Stefan: The New Generation E-Book

L.J. Diva

• Herausgeber: Royal Star Publishing
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Serie: The Porn Star Brothers Series
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 1602

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2018

Beschreibung

This series is dedicated to…

Jackie Collins is the biggest inspiration in my life when it comes to writing, if not the only inspiration. She had the passion; the brains, the ballsy rollicking attitude, and the kind of life that made me want to be her.

And to the three Stefanovic brothers, Carlos, Pedro, and Tomas, without whom I would not have had names for my porn stars.

In the tradition of the bonkbustingly good Jackie Collins comes L.J. Diva’s Porn Star Brothers series.

Thirty years has passed since Carlos, Pedro and Tomas Stefan made a name for themselves in the world of porn in the late ’70s. They have not only forged new careers for themselves but kept the secrets of the past hidden from their children.

Or so they thought…

Diana, daughter of movie producer Carlos and supermodel Vivian, has followed in her mother’s footsteps, becoming a world-famous model, but she wants more, and wishes a certain photographer didn’t infuriate her so.

Alena, daughter of music producers Pedro and Angelina, has followed in her parents’ footsteps and is a successful world-famous singer, but she’s got her eye on a hot NYPD cop with a past she has no clue about.

Cabot and Antonio, a.k.a. Steele and Phoenix Stefan, twin sons of Carlos and Vivian, follow in both parents’ footsteps. Both are successful models and manwhores, but Cabot gets himself into trouble that only Uncles Tomas and Roger would understand.

Dominic and Danté, sons of Pedro and Angelina, are world-famous DJs just like their father. They are ten years apart in age, and their relationship is anything but close, until a dramatic event threatens the family forever.

Alexis, the youngest daughter of Pedro and Angelina, is just like her sister, in looks and career. Their relationship is almost non-existent, until an incident finally brings them together and Alexis finds love with a man her sister once had.

The lives they’ve made, the businesses they’ve created, the bonds they’ve forged; the memories, loved ones, and traumas the family wish they could forget…like dead lovers. What happened to them thirty years ago is now rearing its very ugly head to threaten the family, bringing to life those thought long dead, and those never known about. And until the past is finally put to rest, none of them can move on…

****If you like family sagas, and decades-old dirty little secrets then you’ll love the latest instalment in L.J. Diva’s page-turning series.

Continue your love affair with The Porn Star Brothers Series today!

**These books contain swearing, sex, and a plotline.

**** In order of reading – Carlos, Pedro, Tomas, Retribution (or the Porn Star Brothers box set or collector’s edition paperback novel), Forever, Love Never Dies, Stefan: The New Generation, DeLuca, Spiros & Jenny, And Always.

Leseprobe

STEFAN

THE NEW GENERATION

L.J. Diva

TIMELINE

May 2007

June 2007

July 2007

August 2007

September 2007

October 2007

November 2007

Simon

December 2007

2008

About the Author

Other Titles

Dedications

Copyright

May 2007

Greek-Australian pop star, Alena, strutted across the concrete path, miming to her latest hit single, Baby, Hit Me Up, while keeping her eye on the camera. She stepped onto the sand in her black, sky-high, silver-studded stiletto platform heels and her feet buckled beneath her.

Down she went.

“Cut,” yelled Carlos Stephanopoulos, world-famous movie writer, producer and director. But before he could say more, he was interrupted by his little brother.

“You okay, Bubba?” Pedro called out to his daughter.

Alena jumped up and quickly flicked sand from her hair. “I’m okay, Daddy. Just fell in these heels.” She looked down at the sand-covered designer shoes. Holy mother of God they were awesome shoes.

“Well, that’s what you get for wearing such ridiculous things, especially on sand,” Vivian Villiers, world-famous supermodel, stylist, author, and wife of Carlos, said. “I may be the stylist, but you demanded those shoes.” She watched the assistants brush Alena down, making sure all sand was off her jet-black, skin-tight Lycra bodysuit and studded black leather bomber jacket, while the hairstylist brushed out her hair.

“I know, Aunt Viv!” Alena exclaimed. “But I love them.”

“You may well love them, but you clearlycan’t walk in them,” Viv said. “Not on sand anyway.” She stood by Carlos’s side under the huge tent they had set up on their favourite Mykonos beach.

It was May, and already warm, with early summer tourists lined up to watch them record the 58th film clip of Alena’s career. And it had been a long career, even though she was only twenty-eight.

Alena Jennifer Stephanopoulos was born to musical parents, her father being Pedro Stephanopoulos, world-famous DJ since he was eighteen, who’d taken his career into music writing and become a world-renowned producer for many artists. The family had its own studio, Sync, on Mykonos, and an even larger one at their headquarters, Stefan Productions, in Athens. Her mother was Angelina Stephanopoulos, Juilliard-trained pianist and violinist, coming together with her husband to write music not only for other artists but for their own children. Alena, being the eldest of four, had always been musically gifted. Performing from an early age, she’d sung on music tracks her parents had written, and they’d been played in the family’s nightclub, SB3, making her an overnight sensation at fifteen.

During her schooling, she had released four songs with film clips every year until she was twenty-one when she could take over her own career. She chose to continue the way it had been, but this time she released a full-length album every year and did small European tours as well. She had become mega-famous, not just in Greece, but the whole of Europe, the Middle East, India, China and Japan. By twenty-five, she had cracked the American market in 2003 with her and her family’s eclectic mixes of Greek and pop, with a bit of techno, house, disco and every other kind thrown in, and did small promo tours there, but this summer she was set to do a huge stadium tour across all fifty states of America. It would take ten to twelve weeks.

She had hoped to take a few months recuperating at the family’s penthouse in their NYC apartment building in fall and spend some time seeing New York, where she’d been born the day after her cousin, Diana Villiers. The family had moved back to Mykonos when they were three because their uncles, Tomas and Roger, were critically ill. But luckily there had been a miracle, and her uncles recovered, later setting up In Shape, a private gym for the rich and famous who came to the island, or the clients of Stefan Productions, either musically, or film-wise. Many actors and musicians had stayed in the private home they had for clients, so Alena had met many famous people over the years and now counted herself as one.

Shaking the sand out of her shoes, she went back to the original spot and waited for her uncle to call action. This time, she completed the walk without falling over, and the scene was done. And so was the shoot. “How was that, Daddy?” She bounded over to her father and flung her arms around his neck.

