American Star Read online

  American Star [067-011-4.9]

  by jackie collins

  While American Star contains descriptions Of Unprotected sex

  appropriate to the period in Which the story is set, the author wishes

  to emphasize the importance Of practicing safe sex and the use Of

  condoms in real life.

  IN MEMORY OF MY HUSBAND OSCAR.

  THE SHINING LIGHT OF MY LIFE.

  Today millions of fans across the world celebrate the thirty-fifth

  birthday of cult superstar Nick Angel, and the opening of his latest

  movie, Killer Blue.

  A statement issued by Panther Studios disclosed that Nick will not be

  present at the Los Angeles premiere of Killer Blue as expected.

  A spokesperson for Angel reported that the actor will spend his

  birthday in New York.

  U.S.A. Today December 1992

  Mornings were always a bad time for Nick Angel. He lay in bed, eyes

  closed, unwilling to surrender the peaceful darkness, fighting the fact

  that he had to get up and face another day. Especially this day.

  His birthday.

  Thirty-five.

  Nick Angel was thirty-five.

  Jesus! The newspapers would have an orgasmic overdose on this one. He

  was no longer the boy wonder. Age was creeping up on him.

  He lay very still. It was probably past noon, but the longer he

  delayed getting up the better, for he knew that once he stirred they'd

  be all over him. Honey-his live-in girlfriend. Harlan-his so-called

  valet. And Teresa-his faithful karate-champion assistant.

  He heard a sudden movement in the room. A subtle rustle of silk and

  the faint aroma of White Diamonds-Honey was a big Liz Taylor fan. In

  fact Honey was a fan, period.

  So. . . why was he with her?

  Good question. The problem was there were too many questions in his

  life and not enough answers.

  Honey was on the prowl. Pretty blond Honey with the lethal body and

  vacant mind. He sensed her standing by the bed staring down at him,

  willing him to wake up.

  bad, sweetheart. Get lost. Not in the mood.

  As soon as he was sure she'd left, he quickly rolled out of bed and

  made it to the safety of his steel and glass high-tech bathroom,

  locking the door behind him.

  Ah. . . Nick Angel in the morning. Not the man he once was, although

  still handsome in spite of ten pounds of excess flesh, bloodshot eyes

  and an altogether dissipated demeanor.

  He hated the way he looked. The extra weight he'd put on disgusted

  him. He had to stop drinking. Had to get his life together.

  Nick Angel. Longish black hair. Indian green eyes. Pale skin,

  stubbled chin. At five feet ten inches he was tall without being

  overpowering. His handsomeness was not perfect. More brooding. . .

  mesmerizing. And in spite of being bloodshot his green eyes w ere

  hypnotic and watchful. His nose, once broken, gave him the dangerous

  edge he needed.

  And now he was thirty-five.

  Old.

  Older than he'd ever thought he'd be.

  But the world still loved him. His fans would continue to worship

  because he was Nick Angel and he belonged to them. They'd elevated him

  to a rare and crazy place where nobody could expect to remain sane.

  It's too much, he thought bitterly, splashing cold water on his face.

  The adulation, the never-ending attention. Crushing stifling .

  suffocating. . . Too fucking much.

  He smiled grimly.

  Welcome to the insane asylum.

  Welcome to my life.

  Reaching for the phone he buzzed the underground garage, connecting

  with one of his team of driver/bodyguards.

  "I'm on my way down," he said, keeping his gravelly voice low.

  "Get out the Ferrari. No driver. And call the airport, tell them to

  have my plane ready. I'm taking it up."

  "Right, Nick. Oh, an' happy birthday, man.

  Screw this birthday crap. He knew he'd hear nothing else all day.

  Finishing in the bathroom he dressed quickly in the trademark black he

  always wore. Pants, shirt, leather jacket and black tennis shoes. All

  he had to do now was make it out of the apartment before he was forced

  to endure more congratulations.

  As soon as he hit the hall they came at him. Honey, all pearly teeth

  and rounded breasts encased in a pink angora sweater, her short skirt

  swishing sexily around her thighs.

  Harlan, a crazed black man with wild hair extensions and subdued

  makeup.

  And Teresa, six feet tall with a face like a man.

  What a mismatched trio! But they were his. He owned them. He paid

  for every move they made.

  "Gotta go," he said edgily.

  "Where?" Honey asked, thrusting angora-clad tits in his direction.

  "Where?" echoed Teresa, staring at him accusingly. "I should come

  with you.

  "Yeah, where ya going', man?" added Harlan, joining the chorus.

