished surface of the eight-person dining table Zander would never use. He took the biggest suite for spaciousness, not utility. “Six months ago,” the doctor pointed out. “None of these follow-up prescriptions have come from a specialist equipped to properly examine the larynx.”
“Because I’m never in a city long enough to see anything beyond the airport, hotel and stadium.”
If he wasn’t so goddamn tired, Zander would have noticed his stash depleting before he’d left the US, and rung his Beverly Hills specialist for emergency supplies. But he hadn’t expected to need the steroids so often, not when he’d been doing everything else right.
They’d become his dirty little secret. It couldn’t get back to the tour promoters or the press that his voice was giving out. As far as his entourage was concerned, Zander was getting a vitamin shot.
“Steroids may reduce vocal cord inflammation, but continuing to perform back-to-back concerts doesn’t allow any recovery time.” The specs, the earnestness, the schoolboy haircut made the guy a dead ringer for Harry Potter. “It’s like running a marathon with a hamstring injury. You could be doing further damage.”
Don’t you know who I am? The words trembled on the tip of Zander’s tongue like drops of holy water, given that for two years he’d been teetering on the brink of, “Don’t you know who I was?”
But rock-star egotism wouldn’t serve him with Dr. Do-Good, who still needed to be nailed by his principles a few times before he realized that—in the real world—dilemmas more often came down to the lesser of two evils. “Soon as this tour leg’s over, I’ll rest my voice.”
“And when will that be?”
Zander tallied. Today Calgary, tomorrow Toronto…two days after that Vancouver. “I’ll return to LA on Wednesday.” That gave him a week off before the band flew to New Zealand and Australia.
“If you need repeated courses there could be an underlying problem.”
“Like you said, I’ve been running marathons. Thirty-five concerts to date.” When lightning struck, you had to plug in and ride it, because it wouldn’t last. No one knew that better than he did.
“Before any further prescription, it’s essential you see a laryngologist for a stroboscopy.”
“It’s the weekend,” Zander coaxed. “No one but rock bands, check-out operators and babysitters work on a Saturday night. Speaking of which,” he segued into charm as effortlessly as he changed chords, “have you got tickets for tonight, Doctor? What’s your first name?”
“James. Unfortunately, I work unsocial hours too.”
“Well, James, let me give you a couple anyway. You must have friends—a girlfriend—who’d appreciate them. I’ll ask my PA to include some backstage passes.”
“Are you trying to bribe me into a prescription?”
“Only if it works.” Zander flashed his best smile. Even on a bad day he could muster charisma like a cowboy herded longhorns. It was a gift, along with his voice; everything else he worked like a dog for. “C’mon, James. Seventy thousand of your fellow Calgarians are expecting me to rock their socks off in six hours. I need that script.”
The medic smiled back. “Look, I understand that steroids seem an easy way to produce an improvement, but—”
“Let me correct a misconception here.” With an effort, Zander held his friendly smile. “Steroids are the last resort. For my voice, I’ve given up alcohol, smoking and recreational drugs. For my voice, I don’t drink coffee, eat spicy foods or chocolate. For my voice, I drink gallons of water to stay hydrated and gallons of green tea for the antioxidants and flavonoids.” And wasn’t that a misnomer. “These days even my bloodstream can’t have a trace of free radicals.”
“While all that’s excellent,” James nodded approvingly, “you really need to take a break.”
“Yeah, and spend more time with family, find a better work/life balance and strive for world peace.” Zander lost patience. “Let’s leave La La and deal with reality. If my voice gives out tonight, seventy thousand disappointed fans will tweet and blog their disappointment, casting doubt in the minds of those considering buying tickets for the next thirty-five concerts. The press will prick up its hyena ears and start questioning my stamina for a long tour. I’ve labored too long and hard to let some kid with the ink on his Hippocratic Oath still wet decide he’s saving me from myself. So sign the fucking script and let me do what I do best. Make my fans happy.”
“Outbursts are a side effect of long-term steroid use,” the doctor said mildly.
Zander stared him down. “I’ve always been an asshole. Ask anybody.”
