by Jet Mykles
Brent smiled. Paul had supplied some MP3s of the man’s music, but Brent hadn’t gotten a visual yet. Luc had looked him up on the internet and had, so far, claimed that he was “cute.” Now Brent knew what he meant.
So this was the man Paul thought could be a welcome addition to Heaven Sent? Brent watched, his anger at Luc draining away as the keyboardist’s haunting, heartbeat melodies and tickling electronic overtones washed over him.
The MP3s had been good. His live show was better. Heller Witting definitely had promise
Brent flipped open his Zippo and lit up. He used the accustomed movement to help put his mind back to rights, gradually recovering from the terrific performance he’d just seen. The last strains of Heller’s final song were still in his mind, fifteen minutes after the man had left the stage. He couldn’t help but imagine new tracks with other instruments laid down with what he’d heard, making for a pretty spectacular sound.
“Damn,” Darien muttered, plopping down on the padded seat of the booth beside Brent. “The kid’s good.”
Brent nodded, exhaling as he set the lighter down on the glossy tabletop and reached over to slide the ashtray closer to him.
Paul, seated backwards in the chair he’d pulled up to the table, grinned. “I told you. Would I steer you wrong?”
Luc slid into the booth opposite Darien. “That’s why we hired you, Paul. You’re the best.”
Paul laughed, grabbing the back of the chair and leaning back. The loud orange of his jacket gleamed in the nightclub’s wavering lighting. He waited until the waiter came to deliver the fresh round of drinks they had ordered before speaking again. He eyed Brent. “What do you think?”
Brent sucked smoke into his lungs, thinking. As often happened when a group decision needed to be made about the sound of their music, they looked to Brent. Yes, they all contributed to the sound and they were all necessary, but for whatever reason everyone looked to him as the lead musician. It was a role he accepted gladly and never acknowledged. Johnnie was the face of the band; Luc was his dark, mysterious counterpoint; Darien was the heartbeat; and Brent was the musician. They all took their roles rather naturally.
How would someone new fit in? But even as he thought it, those imagined tracks filled his mind. He could easily hear versions of Heller’s strains complementing some of the rough cuts the band had been working on for the past few months. Musically, Heller would probably be a great fit.
Personally ...?
He exhaled, nodding without speaking. If he spoke, he’d likely start gushing about the electric sizzle of the keyboardist’s performance. Since he didn’t want to do that, even among friends, he settled for the smile and nod. His dark glasses would hide any excitement that might show in his eyes.
Paul grinned and cocked his head, his eyes darting around the table. “So, you guys think he’s good enough to play on the album?”
“Oh, yeah!” Darien’s typical enthusiasm shone through.
“Is he willing?” Luc asked. “Looks like he’s got a pretty good gig right here.”
Paul nodded. “Oh, he’s interested. He’s got a moderate following in Europe, but it’s limited to a few clubs like this. He’d love to tackle the States. Plus, he’s a big fan. He knows you came to see him tonight.”
Luc sat back in the booth. “You didn’t make any promises.”
“No way. You guys needed to see him for yourself.”
Brent nodded. “He’s good.” He exchanged glances with Luc. “Really good.”
Paul nodded, enthusiastic. “That’s what I’m thinking. First time I heard him, I thought he sounded like you guys. It’s like a perfect fit!” He leaned forward. “You want to meet him?”
“Yeah!” Darien piped up.
Brent took another drag of his cigarette, staring at the ashtray. He shrugged.
Luc nodded. “Sure, why not?”
Paul grinned, standing. “I’ll be back in a flash.”
Darien barely waited until Paul had left before leaning in across the table. “Man, you guys did think he was good, didn’t you? I mean, that one song, what was it? The one with the --” He mimicked the nasal sound of the strings passage that had filled Brent’s mind as well. Darien grinned as he broke off. “That was awesome.”
Luc twirled his drink idly over the table. “I kind of liked the one that went ...”
Darien and Luc commenced a discussion of the finer points of the keyboardist’s performance. Brent knew from long experience that he only needed to clue in to the gist of the conversation and could otherwise tune out. Which was all well and good. Brent needed the time to brace himself before he saw the performer. For whatever reason, the thought of actually talking to the pixie he’d seen onstage made him nervous.
But the twenty minutes it took Paul to bring the up-and-coming keyboardist back to their table in the VIP section of the club proved not to be enough time at all.
Paul and Heller stopped on the opposite side of the table from Brent. Brent was thankful for his dark glasses as well as his practiced control that allowed him to keep his face in an almost bored expression, because if he didn’t have both of those, his jaw would have dropped and he probably would have started drooling. As it was, his eyes widened, and he couldn’t take them off the thing of beauty that was Heller Witting.