At fifty, Pedro was still incredibly gorgeous with slicked back jet-black hair, which he refused to admit he occasionally helped along with hair dye, fair skin that he religiously sunscreened when out in the sun, and bright blue eyes he inherited from his Australian mother, Jenny. Alena looked exactly like him.

“That was awesome as usual, Bubba.” Pedro hugged his daughter proudly. “You’re doing well. I’m so proud of you.” He looked down. “But not proud of that outfit. A bit tight.”

Viv laughed lightly. “Didn’t Angelina wear an outfit like that back in the ’70s and ’80s? You definitely loved it then.”

“That’s where I got it from, Mama’s closet.” Alena stared down at her slick black outfit. “And then we restyled it for the current clothing line.”

Haus of Stefan, the fashion company Alena and Diana owned, had started as an idea when they were teenagers, dressing up in their mothers’ clothes. With Viv being a supermodel, Diana had a massive amount of fashion to delve into, so the girls had played dress-ups and talked about making their own clothes. When they reached twenty-one and could draw wages from the trust funds their grandmother had set up for them, they used the money for setting up the business. And with help from Grandma and Uncle Carlos as owner and co-CEOs of the Stephanopoulos Empire, the girls had their own fashion house by their twenty-fifth birthdays. And it had been a rocking success. With Diana, a world-famous model like her mother, and Alena being a mega superstar, the fashion label had dressed all the cool Gen X and Gen Y kids old enough to wear it. The label sold worldwide with stores in Milan, Paris, London, L.A., Tokyo, China and Australia. Haus of Stefan was everywhere, just like her music, just like Diana’s modelling shots. The girls were as famous as their parents. So were Diana’s twin brothers, Cabot and Antonio, or as they called themselves, Steele and Phoenix Stefan, world-famous models in their own right, and so was Alena’s sister Alexis who sang and designed for HOS. At ten years apart, the two sisters showed how Haus of Stefan could dress adults and teens.

“And you’ve done a good job of redesigning it for today,” Viv told her. “It looks stunning with your hair.”

Alena’s black hair hung straight and long, but the bottom was cut in an edgy new style, making it look like the crenels and merlons of a castle’s battlements. It sported long sections with short sections in between. Her bold, blunt bangs framed her electric blue eyes and pale complexion.

“Thanks, Aunt Viv. Anyone know where Diana is today?”

*****

Twenty-eight-year-old American-Greek-Australian beauty, Diana Villiers Stephanopoulos, was standing in front of the Acropolis in Athens. High on the hillside, she was wearing a white flowing dress with her abundance of golden-brown curls rolled into an updo with flowers woven through it. She was doing a photo shoot for Flair magazine, the go-to bible for fashion in the industry, and they had decided to capture her on one of Greece’s most famous monuments.

“Hold your left hand out, so the dress blows back in the wind,” photographer, Charles Kensington, called as he snapped away. “Perfect, perfect, now hold out your right arm. Head up and out.”

Diana stood like a tree, arms out at awkward angles, her white Grecian style dress flapping in the wind, her neck forward, her head facing the sky. She was getting cramps from standing there and needed a break.

“Okay, I’m done,” she told them. “I need a break, my arms hurt, my feet hurt, and I need a drink.” She walked over to the tent that was set up for the shoot, where she got an ice-cold water with lemon from one of the assistants and sipped it slowly, so it didn’t give her a freeze headache.

“We weren’t finished.” Charles strode over to her.

“I told you I need a break,” Diana snapped. “I can’t stand in the sun too long, or I burn. And I’m hot, so I need a drink, or I’ll dehydrate and collapse. You got a problem with that?” Her electric blue eyes burned brightly. She was sick and tired of being told what to do by photographers who thought they had a dictatorship over her.

“You’re just the hired model for the shoot,” Charles barked at her, seething at the dressing down she was giving him. No model had ever spoken to him that way before, and he didn’t like it. They were just the hired help, and it was his job to make them look good. Not that Diana Villiers needed help looking good, because she was incredibly beautiful, and it was all natural, but she infuriated him beyond belief by not doing things the way other models did. She did it to her own timetable and how she wanted, not how she was told. Her reputation preceded her, and it was a reputation she held onto fiercely. Punctual, friendly, observant, damn good at what she did, polite, but she did it her way, running the show to her health management, and not what anyone else wanted.

It amazed him and pissed him off. That this incredible, beautiful woman could tell him what to do and he did it. Just like that. Just like he had no say in the matter. Like he had no say when it came to her, and he seethed inside. Seethed because she had turned down his advances, and now, staring at her, his erection was threatening to burst from his pants. “So when is Princess ready to work?” he asked icily.

Diana arched a perfectly groomed brow. She knew his attitude from previous shoots. He thought his own shit didn’t stink, but she’d told him otherwise when he suggested getting a drink. Turning him down was not a problem. His attitude was a turn-off. His occasional chauvinism made her feel like slapping him, and the way he spoke to her during shoots made her want to do much more. His arrogance was mind-blowing. His body to die for, his lips so damn kissable…wait, what the! She snapped the hell out of it and drew her eyes from his full lips to his stunning blue eyes and short dark hair that hung in a boyish lock to the left side. He was taller than her at five ten and had an athletic build. A hint of chest hair sneaked out over the unbuttoned shirt he wore, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows revealed a dark tan and dark hair. His hands were strong and masculine.

“Is Princess ready?” he repeated, watching her eyes roam his body. It disgusted and electrified him. Disgusted because she was looking at him as if he was some kind of meat, electrified him because it turned him on. She was checking him out, and that was a good sign.

“Is court jester ready to do his job?” she asked in return, oblivious to all around them and the prying eyes that stared.

Flinching, he spat, “I’m no court jester.”

“And I’m no princess,” she returned. “Just because I set my own timetable and take a break when I know I need it, doesn’t make me a princess. But yes, I am ready to finish this job, and then I won’t have to see you any longer.” She sneered and stormed over to the rock she had been standing on.

“Okay, everyone,” he seethed. “Princess is ready to work again, places, hair, make-up.” Making his way back to his spot, he wondered who the hell she thought she was.