  "I'll be back soon.

  Maybe.

  Maybe not.

  Cleverly he timed his words to coincide with the arrival of the

  elevator, and before they could nail him further he was out of there,

  downstairs, in his Ferrari, driving out of Manhattan as fast as he

  could.

  It took him forty-five minutes to reach the private airstrip where he

  kept his two-engine Cessna. Several mechanics greeted him with

  birthday wishes.

  Surprise, surprise. He'd known today was going to be a bummer.

  He climbed aboard his plane, settled in the cockpit and guided the

  small aircraft down the runway until he was given clearance to take off

  into the unseasonably blue sky.

  He sighed, a long heavy sigh. When did it all begin to get out of

  control?

  Nick Angel.

  Free at last.

  But he had a solution. A plan he was about to put into action.

  Color me dead.

  do it!" the young girl cried out, her breath coming in short frantic

  gasps. "Do it, do it!"

  "I'm tryin'," Nick Angelo replied heatedly. And indeed he was, but to

  his dismay the girl was so wet he kept slipping out.

  Her voice was shrill and commanding. "Do it!" she insisted, wriggling

  back into position. "C'mon, Nicky. C'mon, c'mon, c' monnnn!"

  Beginning to panic, he jammed the point of entry yet again, and thank

  goodness managed to stay in place.

  "Ummm. . ." The desperate shrillness faded from her voice and she

  began to sound pleased. "Ooooooh " She continued to sigh sweetly as he

  pumped away.

  Nick hung on, even though he was sweating and uncomfortable.

  But he hung on anyway because jamming himself inside this girl was the

  most important act in the entire world.

  Vaguely he remembered one of his friends telling him sex was like

  riding a horse-mount up, get in the saddle and take the trip.

  Nobody had warned him it would be such a dangerous hot sticky

  journey.

  And then it hit him. The most exciting, throbbing, out-of-control

  fee
ling he'd ever experienced. Holy cow! He was coming! And he was

  inside a real female-his hand and some dirty magazine had nothing to do

  with it.

  The girl screamed out her satisfaction.

  He felt like doing the same thing. But he was cool, a guy had to stay

  cool-even if it was his first time.

  Nick Angelo was finally making out-and he couldn't think of a more

  mind-blowing way of celebrating his thirteenth birthday.

  "Please, Nick, pleeease I can't take any more.

  Maybe. Maybe not. But he'd been giving it to her for twenty minutes

  and she'd only now started to complain-although it was hardly a

  complaint, more an agonized cry of ecstasy.

  "Ooh, Nicky, you're the best!"

  Yeah? So he'd been told. Now if he could only teach them not to call

  him Nicky .

  Making out was his specialty. It sure beat homework or any of that

  learning crap. And it certainly beat spending time at home watching

  his old man drink himself unconscious while his mother was out busting

  her ass working two jobs to keep the lazy slob in beer.

  Family life. Shove it. Just like he was shoving it up Susie or Jenny

  or whatever her name was.

  One of these days he planned on taking off, getting out of this dump,

  and bringing his mother with him. But first he needed a job so he

  could score some bucks, then there'd be no holding him back.

  Right now he was stuck in school because his mother thought education

  was important. Mary Angelo had this crazy fantasy that one day he'd

  get a scholarship to college.

  Yeah, sure-a make-out college was the only place he'd get in.

  Mary wasn't into reality-she was into dreams. At thirty-seven she

  looked ten years older. A birdlike woman-slight and nervous, with A(1

  nrttim nr1 winv I1ir Iie'(1 niet NirIc' ftber Pnnin nn blind date when

  she was sixteen and he was thirty. They'd gotten married exactly one

  week before Nick was born, and Primo had hardly worked a day since. A

  carpenter by trade, he'd soon realized that picking up unemployment

  while sending his wife out to work was a far better deal than actually

  doing anything himself.

  The Angelo family moved often, trudging from state to state, living in

  rented houses, always ready to be on the move whenever Primo felt that

  restless urge. And he felt it often.

  Growing up, Nick couldn't remember being in the same town for longer

  than a few months at a time. As soon as he began to settle in, they

  were on their way again. Eventually he gave up on any permanent

  relationships. New town. New girls to conquer. And on to the next.

  Now he'd gotten used to it.

  "Can we go see a movie tomorrow?" Susie or Jenny or

  whateverher-name-was asked. "It1l be my treat."

  "Nah." He shook his head as he got up, pulling on his pants. They

  were in the back office of a small automobile showroom-a venue he used

  often on account of the fact he sometimes ran errands for one of the

  salesmen, and in return he got to borrow the keys.