Brent would be surprised if he was more than five foot five and guessed it was more five foot three or four. The top inch was all hair, a fluff of chin-length curls that were lavender under the bright stage lights but could have been mistaken for platinum blond in the dim light of the candle on the table. A single, much darker braid that was about the diameter of Brent’s index finger grew from the nape of his neck and was draped over the left shoulder of his sleeveless white overcoat with a flashy rhinestone band on the end dangling at his waist. Brent couldn’t see colors very well in the dim lighting, but he thought Heller’s big, luminous, kohl-lined eyes were probably a dark blue. His face was round, his nose pert and upturned, and he had an adorable mouth with an upper lip that had one of those elegant, defined curves to it. He looked exactly like some of those characters in the Japanese anime that Johnnie was always trying to get them to watch.
Heller smiled, and Brent was enchanted by the innocent exuberance of it. Luc had told him that Heller was in his early twenties, but Brent would have pegged him for a kid of sixteen. Maybe seventeen or eighteen.
Paul stood aside and waved a hand toward Darien. “Hell, this is Darien Hughes.”
Darien stood and took the hand that Hell extended. Now Brent had confirmation that Hell was a little shorter than Darien’s five foot six. Darien pumped Hell’s hand with his accustomed enthusiasm, despite the fact that the excitement of meeting was supposed to be the other way around. “Nice to meet you, man.”
“It is nice to meet you,” agreed Hell, his smile wide and genuine.
Brent puzzled at the slight accent to the words as Paul turned to gesture at Luc. “And Lucas Sloane.”
Luc stood and shook Hell’s hand, his height not seeming to bother the cherub at all.
Then Paul turned the man toward Brent, and he forgot everything else.
“And this is Brent Rose.”
Was it Brent’s fancy that Hell’s smile kicked up a notch? Probably. Yeah, had to be. Those eyes were fixed on the stark black lenses of Brent’s glasses, likely seeing the reflection of his own pale loveliness. Brent stood partially and extended his hand across the table to take Hell’s Long, delicate-looking fingers closed around his palm in a surprisingly firm grip. He wore a thick gold band around the middle finger that was linked to two chains that extended over the back of his hand before linking to a heavy gold bracelet surrounding his slim wrist. Very feminine, but somehow right on that hand.
Brent smiled as he tried not to drown in those big eyes. Blue? No, maybe not. But in the lighting he couldn’t quite tell. “Nice to meet you.”
Long, dark eyelashes blinked once, slowly. “It is entirely my pleasure, I assure you.”
/> German! Brent remembered it as Paul gestured Hell into the booth to sit at Luc’s side. Heller was native German, thus the source of the accent.
“Dude!” Darien enthused just as Paul resumed his seat across from Brent. Darien leaned forward, his blond hair falling into his face as he focused on Hell. “That performance rocked!”
Hell beamed, briefly batting those eyelashes again. But this time it looked to be in surprise. “You enjoyed it?”
“I loved it! We heard some of your MP3s before, but, man, that was awesome! How long you been doing this kind of stuff?”
At times like this, Brent adored Darien. The drummer was rarely tongue-tied, although he often spilled things that he shouldn’t. But there was no harm in this. They all knew what this little meeting was for. Brent, Luc, and Darien had agreed to come with Paul to see the keyboardist play while Johnnie was back in the States, helping Tyler with some legal matters regarding the new hotel they were opening in New York. Recording of the album was probably about three quarters finished, but the entire band and their producer were aware that something was missing. Their music had matured past the early style of their first two albums. They were itching to show what they could do now that they had the time and the resources. When Paul suggested adding a keyboardist and recommended one, it seemed prudent to check it out.
Hell and Darien talked over the table with Luc and Paul commenting occasionally. Hell proved to be as garrulous and bouncy as Darien, and the two barely took a breath when the waiter came to ask about drink refills. Hell’s English was flawless, his accent subdued but obvious, heard more in his inflections rather than the actual words.
“I am a big fan of your music,” Hell admitted after Darien had regaled him on some of the early Heaven Sent days. Those big eyes came around to fasten on Brent. “Paul will tell you, I was thrilled to hear that you would even come to hear me play.”
“We’re looking for a new sound,” Brent said. They all turned to him, and he realized it was the first he’d spoken since Hell sat down. He focused on keeping his voice calm, staring at the fingertips he had braced on his empty tumbler to keep them from trembling. “We need something a bit ... more, y’know?”
Hell nodded, lavender hair puffing around his round face. He leaned forward, bracing bare forearms on the glossy table as he gave Brent his full-on attention. His sleeveless overcoat left his pale, virtually hairless arms bare. Brent’s gaze trailed over the defined muscle of his biceps, not bulging but toned. “Yes, yes. Tell me more.”
Brent swallowed. “We can’t make any promises, you understand” He groaned at himself. He sounded like one of those awful big shots talking to a rookie, seeking to put the rookie in his place. That wasn’t what he was trying to do. “Johnnie will need to agree.”
“Of course! I would very much like to try. I would be thrilled to spend even a day in the recording studio with you.”
Brent stared. Hell’s eyes were fixed on him. By “you” he’d meant the band, of course, but the weight of his stare gave Brent other ideas. Down boy.
“Johnnie’s due back next week,” Luc pitched in, leaning in on the table. “Why don’t you come out and jam with us.”