Diana Villiers Stephanopoulos didn’t take shit from anyone. At almost twenty-nine, she had been raised to be polite and nice by her mother Vivian, and to fight and stand up for herself by her father Carlos, and grandmother Jenny. And even though she looked like her mother, she took after her father and grandmother in every way. There was no way she’d tolerate some two-bit magazine photographer. She’d been in the business far too long to tolerate any kind of bull from anyone. Starting to model at fifteen, she’d always had her mother on hand to guide her. At nineteen, she was modelling on her own, at twenty-one she was setting up Haus of Stefan with her cousin, and now at twenty-eight, she was experiencing the most arrogant, the most despicable, the most narcissistic photographer, let alone person, she’d ever met. If only he wasn’t so damn gorgeous as well.

“Ugh.” She rolled her eyes and shook her head to clear away all thoughts. Get out of my head, get out of my head, get out of my head. Putting her face to the sun, she breathed and simply stood. She didn’t move, she didn’t speak, she just was. Letting the world slip away.

Charles stared at her through the viewfinder on his camera, breathing in her ethereal beauty. A few tendrils had loosened and hung lightly around her face, framing it in golden light. The sun shone down upon her like the goddess she was and created a halo effect around her. He stared and hardened once more. Lowering the camera, he couldn’t take his eyes from the breathtaking beauty standing in front of such an iconic monument.

At forty, he’d never met such an incredible woman, certainly not one that had captured his heart the way she had. Though she didn’t know it. He wondered if she hated men. Maybe she’d had some bad experience in the past which was why she didn’t respond to his obvious advances. Or maybe she was uptight and frigid. Hell, maybe she was still a virgin and hadn’t had a man before. With the way she was standing there looking so damn beautiful without even trying, maybe she wasn’t into men. Or maybe, she just isn’t into me, he thought. In which case, I’d better change her mind. And if she’s as virginal as she looks, all the better for it. Lifting his camera, he finished off the roll.

*****

Steele Stefan slammed the young man face first into the toilet wall of Nightmare, a hot new club in New York City. His right hand had the man by the hair, his left had the man by the cock, and he was ramming his into the young blond, making him grunt.

“Oh, God, yes,” the blond gasped, his own hands over Steele’s on his cock. “Oh, God, yes, yes, oh, God.” He didn’t mind being taken from behind, or with such powerful force. The young man got off even more.

“Do you want it, huh?” Steele asked, thrusting his condom covered appendage into the man’s anus. “Like it rough, do you?” He towered over the man before him; six foot to the man’s five seven.

“Yes, oh, God,” the man breathed. “Fuck me, Steele, fuck me hard. Oh, God.”

With a final grunting thrust, Steele bashed the man’s head into the wall before releasing him and withdrawing. Staggering backwards, he inhaled huge gasps of air to calm his racing heart.

The man pulled up his jeans and turned, seeing his idol with his dick still hanging out. “Do you mind if I take care of that?” He moved the few steps over to his one-time lover, kissing his neck and chest, and running his fingers through the light spattering of hair covering it.

Steele’s shirt hung open as it was hot in the club, and the gay man took full advantage, kissing and groping his way down Steele’s body to his crotch where he rolled the condom off. He proceeded to suck it into erection and ejaculation, swallowing it like the good little gay boy he was.

“Oh, God, that’s good.” Steele felt the warmth of the mouth and release of his seed.

The man’s hands slid up Steele’s body as he stood; his tongue sliding along the path his hands had taken.

“But now, it’s enough.” Steele shoved the man back and zipped up his jeans. “I’m done.” Turning, he checked himself in the mirror, straightened the blue bandanna wrapped around his forehead, and washed his hands with the soap from the dispenser, noting the chipped black nail polish, and wide silver studded and skull rings he wore when in the mood for rebellion, along with the black leather and silver chain bracelets and necklaces. It was a look he’d stolen from his DJ cousin Dominic. He had added his own touches by piling on triple the amount.

Steele Stefan, international model, was formerly known as Cabot Conroy Stephanopoulos, son of Vivian and Carlos, and named after some fag photographer friend of his mother’s. He’d hated the name all his life and couldn’t wait to change it, choosing Steele Stefan as his new moniker when he and his brother started modelling.

Derek Zoolander’s got nuthin’ on my blue steel, he thought, eyeing himself in the mirror and seeing his bright blue eyes glare back, made even brighter by the thick black/blue eyeliner he wore when he went clubbing. He raised a brow and blew himself a kiss. Fuck, I’m hot!

“Well, I’m not, Steele. I want more.” The man sidled up to him. “I love being taken from behind. Take me again, Steele.” His hands went around Steele’s waist to play with the penis belt buckle. “Take me again.”

Steele pushed the hands away and turned from loving himself sick in the mirror. “I never fuck the same man twice, so I’m done. Find yourself another butt fucker.” Sauntering into the club, he went in search of his brother.

Phoenix Stefan slammed the young woman against the back wall of the club, hidden by curtains and piles of boxes. He’d taken a fancy to her earlier in the night, and she’d shown him she was interested. A couple of beers later, and they were fucking against the club wall off a hallway. He had her pinned as his condom clad appendage entered from behind, making her groan in pleasure, or in pain. He wasn’t sure which one, but her head was back, and her eyes were closed. Her mouth hung open, still in an o shape from sucking his cock moments earlier. He thrust hard, making sure his full eleven inches went all the way in. She was a hot little black number with a wild afro and no underwear. Her mouth knew how to pleasure a man, and so did her pussy.

Grunting to a stop, he withdrew, staggered back, and rolled the condom off. Dropping it where he stood, he breathed deeply to regulate his heartbeat.

“Are we done?” she purred. “I could do that again.”

“We’re done.” Phoenix zipped up his pants and adjusted the bandanna wrapped around his forehead. “How do I look?”

“Gorgeous.” The woman ground against him. “Perfect.”

“Good,” he said and shoved her away. “I need to go find my brother.” Walking back into the club, he made his way through the crowd to come face to face with his other half. Standing, they observed each other. Six feet, both had golden-brown hair in a short boyish style, although Steele had an undercut on one side. Locks hung over their foreheads. They were broad and muscular thanks to the training from their uncles, and had eleven-inch cocks thanks to their father and his Greek lineage. They were identical in every way except for their eyes, and it was the only way to tell them apart unless one wore contact lenses.

Steele’s eyes were blue, exactly like their father’s. Phoenix’s was green, just like their mother’s.

Born Antonio DeLuca Stephanopoulos, Phoenix hadn’t minded his name, unlike Steele. But when they turned fifteen and started modelling together, they came up with stage names. Liking Steele and Phoenix, they adopted their family’s old moniker of Stefan and ran with it. They were the toast of the modelling world. Identical twins as gorgeous as they were was a rare thing indeed.