Though lately, he’d been testing better manners because being an asshole had nearly killed his career and before anything else, he needed this life. Nothing compared to making love with his voice to a stadium of people. And having that love returned, many thousands of times over. With an effort he corralled his temper. “Look, I accept you’re only doing your job, but don’t stop me doing mine.”
James considered. “I’ll give you a prescription for the three remaining concerts only. Get your vocal cords checked out as soon as you return to LA.”
Zander stuck out his hand. “Deal.” They shook.
“And yelling at people won’t improve your voice.”
“Yeah, but I feel better.” He scrawled his own note and gave it to the other man. “Here. Give that to the security guard outside, he’ll arrange for tickets.” James blinked in surprise and Zander shrugged. “An unfortunate by-product of clean living is noticing when you’re an asshole.”
Regrets, little imps with pitchforks, had started jabbing at his conscience. Regrets he used to drown in alcohol, stupefy with marijuana, flick off with a hit of coke.
After the doctor left, Zander dispatched the concierge to the pharmacy across the street and paced his suite’s living room, irritated by the way the carpet smothered every footfall. Zander liked making noise.
After weeks on tour, even a luxury penthouse felt stifling. But outside this door, he belonged to everybody.
The concierge returned with his prescription. He tipped him, then pocketed the container. Problem solved, still Zander couldn’t shake a sense of unease. Retrieving his cell, he speed-dialed his PA.
“Dimity, it’s me. Can you make an appointment with that otolaryngologist I saw pretour for a checkup. What’s his name?”
“Rimmer.”
“Yeah, day after we arrive in LA.”
“Okay. Are you nearly ready to leave?”
He rubbed his eyes, gritty from fatigue. “What have we got on again?” Concert tours involved a lot more than the gigs. In every city there was a deluge of supporting promotion—media interviews, meet and greets with fans, public appearances.
“A CTV interview, the van’s already waiting downstairs.”
“Give me five minutes.”
“I’ll notify security.”
Crossing the plush carpet, he picked out a jacket from the selection lined up in his closet—faded denim, sheepskin collar. It was cold outside compared to California, no matter that the locals considered it a warm spring. He shrugged on his jacket and glanced in the hallway mirror. Thank God they’d do makeup.
Far from adding weight, he’d lost it through the rigors of touring and the daily gym workout that kept him fit for ninety minutes of athleticism on stage. He’d started using steroids preshow when he noticed his voice was taking longer to recover. Consumed by the multiple CEO tasks of driving his Resurrection Tour, he’d been able to ignore his gradual dependency.
He couldn’t afford a misstep, not when the tour was finally gaining momentum and even the most vociferous music critics were grudgingly conceding that Zander Freedman might just pull it off.
The reality show following his rebuild of Rage had been rated the third most popular show last year, the single he’d written for his repopulated band hitting number one across the US. Love or hate him, he was “hot” again, his star power almost as high as it had been before the original band’s breakup, and ticket sales were reflecting that flash-flood popularity.
But it wouldn’t last if he didn’t deliver musically. His reputation as a giant of rock depended on this tour and he was gambling everything on its success.
He exited the room. To his surprise, Luther waited in the hall. In his dark suit, the big New Zealander stood out amongst the leathers, tatts and denim of the rock world. “So everyone’s clear you have a real badass,” the former military specialist had said when it was suggested he dress to fit in.
“We got a problem?” Zander queried. On tour, his head of security normally left the day shift to his staff.
“The cleaner on this floor reported her key card missing. It’s probably fallen among dirty laundry, but…” Luther shrugged. “They’re recalling everyone’s cards for recoding.” He swiped his access card across the service elevator and it rattled open, bringing the chill of unheated utility areas. They stepped inside.
“Hold the elevator.” A woman carrying a bundle of towels hurried over.
Luther barred entry. “Please take the next one, ma’am.”
Zander waved him aside. “It’s okay.”
Flashing him a grateful smile, the woman moved to stand beside him, but Luther inserted himself between them. The bodyguard punched the lift button and the doors slid shut. “What floor, ma’am?”
“Where you’re going is fine,” she said breathlessly.
Briefly Zander met Luther’s eyes in the reflective door. My bad.
“Can I have your autograph…please… I’m such a huge, huge fan.”