  "Why not?" the girl asked. At eighteen she was two years older than

  him. She had short hair, freckles and a well-developed chest. He'd

  picked her up the day before behind the counter of a Kentucky Fried

  Chicken outlet.

  He tried to come up with a quick excuse. He excelled at sex. Hated to

  stick around. Past experience told him she wouldn't appreciate the

  truth. A screw is a screw-who needs it to be anything else?

  "Gotta work," he said, brushing a hand through his unruly black hair.

  "What do you do?" she asked curiously.

  "I'm an undertaker's assistant," he lied, straight-faced.

  That shut her up.

  He waited for her to adjust her clothing, even helped her up. Then he

  took her to the bus stop, left her there and walked the mile home.

  Currently they were living in a rundown house with Mary's sisterhis

  aunt Franny-a big woman with dyed yellow hair and a bleached

  mustache.

  It was only a small house, but as long as Primo had a television to

  watch and a plentiful supply of beer, he was satisfied.

  Nick hoed Marv was home from work. If she was, there'd be a chance of

  something to eat. Franny never bothered to cook. She was on a diet of

  Reese's peanut butter cups and diet soda-screw fixing meals.

  Sure. Franny got fatter and everyone else starved to death.

  Sex always made him hungry. Right now he'd kill for a hamburger, but

  he was broke as usual, so the only chance he had was working on Mary

  with his charm. Not that he'd have to do much work, his mother adored

  him. She put him before everyone, including Primo when she could get

  away with it-which wasn't often, for Primo demanded most of her

  attention when she wasn't working.

  Nick's goal in life was to have as little to do with his father as

  possible. He hated the way Primo treated Mary. He couldn't stand

  listening to him bitch and complain about everything. And most of all

  he despised the way Primo sat on his big fat can doing nothing.

  The truth was that Primo scared him. He was a huge, overpowering man,

  and whenever he was in a bad mood Nick felt the back of his hand or the

  sting of his rough leather belt across his backside. Mary always tried

  to stop the beatings-protecting him as best she couldeven if it meant

  getting beat herself. Primo didn't care who got in his way-he lashed

  out good.

  Sometimes Nick wanted to kill him. Other times he accepted the

  beatings as a fact of life. The rage he felt was muted, buried. There

  was nothing he could do-not until he was older, then he'd get him and

  his mother out.

  Halfway home it started to rain. Pulling up the collar of his old

  denim jacket he bent his head down and began jogging along the curb,

  thinking about how great it would be to have wheels, imagining that one

  of these days he'd get himself a car-a gleaming red Cadillac with

  chrome wheels and a real fine radio.

  Yeah . . . one of these days.

  Primo was sitting on the steps outside Franny's house. Nick could see

  him as he approached. He tensed up; something was wrong. Why else

  would his old man have deserted his precious television and be sitting

  outside in the rain?

  He approached warily. "What's up?" he asked, stopping and jogging m

  place.

  Primo wiped the back of his hand across his nose and glared up at him,

  bloodshot eyes bulging. "Where've ya been?" he demanded, slurring his

  words.

  Nick felt the cold rain trickling down the back of his collar and he

  shivered-anticipating bad news. "Out with friends," he mumbled.

  Primo heaved a mournful, beer-soaked sigh and hauled himself to his

  feet. His shirt was stuck to his body. His thick graying hair fell in

  greasy clumps on his prominent forehead. Raindrops continued to drip

  from the end of his nose.

  "She's gone," he said glumly. "Your goddamn mother went an' died on

  us.

  auren Roberts was sixteen when a man stopped her in the street and

  asked if she'd ever considered a modeling career. Lauren had laughed

  in his face. Who was this stranger? And why was he p
icking on her?

  It turned out there was a film crew passing through town, an odd bunch

  of people. Lauren had been warned-along with everyone else in

  school-to have nothing to do with them.

  When she got home she told her father.

  Phil Roberts nodded sagely and said, "A pretty girl will always be

  bothered, but a wise girl soon learns to take no notice."

  Lauren agreed. Pretty was one thing, but wise was better. Her father

  was smart. He'd always taught her that relying on her exceptional good

  looks to get by was a mistake. Being an A student was better.

  Getting good grades. Excelling at sports. Helping out with community

  service. And even though Bosewell was only a small townpopulation no

  more than six thousand people-there was always plenty of community

  service.

  Lauren was certainly pretty. At five foot seven she was taller than

  most of the other girls in her class. She had long legs, a slender