Sliding an arm around each other’s waist, they moved in circles, scanning the crowd for wannabe mates. This was something they did. Had each other’s back. It had been mentioned as strange, but to them, they shared a bond no one understood. Theirs wasn’t a physically intimate relationship, more of a ‘twin brother, I’m looking out for you bro’ kind of thing. But made emotionally intimate after they’d found their father’s stash of porn videos. And not just any porn videos, but movies with their father and uncles. They had watched all of them, surprised by their father’s and uncles’ lengths and prowess in and out of bed. The movies, they learned, held them in good stead for their own sexcapades, because seeing their father and uncles naked and fucking gave them ideas at eighteen, and started them on their own sexual exploration. Now, at twenty-four, they would be twenty-five in two months, they’d lost count of the lovers they’d had and the things they’d tried. Like when they’d had a foursome in the family’s penthouse there in NYC. Whenever any family members were in town, they’d use the penthouse, and he and Steele had taken lovers there to share the bed.

He’d picked an African woman of twenty-five, and Steele had an African male of twenty-one that he was ramming home in. Phoenix sat back and watched, having pulled a chair over to the side of the bed so he could rest his legs on it. His right hand brought a beer to his lips as he watched his brother finish up with his one-night stand.

“Do you always do the fucking, or do you ever get fucked?” he asked his brother as his own date slid her hands down his body to his cock.

Steele rolled off and grabbed his own beer. “Always fuck. I like being in control. But just once in a blue moon, I’ll be fucked. I don’t like it that much.”

“Men or women?” Phoenix went on.

“I’ve had both, as you know. Don’t mind both. Do both. Depends on the mood I’m in.” Steele took another mouthful and watched his lover crawl over to his brother.

“And what do you like?” Phoenix asked the black man. Names were never asked or given.

“I like cock,” the man said and wrapped his mouth around Phoenix.

Phoenix sighed in contentment. His eyes closed, and his hands gently stroked the man’s face. “I like getting sucked.” Staring down at the man working to pleasure him, he slid his hand over the man’s head and back as he moved, watching Steele move across the bed to lie on his lover, his head resting in his hand, his elbow on his lover’s back as he stared up at his twin. “I like cock too.”

The black man raised his head. “Feeling left out?”

“Yes.”

“Roll over then.”

Steele rolled over, spread-eagled, the top of his torso hanging off the bed next to his brother’s chair. He groaned in pleasure as his lover inhaled his cock, manipulating it to do what he wanted it to. “Oh, that’s good.” His fingers slid up Phoenix’s leg and found his hand. Their fingers entwined, and he squeezed as he came. “Oh, God.”

“Oh, God indeed,” the black man said, making his way up Steele’s body to find Phoenix’s manhood willing and waiting.

Phoenix welcomed him and took his own lover’s breast into his mouth as she lay across the chair. Hearing the man grunt, and getting a sharp suck, he glanced past the woman to find Steele back inside the man. Both of them working to please the man they were connected to, and with the woman forgotten, they moved as a threesome while Phoenix never tore his gaze from his brother’s.

*****

Dominic Spiros Stephanopoulos leaned back in his chair with a sigh. He was in the family recording studio trying to put together some tracks, but it just wasn’t gelling, and he didn’t know why. He’d been at this for a week, coming in every day, working in the family’s club every night as the resident DJ. At twenty-four, he’d made a name for himself just like his father, Pedro, had by the time he was the same age. He looked like his father too. Jet-black hair slicked back with a slight undercut and a lock overhanging bright blue eyes. He was the eldest son, but second in line behind Alena, the big sister who had ignored him for the first two years of his life and then bossed him around for the next nineteen years, stopping once he’d turned twenty-one. Although she still did it on occasion, he soon stopped her. At six foot one, he was an inch taller than their father, but five inches taller than her, and he always used his height as an intimidation tactic. And it worked. But Alena didn’t bother much with the rest of the family anymore. She had her own music career and the fashion line with Diana, while he was into his music like their parents.

He’d grown up watching Pedro play night after night, falling in love with music and dancing in the process, and learning the craft from his father as well as piano from his mother. So, not only was he able to write it, he could play it and manipulate it all he liked in the studio, and he’d come up with some pretty sick beats. He’d worked in the family business for the last ten years, first as a watcher and coffee maker, then as an artist and musician, while learning from the master craftsmen of the era who came to record at their studio. The Stones, Eric Clapton, Madonna, U2, Elton John, David Bowie. They had come from far and wide to Mykonos to record with Pedro as a producer, and he’d taken full advantage of it, learning guitar and bass, music composition, lyric writing, and recording and producing. As with Alena, his music was played in the club and had become huge European hits. He went by the name Dom Stefan in the club and on his songs, but for some reason, his mojo just wasn’t happening this week.

“What’s the matter, bro?” Whitey asked from the couch. “I thought that was awesome.”

“Yeah,” Petey added, wiping his nose on his sleeve. “Cool, bro.”

Dom spun around in his chair to look at the people in the studio with him. Whitey was Dan White, an average looking kid he’d gone to school with. They weren’t best friends, but they still hung out on the odd occasion. Petey, Pete Marker, was a snivelling little toe rag friend of Whitey’s. He sniffed so much that Dom thought he had a perpetual cold, or else he snorted drugs. Either way, he didn’t know and didn’t care as long as it didn’t affect him.

Smallzy was Ben Small, a wannabe rapper who thought his ticket was Dom and his family’s company; that they’d make him famous like the rest of the family. He wore his cap backwards and still emulated rappers from the ’90s. With bleach blond tips and pants hanging off his butt, he believed he was the coolest. He wasn’t.

Then there was Fryzy. Danny Fry was a friend of Ben’s, and for some reason, they all had stupid nicknames. They were his posse, or as some of them joked, his pussy posse, as some scored with the women that hung around the stage in the club waiting for Dom to give them a wave. But he wasn’t interested. Not that he wasn’t interested in women; he was, just not that often. Sex wasn’t a big deal to him, his music was, and he figured it would be mind-blowing with the right woman when she came along. But so far, she hadn’t.

He wondered why he hung out with these boys. They weren’t his friends. He had no best friend because he’d been working so damn hard and just figured he’d hang with whomever, but this lot were boring him, and he knew they were using him for their own gain.

