He dreamed of scoring again, of filling his veins with that glorious

combination of Chinese white and top-grade snow. All that beautiful

white powder. He fantasized about it-huge, mountainous piles of

beautiful white powder heaped on silver platters. He would scoop it up

with both hands, fill himself with it.

He dreamed of killing them, the doctors, the nurses. He dreamed of

killing himself Then he would weep again.

They said he'd damaged his heart, and his liver. They said he was

anemic and were ruthlessly dealing with that, and his cross-addiction to

heroin and c.o.ke. No one called him a junkie. They said he had an

addictive personality.

It had been hard not to laugh at that. So he had an addictive

personality. No s.h.i.t, Sherlock. All he wanted was for them to leave

him and his personality alone. He was the best tucking guitarist in the

world, and had been for twenty years. He was forty-five and

twenty-year-old girls still wanted the honor of a few hours in his bed.

He was rich, filthy rich. He had a Lamborghini, a Rolls. He bought

motorcycles like potato chips. He had a twenty-acre estate in London, a

villa in Paris, and a hilltop hideaway in San Francisco. He'd like to

see any of the smart-mouthed nurses or holier-than-thou doctors top

that.

Had they ever stood on stage and had ten thousand people scream for

them? No. But he had. They were jealous, all of them jealous. That's

why they kept him here, away from his fans, away from his music, away

from his drugs.

Wallowing in self-pity, he stared at the room. The walls were papered

in a soft blue and gray floral. A thick gray carpet covered the floor

and the windows faced south. The matching drapes tried to disguise the

fact that the windows were barred. There was a color-coordinated

sitting area across the room, two cusioned sofas, and a spoonback chair.

Festive fall flowers sat in a wicker basket on the coffee table. A

tasteful reproduction of a nineteenth-century wardrobe held a

television, VCR, and stereo system. An entertainment center, Stevie

thought bitterly. He wasn't entertained.

Why had they left him alone so long? Why was he alone?

He felt his breath back up, then release slowly as the door opened.

Visit after visit, Brian tried not to be shocked by his friend's

appearance. He didn't want to dwell on the limp, graying hair, the

lines sunk deep around Stevie's eyes and mouth. He didn't want to look

at the thin, brittle body-a body that had shrunken with misuse as a

man's shrinks with age.

Most of all, he didn't want to look at Stevie and see his own future. A

rich, pampered, and helpless old man.

"How's it going?"

Because he was grateful for the company, Stevie's smile was genume. "Oh,

it's a barrel of laughs in here. You ought to join me."

The idea sent a slice of fear up Brian's spine. "Then you'd have

compet.i.tion for all these long-legged nurses." He offered a five-pound

box of G.o.diva, a fix for the junkie's notorious sweet tooth. "You're

looking almost human, son."