“Sure,” he said easily. “Soon as we’re out of here, I’ll find a pen.”
“I have one.” Hastily dropping the towels, she started opening her bag. Luther’s hand closed over hers in a vise.
“Let’s wait until we’re outside.”
“Oh, you’re worried about security. Sure.”
She craned over Luther’s shoulder to look at Zander. “I would never hurt you.”
“Good to hear.”
“Ma’am,” said his bodyguard. “Can I see your staff ID?”
“I would never hurt you because I love you,” she assured Zander, her voice vibrating with intensity. “I love you so much.” With a choked sob, she tried to push past Luther.
“Ma’am, please step away.”
“I know that sounds loopy,” she said desperately, “but honestly, if you got to know me.” Stymied by Luther’s body, she craned a hand over the bodyguard’s shoulder. “Please, one touch, that’s all I ask.”
But Zander had had too many years of having lovelorn fans try and shove their tongue down his throat.
Instead he spoke very quietly. “What’s your name?”
“Mary,” she gasped, eyes shining. “Mary Constable.”
“Mary,” he said. “I’m sorry I just farted.”
She blinked.
“I suffer terrible gas. Let’s hope the doors open before we all suffocate.”
“What…oh…but,” she gulped. “I don’t mind.”
“It’s all the prunes I’m eating,” he confided. “Anything to avoid haemorrhoids again. Ever had piles, Mary?”
“No!”
Luther’s lips twitched.
“If you ever do, I recommend a ring cushion post-op.” The elevator stopped. “Well, here we are.” The doors opened and he stepped out, smiling. “So let me give you that autograph.”
Bemused, she retrieved a pen and a carefully folded picture of Zander from her bag, watching as he scrawled a message and signature across it. He returned both with a stern look. “Now give Luther the key card you borrowed, Mary, and scoot before the hotel presses charges.”
She wavered, reluctant to give up the dream, and because he of all people understood that, Zander let rip a burp to help her along. “I can taste last night’s burritos in that one,” he said companionably.
Luther gestured for the card. “Ma’am, you’ve got five seconds.”
Removing temptation, Zander exited into the service alley where an armored Chevy Express van rumbled quietly, its side door open. Dimity was already inside, her long blond hair falling forward as she tapped something on her hand-held organizer. Smooth tanned knees curved gracefully under a black leather mini and her blue leopard-skin print blouse exactly matched her steely gaze.
She’d hit on him at a Hollywood party shortly after his brother had dropped the bombshell that he wouldn’t be rejoining Rage following rehab. His other bandmates had said that without Devin to buffer Zander’s ego, they were done. While the twenty-four-year-old was getting her purse, he’d had a rare moment of self-disgust.
Was this his future? Existing on cheap shots of hero worship from younger and younger women? He owned the Rage brand, he was the front man. There was nothing to stop him auditioning new musicians. Like Lot’s wife in the Bible, he only turned into a pillar of salt if he looked back at failure.
When Dimity returned he’d said, “Honey-pie, I just remembered a previous appointment to rebuild my career.”
To which she’d replied, “Let me help you with that.”
Turned out Miss Dimity Prescott had declined a place at Harvard in favor of a modeling career after a scout spotted her at Bloomingdale’s. It wasn’t working out. The camera saw a single expression—the bracing stare of a former class president.
She’d finished her pitch with “Harvard’s loss could be your gain.”
How could he not hire a woman with balls like that?
Zander slid into the seat beside her, nodding to the driver.
“It’s days like today,” Dimity grumbled without looking up from her organizer, “I wish I’d settled for lying on my back. At least I would have gotten some rest.”
“Darlin’, no woman rests in my bed.” Zander frowned as he glimpsed his schedule on the screen. “And if I’m the slave driver, how come you’re always cracking the whip?”
Dimity was smart, she was sassy and she took care of business allowing Zander to concentrate on the big picture of world domination.
The front passenger door opened and the van sank several inches as Luther got in, six three of solid muscle. He didn’t attempt to read Zander a lecture, which was precisely why he’d been promoted.