“Look, I can’t think with you lot here; why don’t you go?” He spun back to the soundboard and tried thinking about his song while absentmindedly playing with the wide black leather cuffs around his wrists. Why wasn’t it working?

“But Dom, we’re your posse,” Whitey said. “We’ll help you through this. What’s wrong? The song sounded good.”

“Get out.” Dom threw a scowl his way. “I can’t work with you lot here.”

“Maybe if I get on the board and helped you out?” Smallzy got up, eager to help.

“Are you all fucking deaf?” Dom yelled, his anger simmering below the surface. “I said get out. I don’t want you here. Try listening to what I’m saying and have enough decency to respect it and leave. You’re not welcome here anymore.”

“Everything all right, Dom?” Mono, their big, black security guard asked from the doorway.

“No, Mono. Can you get this lot out of here? They’re not welcome anymore. I’m sick and tired of them and don’t want to see them again.” Dom turned his back once more.

“Aw, why not?” Whitey asked. “We’re your posse, Dom. You and I went to school together.”

“We may have gone to school, Dan, but we were never friends. Just schoolmates, nothing else,” Dom replied. “In fact, none of you are my friends. Just tragic wannabes and hangers-on. Get out and don’t come back. Mono, make sure they’re gone.”

“Yes, boss.” To Mono, every member of the Stephanopoulos family was boss, because the family paid his very healthy salary every week. He herded the boys out of the door while they threw scowls at Dom

Sighing, Dom replayed the track, spinning his wide music stave silver ring while trying to figure out what was wrong with the sound.

*****

Alexis Fallon Stephanopoulos, named after her mother’s favourite characters from the US soap Dynasty, lay back on her sun lounge sipping her mocktail. She and her two best friends, twins Summer Rain and Melody Song Gatos, were spending the day on the beach under their umbrella, sipping drinks, and watching the cute boys go by.

All three girls had been born in 1988, hence the unusual names all three had, and with Summer and Melody’s parents being Mike and Maggie Gatos, who were best friends of Alexis’s parents, Pedro and Angelina, there was never any doubt the girls would be as well. At nineteen, they had been friends all their lives.

“So, does this mean we’ve started our summer holidays early?” Summer asked, eyeing the group of guys to her left. A petite fake blonde, she and her twin had been working until recently, having saved up enough to spend their summer months lounging around.

“I’m always on holiday,” Alexis said from behind her dark sunglasses. With her mother’s looks, brown eyes and jet-black hair, at five ten she was taller than her friends by two inches. She was also taller than Alena, the family tragic who believed she was a star and had made sure to tell anyone who’d stop and listen. Alexis had put up with it all of her life, and it irritated her beyond belief.

Alena the singing superstar, Alena the fashion house designer, Alena the model, Alena, Alena, Alena. That’s all she’d heard her entire life.

Except from her grandmother who always made sure to spend time with each of her grandchildren, nurturing their loves and passions, and later, their careers. The Stephanopoulos clan was very career orientated indeed, but Alexis had no idea what it was she wanted to do. Her grandmother encouraged her to try music, and she could sing, but it wasn’t overly interesting since Alena did it, and big brother Dom was into it too.

Then their grandmother had encouraged modelling the Haus of Stefan lines which she did to irritate Alena, and while she had fun doing the teen lines, she didn’t think modelling was for her in the long term. Then her grandmother had suggested the creative side of things, such as designing fashion and accessories with the bag, shoes and jewellery lines. She had moderate success with the label, making some of her designs, but she didn’t feel that was really for her either.

She was competitive with Alena, always had been, but there didn’t seem to be much left to do that the family hadn’t already done. And while she didn’t want in on Haus of Stefan, she needed to be able to make her own mark somewhere away from her sister and cousins. The world-famous Diana, Steele and Phoenix. She snorted. What stupid names the boys had chosen. But then Cabot and Antonio were only remotely better.

She’d done some acting in Uncle Carlos’s movies, as had the rest of them, but that didn’t excite her, and she had no need to be a DJ.

“God,” she groaned. “What am I going to do with my life?”

“Haven’t you figured it out yet?” Melody asked. With dyed blonde hair like her twin, her green eyes sparkled with the summer fun to come.

“No.” Alexis took another sip of her drink, but let the straw linger in her mouth while she took in the hot hunky man meat in front of her. At nineteen, she definitely wasn’t a virgin, but had only been with one boy and now wanted a man. She watched him swim away before continuing, “You’d think with everything my family does, something would have interested me, but it hasn’t. Once I try it, and I’ve done it, that’s it. I want to do something else.”

“You haven’t found anything worthwhile to do then?” Summer asked. “What about volunteering for a charity or something?”

“Ugh, no, thanks. I’ve gotten that from Grandma.” Alexis adjusted her bikini, much to the delight of the guys to their right, getting catcalls and whistles. “Ugh.” She turned her nose up. “No thanks.”

“You’re not interested in men at all?” Summer asked.

“It’s not that I’m not interested,” Alexis replied, closing her eyes. “I just don’t care to be whistled at.”

“I think it’s kinda sexy.” Melody eyed off the guys, all hot and hunky and foreign.

“Well then, you take them,” Alexis told her and felt her body go cold as something blocked the sun. Opening her eyes, she looked up at the most delicious-looking man she’d seen in ages. “You’re blocking my sun.”

“I came over to ask if you’d wanna grab a drink, maybe go for a swim out to some little island somewhere.”

“What? So I can be raped by you?” Alexis spat. “Why would I go anywhere with a strange man? I don’t know you.”

The man had been eyeing off her large provocative breasts and well-packed body, but now he smirked. “Frigid bitch are you? You’re just a whore and a tease. Lead men on then turn on them.”

Alexis, not liking those comments one bit, daintily got to her feet and followed the man as he walked away. “Do you know who I am?”

The man turned. “What?”

“Do you know who I am?” she repeated, hands on hips, sly smile on lips.

“No. Should I?” tall, dark and gorgeously stupid asked.

