point to the next? He could have told her that
once she reached the finish line the glory was only momentary. But she
wouldn't have listened.
A teenager. Sweet Jesus, how had she come to be a teenager? And how
had he come to be a thirty-three-year-old icon?
At thirteen it had all seemed very simple to him. His goals had been
perfectly defined. To get out of the slums, to play his music, to be
someone. He'd accomplished all of that. So where was the thrill? He
picked up his glass and drank deeply. Where the hell was the thrill?
He watched Emma dive under a wave then come up, sleek as an otter, on
the other side. He wished she wouldn't swim out so far. It was so much
easier to worry when he could see her. The months when she was tucked
away in school, he never worried. She was a good student, well
mannered, quietly obedient. Then the holidays would come, and she would
pop back into his life. That much more grownup, that much more
beautiful. He would see that look in her eyes, that dark, determined
look he recognized as his own. It frightened him.
"God, what energy." Johnno dropped down beside him. "She doesn't slow
down much, does she?"
"No. We getting old, Johnno?"
"Shit." Johnno adjusted his panama and tried a sip of Brian's rum. "Rock
stars don't get old, son. They play Vegas." Grimacing, he screwed the
glass back into the sand. "We ain't there yet." He settled back on his
elbows. "Of course, we ain't Shaun Cassidy, either."
"Thank Christ."
"Keep that up and you'll never get your picture in 7?ger Beat. " They
sat in silence a moment, listening to the whoosh of the waves. Johnno
was glad he'd come. The quiet of the private villa and beach was the
perfect contrast to the crowded rush of New York, or the rainy spring in
London. The villa behind them was three stories, with terraces jutting
out over the sea-high walls and hedges on three sides and the white
curve of beach on the fourth. The pretty pastel stones glinted in the
sunlight, and there was the scent of water and hot flowers everywhere.
Yes, he was glad he'd come, not just because of the sunshine, but
because of the time it had given him, the quiet time, with Brian and
with Emma. The time he knew would come all too quickly to an end.
"Pete rang up a little while ago."
Brian watched Emma stand in thigh-high water, lift her face to the sun.
Her skin had warmed-not tanned, he thought, not browned, but warmed. The
color of apricots. He worried about how soon some hungry young boy
would want a taste. "And?"
"Things are set for next month. We can start recording."
"And Stevie?"
"They're going to put him on some kind of outpatient program. He's a
registered junkie now." Johnno shrugged. "Methadone program. If you
can't get drugs from the street, you get them from the government.
Anyhow, he'll be ready. Will you?"
Brian picked up his glass, drained it. The rum had been heated by the
sun and ran mellow down his throat. "I've been ready."
"Glad to hear it. You don't intend to take a punch at P.M., do you?"