Dark Star: Confessions of a Rock Idol Read Online Free PDF Page A

it just proves that the Beatles song is true—money can’t buy you love. Can it?
    God is love, Mr. Lester. That is truth. And the truth shall one day set you free, along with millions of your fans. I pray for you many times each day.
    Sincerely,
    Karen Bayliss
    P.S. Take care and remember, there’s a love awaiting you that’s more powerful than any drug you’ve ever tried!

    The courtroom was completely hushed when the testimony of David Dibbs continued, and I felt every piercing eye.
    “Everett’s dad played head games,” Dibbs said. “That’s the best way I can describe it.”
    “What do you mean by that?” asked Boone.
    “Everett could never measure up. Never. Every once in a while he would do something good, maybe score well on a test or help out around the house. Like he was reaching out to his parents, testing them to see what their response would be. I believe he tried to love his dad. But Vince would just tear him up.”
    “Can you give an example?”
    “Yeah, for one, Vince would actually slap Everett, kind of jokingly. He would just slap his face again and again real quickly, laughing, egging him on. In his own demented way, I really believe he meant to hurt Everett—physically and mentally. It would humiliate Everett, because Vince didn’t care who was watching. In fact, sometimes I think he did stuff like that on purpose when others were watching, just to embarrass him. I know it frustrated Everett.”
    “How do you know?”
    “He would turn red and hold back the tears. Sometimes it would outrage him, and he would be on the verge of striking his dad, but I never saw him do that. I think Vince would have killed him.”
    “To your knowledge,” pressed Boone, “did Everett’s father abuse him physically, beyond what you’ve told the court today?”
    “Objection, Your Honor.” Dooley groaned, standing up. “Does this really have relevance in the case we are here to deliberate?”
    “I think it does. Overruled. Answer the question, Mr. Dibbs.”
    “I saw the type of things I just described, the slapping sessions, quite often. And Everett would show up with bruises on his face and arms all the time. We all just assumed Vince was beating him, but I never discussed it with Everett. That’s something I regret. He kept it all inside.”
    Dibbs was right. I felt like I was hemorrhaging inside back then. There was no such thing as love in my world, and I began to hate its concept. So I covered my bruised heart with a ready-to-fight exterior, and I covered the bruises on my arms with my first tattoos.

    The years that followed after the Rolling  Stone cover were like a dream. Unlike other fad groups that flash like a nova for a few years and fade away, the popularity of DeathStroke continued to soar.
    We had become a group with longevity, a dynasty. With gold and platinum albums, TV appearances, a movie, and our own line of DeathStroke action toys and clothing, I couldn’t keep up with all of the income, taxes, or business interests. I hadn’t tried for a long time. Gray Harris handled all that, using a financial firm in New York to manage my personal holdings.
    By the mid-nineties I was in my early thirties and getting tired and impatient doing the same old shows night after night, year after year. I kept trying to get the guys to speed up the tempo of the songs to finish the sets quicker, and that would throw off the lyrics, which came across slurred. But the DeathStroke fans kept coming, their numbers kept growing, and the cash registers kept ch-chinging.
    My head was no longer shaved. Instead, my curly, dark brown hair now hung past my shoulders. I had remained quite trim for my six-foot-two-inch frame, simply because I was more interested in drugs and alcohol than food. The dozens of tattoos and body piercings—which snaked and curled their way from my ankles up to my neck—had made me look dirty and scarred.
    Yes, drugs triggered my bad behavior, but it was more.
    I was not only scarred