“Well, considering the way you just treated me, you clearly have no idea, so let me just tell you.” Her hand snaked out to grab his cock in his tight little speedos. He went down like a lead balloon. Still holding on while he was screaming in pain, she raised her voice and said, “My parents are world-famous musicians and record producers. My sister is world-famous singer Alena, my cousins are world-famous models Diana Villiers and Steele and Phoenix Stefan. My uncle is a world-famous movie writer, director, producer; my aunt is a world-famous model, stylist, cosmetics queen and author. My uncles and grandmother are world-famous gay and AIDS advocates and activists. We are the Stephanopoulos family, we own half the island, and you just called the wrong girl a frigid bitch, a whore and a tease.” With a final wrench, she let go. “The next time you want to hit on me or call me names, just remember who my family is. We are the Stefans.” Dusting off her hands, she went back to her friends.

“He could have you for assault, you know,” Melody told her. “Look, he can’t even get off the ground.”

They watched him crawl back to his friends who laughed and pointed.

“Ugh. What.Ev.Ah!” Alexis went back to sunbaking and sipping her mocktail. “So, what did you girls want to do this summer? Travel? See the sights? Go to Italy with my uncles?”

“When are they going?”

“After Princess Alena’s birthday in June.”

Summer snorted. “You two will never get along, will you?”

Alexis grinned wryly. “Probably not.”

*****

Danté Pedro Stephanopoulos and his best friend, Nicholas Michael Gatos, son of his parents’ best friends Mike and Maggie, were in the club preparing for that night’s show. As the youngest child of Pedro, Danté Stefan was next in line behind his brother Dom, who already had a career DJing and making music. But at fourteen, Danté wanted to be a rapper. He wanted to write lyrics and make music, and what better training ground than his family’s company, starting with SB3, their nightclub slash function room? And, as his initiation into DJing, he was allowed to spend one night a week behind his father’s decks rocking out to music. He was already well-trained, having watched from a baby. He’d learned all he could, being a sponge when it came to educating himself on the art of music. And his best friend Nick was always there to support him. Their mothers were Juilliard-trained, had played in world-famous orchestras, taught music in schools, and did private tuition. Nick’s dad had started as the head bartender at SB3, and moved up to assistant manager, and was then promoted to manager twelve years ago when his grandpa had retired at seventy.

Nick’s parents had moved to Mykonos two years after Danté’s had moved back in ’81, and after a brief holiday and work experience in ’82, had made the permanent move in ’83. Nick was a year older than him, but the two of them had grown up together and were the best of friends.

“Any ideas what I should play tonight?” Danté asked, flipping through the record rack behind the deck set up on stage. It was a world-class system; all a DJ could want or ask for. They also had CDs, 45s, twelve inches, a computer system, and as much music as it could all hold.

“You have to do the latest stuff,” Nick said from the CD rack. “Your father plays old school vintage, your brother plays a lot of ’90s and pop, so you need to make your own stamp. It’s 2007, play what’s cool now, mixed with a few years ago that everyone will remember. Have you got anything that’s new out? That no one here would have heard of?”

Danté sighed. “We have all sorts, but nothing really new that I know of.” He pulled out an old Red Hot Chilli Peppers album. Every time he put it on he rapped along to it, giving the crowd something to cheer about. But he wanted to be different from his brother and wasn’t sure how to be since they looked alike, except for the eye colour difference. Dom had blue eyes while he had brown. There was a height difference too; at fourteen he had a few inches to go until he was six foot one like his brother. “I could ask your dad if the new stuff has come in. We get stuff every two weeks from record companies around the world. We’re one of their first stops for pop and club tracks. We play it here, and it hits all of Europe within the week and becomes a huge success.”

“How great’s that?” Nick said. “You play it, and it becomes a hit. That’s how big this club is, that’s how big your family is.”

“Yeah, I know. If only I knew how to make my mark in it.”

“What do you mean?” Nick sat on the side table watching his friend. At fifteen, he’d lived his whole life on Mykonos, only occasionally seeing the rest of the world when his family went on holiday, so he always lived vicariously through his best friend who had the best family in the world. He had a huge crush on Alena, Alexis and Diana, thought Dom was pretty cool, but loved how Danté’s grandmother ran the show. He rarely saw his own grandparents, maybe once a year for each, so he always took whatever he could get out of Mrs Stephanopoulos, whether it was sleepovers, food, holidays, or presents. Whatever Danté’s grandmother offered, he took, and it wasn’t too shabby that he got to meet world-famous musicians and actors just from hanging out with the family. You couldn’t beat Arnie, Sylvester, or Van Damme to butt kick everything into gear. The summers were the best, and he couldn’t wait to be out of school. “What are we doing for summer anyway? Are you gonna work on your music all the time, or are we gonna have fun?”

“What fun is there to have unless it’s about music?” Danté asked, coming up with a playlist for that night.

“Ah…swimming, snorkelling, girl watching.” Nick shook his head in disbelief. “I know you love your music, dude, but seriously, there is more to do than just that.”

“If you didn’t have a crush on my sisters and cousin, you would see there is more to the world than just girls,” Danté teased.

Nick blushed. “Yeah, well,” he mumbled. “They’re hot.”

“Ew, don’t say that about my sisters.” Danté screwed up his nose. “Gross, dude.”

“Just because you’re not interested in girls at fourteen, doesn’t mean I’m not at fifteen,” Nick retorted. “I’ve already sprouted two inches taller, and I’m getting a beard.” He lifted his face for Danté to see.

Danté looked and kept looking. “You mean that bit of bum fluff as Grandma would say. That’s no beard. You’re so stupid, dude.” He laughed.

“I am not,” Nick argued. “I’m turning into a man.”

Unable to control his laughter, Danté bent over and leant on his knees. “A man? You’re turning into a man? Dude, you’re fifteen, that’s a long way from being a man.”

“No, it’s not.” Nick crossed his arms. “I’ll be a man at eighteen.”

“Says who?” Danté slapped Nick on the arm. “The Wheaties box?”

*****

Tomas Stephanopoulos finished up his set at his gym, In Shape, and wiped the sweat from his brow with a fresh fluffy white towel. After all these years he still loved the feeling a workout gave him, and at fifty-two he was in great shape. A healthy diet, healthy lifestyle, work-life balance, and an amazing husband all made it possible.

He had it all and was eternally grateful to his mother for fighting hard to keep him alive. He had put back into the universe by being active in the fight for AIDS, and as a gay advocate, but he still preferred to be at home on Mykonos, staring out at the ocean and living a happy life with Roger, the love of his life. They had been together nearly thirty years, and he and his brothers would be celebrating their anniversaries that year in November. All of them had been married nearly thirty years and their parents for fifty-five. And their anniversary was in a couple of weeks. It was already a big year for birthdays and celebrations. His little brother had turned fifty, his sister-in-law had turned seventy, and the next couple of years would bring more.