As the van pulled into traffic, Dimity brought Zander up to speed. “The interviewer, ‘Blackie’ Blackburn, is up-and-coming,” she said. “So he’ll probably throw in a few sensationalist questions for ratings.”
“I’m all for ratings.”
“Also some drama with Moss last night.” The lead guitarist was reveling in his newfound fame. “He was in a hot tub with a groupie, slipped and cracked his head on the rim. He went to Emergency, got five stitches and will be fine to play tonight.”
“Then we’ll let it go.”
At the outset, Zander had said he wouldn’t interfere with his protégés’ antics offstage unless they affected their on-stage performance. Still, he might suggest to Moss that he adopt a more wholesome vice, like ambition.
“We do have one fire to douse,” Dimity said as the van stopped for a red light. “Your publisher called. George told them you fired him yesterday.” George was the second music journalist the publishing house had supplied to help Zander write his memoir. “Max wants you to phone him immediately to discuss how this affects your November deadline.”
“He knows damn well I haven’t written a word. Did you contact Elizabeth Winston?” He’d employ his own damn writer.
“I did,” Dimity put her organizer aside. “She listened very politely, said, ‘Tell my brother he’s hilaaaarious’ and hung up on me.”
“What?”
“She thought I was a joke caller.”
“Get her on the phone.” Grabbing a chilled water from the cooler, Zander leaned against the leather headrest and laid the bottle against his throat.
“It’s ringing,” said Dimity, handing him her cell. He heard a foreign ring tone, then the line clicked.
“Hello?” he said in response to heavy breathing. Zander glanced at Dimity. “Does she moonlight as a phone sex oper—”
An infantile shriek pierced his eardrum and he thrust the cell away from his ear. “What the f—”
“Give it to me, Marshall,” hollered a girl’s voice.
There was the sound of a tussle, then another shriek, fading into the background. Dammit, if she had kids she wouldn’t be able to spend the next four months with him.
“Sophie Griffin speaking,” a child said with breathless officiousness. Zander returned the cell to his ear.
“I’m trying to reach the biographer Elizabeth Winston. Is this the right number?”
“Yes.”
He waited. And waited. “So can I talk to her?”
“Who’s speaking, please?”
For chrissake. “Zander Freedman.”
“Aunt Liz-a-bith,” the kid bellowed in his ear. “It’s Sandy Free something.”
One corner of his mouth lifted. “Pump up the pretour publicity in New Zealand,” he told Dimity. “The under-fives don’t know me.” Not Dr. Winston’s kids, then.
“Look, the joke’s gone far enough,” a woman said, exasperated. “It’s only funny the first—”
“It’s Zander Freedman,” he interrupted. “And if you don’t recognize my voice after the overexposure I’ve enjoyed over the past year, then we really do have nothing to say to each other.”
Silence.
“Hang on,” she said. “Sophie, you two can have a cookie from the jar. But only one each.” Even from the other side of the world, he heard the thunder of small feet. “So it’s true,” she said slowly. “You want me to ghostwrite your memoir?”
“Not exactly. You’ll share cover credit.”
There was a pause. “Mr. Freedman, you do know my three previous biographies have been of historical figures, don’t you?”
“And the Stonewall Jackson book won the history category in last year’s Pulitzer Prize and made you famous in literary circles. Wanna actually be famous, Dr. Winston?”
Her laugh matched her voice, crisp as a green apple. “I don’t think I’d cope with the world knowing the color of my underwear.”
“White complements my perma-tan.” The Calvin Klein billboards had injected much-needed cash into his tour fund. “Okay, let me redefine fame in terms you’d appreciate. Imagine having your book read by more than a few thousand people.”
“This is your pitch, to insult me?” But her tone remained good-humored. She set her own worth; he appreciated that.
“Hell no. I’m a big fan.”
“Uh-huh. And you came across my books how?”
“I have an interest in military history and my Kiwi sister-in-law sent me a copy of A Fighting Faith for Christmas.”
“Now I get it. Rachel set me up.” They both worked at Auckland University.
“LightBrigade,” he said.
“You’re kidding me.”
Zander smiled. “I’m returning you to my assistant now. She’ll authorize a pass to the Auckland concert in two weeks. Let’s talk.”