Next year, Roger would be sixty, and he was already planning his birthday party, plus his mama would be eighty. The girls would be thirty, the year after Angie would finally hit fifty, and Alexis would be twenty-one, so the next few years were very busy with significant celebrations. Two years ago when he’d reached fifty, he had celebrated in style. For at the age of twenty-six, he’d never believed he’d reach twenty-seven, let alone see everyone turn thirty. But he had, thanks to Jenny fighting hard to save his life, and he had celebrated his thirtieth four years later with a big party, then his fortieth, then his fiftieth. And in a few months, he would be celebrating thirty years with the love of his life, Roger Dencott.

They’d had an amazing life together, meeting back in ’77 when he was twenty-two, and Roger was twenty-nine. Roger was his second lover, with Tomas being very new to sex, and male sex on top of that. He’d only realised he might be gay a month before meeting Roger, who was a porn star. To spend time together, Tomas had joined him, becoming a porn star for all of about two months before leaving the industry.

His mother had sent the two of them on a worldwide travelling holiday, and they didn’t work for years after. But 1981 was the worst time. For over a year he and his brothers lost friends to what was now known as the HIV/AIDS virus, and it had been rough. Pedro lost co-workers, Viv lost friends, and he and Roger lost both. The virus had absolutely devastated the gay community back in the ’80s and ’90s, and into the new century. It may have been 2007, but many were still dying from it, and in 1981, he had been told he had it; that he and Roger had contracted this disease that gay men were getting. It was so new at the time that no one knew what it actually was, how it was contracted, how to cure it, or how to deal with it. So men died, in the hundreds of thousands. And he and Roger were on their death beds, believing what the doctors told them; that they had the gay disease and would die of it. And he had.

In July 1981, after Jenny had packed them all up and taken the family back to Mykonos, Tomas had passed away. He was dead for five minutes while three doctors worked hard to bring him back, and they did.

It turned out, he didn’t have the disease after all. He had a parasite that manifested symptoms incredibly similar to those of the gay disease. That’s where the confusion lay. Because the diseases ate his blood and caused his T cells to drop, they thought he had the dreaded gay plague, the 4H disease, the gay disease, GRID, and however else it was known then. But he’d survived, though his body was so ravaged by all of the diseases he’d had as a result of the parasite. He’d taken nearly five years to get back to good physical, mental and emotional health. The only lasting effects were the permanent dusting of grey through his hair which he’d gotten as a result of the stress on his body, and the eye damage sustained by the CMV, which meant he’d needed glasses ever since.

He and Roger had stayed with his parents for all of that time, not wanting to leave the safety and comfort of his room and his mother’s love and care. And he’d blossomed under it. But eventually, he and Roger moved into their own house beneath his parents’ and knocked down the walls between the two front bedrooms to make a mega-master and art room, so they could take advantage of the magnificent views to continue painting the seascapes and landscapes he and Roger did.

After decorating everyone’s homes, their artwork decorated the family’s hotel, The Windmill, that they’d bought in 1983, where they’d all celebrated their weddings thirty years ago, the gym, the studios and SB3. Any other paintings left over were sold off, and the proceeds went for research and medications towards the fight for AIDS. Thus he and Roger could afford to work only once or twice a week in their gym, and to protest or educate the rest of their time while still enjoying holidays and long, languid days together.

He preferred the peace and quiet, so they had hired staff to take over when they weren’t there, and trusted Julio, their manager, to take care of the place for them.

Grabbing a bottle of water from the bar fridge, he stood staring out at the magnificent view of the island. The gym was in a private section of Mykonos, known as the Stephanopoulos compound, so celebrities felt comfortable going there on any given day. There was always one there, especially in summer. Many came through winter to film movies or music and used it as their private gym. It was a part of the family business and a mega business at that.

Each son or in-law had a piece of the family company, Stephanopoulos Inc., or S.Inc as it was affectionately known. Carlos had his movie productions, Pedro and Angie their music studio, Viv still had her cosmetics and style company that she’d started back in 1980 with the financial backing of Jenny, which was absorbed into the business, and he and Roger had the gym. Even the kids had gotten into it by following in their parents’ footsteps, with modelling, music and fashion.

He thought about his nephew Cabot and his adventurous sex life. The rumours were that Cabot was into both, which was okay, and condom usage had been drummed into all the kids’ heads along with safe sex and HIV/AIDS knowledge. After their scare in ’81, there was no way his mother was going to let the kids grow up and have unprotected sex.

Taking a long drink of the icy lemon flavoured water; he felt a kiss on his shoulder and smiled. “Hey.” He rested his head against Roger’s. “You finished your workout?”

“Mmm, I have,” Roger murmured. “Finished yours?” He nibbled his lover’s ear.

“I have.” Tomas felt himself falling. Even after all these years he still got weak at the knees when his husband touched or kissed him.

“You know…” Roger’s hands slid around Tomas’s waist. “No one’s due in for a few hours…so the steam room is free.”

“Roger!” Tomas exclaimed, looking up into his big brown eyes. “We can’t do it here.”

“Why not?” At six foot three, Australian born Roger was as fit and healthy as his husband, having not suffered to the degree Tomas had. With brown eyes and matching hair that was greying at the temples, he gazed into his husband’s black eyes. “It’s our gym, and we’ll tell them not to disturb us. Come on, T. Let’s take advantage and make memories.” He led his lover toward the steam room, calling out to staff to not disturb them until they came out.

*****

Carlos Stephanopoulos wandered over to his wife, Vivian Villiers. Just two months earlier, Viv had turned seventy and didn’t look a day over forty, the age she was when he met and married her. His bright blue eyes blazed up and down her firm slim body, and pert boobs and ass. The brown curls that once swayed gently against that pert ass now swayed against her shoulder blades but were still as golden-brown as ever. She looked incredible and had taken care of herself in the thirty years they’d been together. It was nearly the 30th anniversary of their first meeting, and he was planning on recreating that moment, but that was next month. He slid his hands over that ass and around to her stomach, still as flat as a tack despite having twins nearly twenty-five years ago.

“Hey, you.” She smiled at her gorgeous golden Greek god; the man that had captured her starving heart and fed it till it was full and flowing over with love and passion and desire. She’d loved Carlos from the moment she’d laid eyes on him; she just didn’t know it until months later. It was definitely lust at first sight, having heard from good friend Harriet DeVille about the golden god pleasing her good friend Connie DeLuca. She’d jumped the ferry from Santorini to see for herself, and she had seen all ten glorious inches of him within thirty minutes. And those ten inches had never stopped pleasing her. “Ready to go?” She packed the final container into the make-up kit. “I’m done here.”

“Ready to go.” Carlos kissed her cheek. He had his brother Tomas to thank for helping Viv, himself and Pedro stay in shape all those years. They still had abs and biceps thanks to Tomas and Roger, and the healthy lifestyle they all shared saw to it that he still looked young at fifty-four, sixteen years Viv’s junior. The age difference never mattered to him, but he knew it had mattered to Viv at first. He’d found out later that his mother had worried about it too, but they’d all gotten over it and moved on.

He was world-famous, something he’d been for a long time for so many reasons, with his own massive production company based in Athens, even though they lived in Mykonos. And he did a lot from the studio office he had on the island. It was all part of the business he ran with his mother. When they moved home in 1981, during the months Tomas and Roger were dying, Jenny had made a decision and consulted with him. She was going to move the family forward by giving her children what they wanted, and it was going to be on Mykonos as a base. She wanted him, as eldest, to be co-CEO with her, even though she owned it outright, and the company would pass to the boys once she and Spiros were gone. He’d marvelled at her faith in him and took on the challenge with gusto since he’d already delved into business and filmmaking with Viv’s company, Villiers Inc, which she had set up in 1980. With film school and a business degree behind him, he’d set up the movie studio, S’Reel, in Mykonos as a starting base, and had Stefan Productions with Pedro in Athens two years later.

In the years since, he’d made documentaries on gays and AIDS in conjunction with his mother, Tomas and Roger. He’d made Alena’s film clips, as well as many other singers’ videos. He’d made big money-earner movies set in and around Greece, and had many celebrities coming from all over to work with him. Just like his mother, he was tough but fair, and people always knew how far to push him before he pushed back. It was also fun working with his brother at Stefan Productions. Anything that got made would be under that name, regardless of what it was. And having Pedro around made it easier to get music for their movies, as he recorded it all in Athens, and it came under their publishing company, so they owned everything outright. It was a great set-up, and he loved working with his mother and hoped to continue working with the kids once he was too old to run the place.

“You get Mama and Papa’s present yet? I have absolutely no idea what to get them. What do you get for a fifty-fifth? God, I can’t believe they’ve been married for fifty-five years.”

“We’ve been married for nearly thirty.” Viv’s laughter floated along on the sea breeze. “That’s a long time too.” Turning, she moved into her husband’s arms and slid her own around his neck. “You’d better not forget to get me a present come November.”

He gazed into her emerald cat-shaped eyes, still sparkling and vivacious. “Don’t worry, babe, I’ve got your present right here.” He pushed his crotch against her. “Right where it always is.”

Viv snorted. “Oh, for God’s sake. Are you kidding? One, you’re still calling me babe, and two, you think I only want your penis for my anniversary?” She rolled her eyes. “You’d better think again, buster, because I can have that old thing any old time.”

“Who you callin’ old?” Carlos demanded. “I’m only fifty-four, but it’s a young and youthful fifty-four. In fact…” He stopped her from butting in. “Carlos junior is still very much a healthy twenty-four, just like when you met it. Remember that? Our anniversary’s next month. Thirty years since we met. And I think,” he flashed back in his mind, “it only took maybe thirty minutes for you to get your hand on it.”

Viv laughed at the memories. “Oh, I definitely remember. That Barbie girl was calling you out at the bar, so I called her out before giving you the eye. You were hot back then, darling, with your golden hair.” She slid her hands through his short hair, still golden-brown, but secretly getting touched up every month to cover the greys creeping in at the temples. “I do miss tangling my hands in it from time to time.”

“At least I still get to tangle mine in yours. I miss your long hair.” His fingers played with a golden-brown tendril.

“Oh, God, I don’t.” She shook her head to let the curls shimmer down her back. “I think now that I’m seventy I might go shorter still, like your mother. I like her hairstyle.”

“Yeah, it suits her and is easy to maintain, she reckons.” Carlos wrapped his hand in Viv’s hair.

“Ugh, mine isn’t anymore, so it’s getting shorter,” Viv said, then paused. “I was remembering before how we met. I had a call from Harriet, who’d gotten a call from Connie…” She paused, sadness washing over her even after all these years. “I still miss them.”

Carlos pulled her closer. “Yeah, I miss all of them too.”

Connie DeLuca was a friend of Viv’s back in the mid to late ’70s, and at the time, one of Carlos’s women. Back in ’77, Carlos was sex mad, making money left, right and centre, taking money from women who wanted his ten-inch cock to pleasure them. And he made big money, especially from Connie. After a frightening shootout at the hotel where he worked as a masseur at night, Connie and Viv got him out of Mykonos to L.A. where they had introduced him to Harry and Harriet DeVille, the porn king and queen of Hollywood. Harry gave him a job, and Carlos Stephanopoulos became Carlo Stefan, the Greek god of porn.

Sighing, he remembered back. He’d gone from starring in, to writing and producing the movies, but after ’78’s The Greek Gods film, that was it. He was out of the business just like his brothers.

Once Tomas and Roger had become sick in ’81 and Stefan Productions was set up, Carlos had phoned Harry and bargained with him to get his movies back. And it had come at a cost. Each of the movies he had starred in cost him five hundred thousand dollars each to get all rights moved over. The Greek Gods cost him one million, and the ones he wrote cost one hundred thousand each. But with the financial help from his mother, he’d bought them all back. He’d done the same with Marcus Seralift, buying Tomas and Roger’s films, and Angie offered the Poulos fortune to help pay half the costs, paying off Greta Von Burro for all of Pedro’s movies at a cost of eight million dollars.

Seralift was out of business by 1987 thanks to AIDS, and both Marcus and his co-owner ex-wife Violet were long dead, along with Harry and Harriet DeVille. Greta Von Burro shut down her company in 1997, but she was still alive at seventy-five and retired. He’d also found out how much the AIDS virus had cost Harry with the cast and crew he had to rebuild. He’d adopted Alfonso, the son of his maid, Suzy Q, as she’d died from the disease, and prepared him to take over when he passed.