“Oh, yeah, man!” Darien beamed. “You’ve got to see this place! It’s so cool! We’ve never done this before. We got this gi-normous place that’s like a manor house. There’s like acres of the estate to walk around, and we’re up on a hill so you can even see the ocean in the distance. You’ll love it!”
Hell’s mouth fell open. “Amazing! I’ve never been to such a recording studio.”
“Nah, it’s an exclusive ...” Darien went on to tell Hell about the estate’s history.
Brent exchanged small smiles with Luc. To judge by Darien’s reaction, he and Hell were already fast friends.
Chapter Two
Brent scribbled furiously, determined to get the gist of what they’d been playing down before he forgot it. This was great! He hadn’t had this much fun writing in a long time. Oh, he enjoyed it when the band was all together, but recently there were always the inevitable interruptions. Even though they’d gone to Italy to isolate themselves, his band mates still managed to find reasons not to stick around for the hours on end Brent found necessary to write a proper song. Then again, he’d been accused of being a perfectionist when it came to their music. Whatever. It suited them and it worked, so they could just suck it up.
But now they weren’t even in the studio. He was on a jet plane, of all places. Luc, Johnnie, and Darien were stretched out on the plush couch and recliner seats at the far end of the cabin, while he and Hell sat at a little table having a grand time with just his acoustic guitar and the little Casio keyboard Hell traveled with. A glance at his watch showed they’d killed more than half of the ten-hour-plus flight back to the good old US of A.
In the last four months during recording, Brent had found, to his extreme delight, that the cherub shared his same work ethic in regards to music There had been a number of nights where the two of them had stayed up late after the others had gone to bed or off somewhere. In those late nights, they’d discussed nothing but music. It had been fabulous!
“It’s all here,” Hell murmured, flipping a few switches on the Casio. He’d recorded all of what they’d done.
“I know.” Brent waved the hand with the pen, without looking up. “Call it habit. I feel better having it on paper.”
Besides, scribbling gave him a reason not to look up. Not to look into those fathomless violet eyes. Yeah, violet. Hell had eyes like Elizabeth Taylor, luminous and gorgeous and fucking purple! Even his eyebrows were dyed purple. Brent had yet to see him without mascara, so he didn’t know if the eyelashes were dyed too. “Cute as a button” was a perfect description for him.
And when, exactly, did cute become so damn sexy? Brent wondered, not for the first time.
A strain of the last harmony they were working on reached his ears, and Brent glanced over just enough to see Hell’s elegant fingers float over the keys. Didn’t even look like he touched them. Brent was a pretty good piano player, if he had to say so himself, but Hell put him to shame. The kid was simply gifted. Gold rings on both hands and the odd ring-and-chain thing Hell wore on his right hand shone in the harsh light of the lamp over the table.
Brent finished writing, then sat back, staring at his scribbled version of what they’d come up with. It wasn’t notes exactly, but long practice had taught him a way to write music that would make sense to him later on. He fiddled with the pen, thinking. “Y’know, maybe we should change that third part back.”
“No. We should do it again --” Hell reached over the table to point with one manicured finger at the blank space toward the bottom of the page. “-- here.”
Brent raised an eyebrow, surprised Hell knew what the scribbles meant. But the suggestion set off the sounds in his head. Lost in the music, hearing the unwritten part in his head, he frowned. “But ...”
Hell brought his hands back to the keyboard and quickly played the part in question, easily progressing into the next stanza. “See?”
Brent glanced down as he listened, lips pursed. Slowly he smiled. Damn The cherub was right. “Yeah. Okay.” He dropped the pen and took up the pick he’d left on the table. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Hell yawning. He turned so that he could properly cradle his guitar and bent over it. “You can go get some sleep if you want,” he said, not looking up as he applied pick to strings. “You don’t have to stay up with me.”
“No, no, I’m fine. I’m enjoying myself with you.”
Brent glanced up to see Hell smiling at him and felt his own shy smile in return. He missed the shield of his sunglasses, but they were stashed with his stuff next to one of the recliner chairs, and it would be too obvious to go get them. Embarrassed, he bent back over the guitar. “You’ve gotta be tired, though. It’s, like, four a.m. for us.”
“What about you?”
Brent shrugged. “I’m not tired.”
“Then
I’ll stay up with you.” When Brent looked up, Hell smiled. “I don’t want to miss anything good.” His slight German accent gave his speech a bit of a susurrus, like silk on skin.
Brent laughed, trying not to feel the tingle. “Not much chance of that. You’ve improved everything that I’ve come up with.”
“That is not true. Your stuff is excellent! I’ve only suggested a change here and there.”
“Ha. You’re being modest. How long have you been playing?”
Hell’s fingers danced over the Casio, producing only a ghost of a sound since he’d turned the instrument most of the way down. “Since I was a small child. My mother loves music. She teaches.”
Since Hell’s focus was on his fingers, Brent felt free to look his fill at what he could see of the cherub’s face. He stole glances at Hell way too often and probably should stop, but damn, the man was beautiful! “Ah, that explains it.”
Hell nodded, some of that soft pastel hair caressing his cheek. He lifted one hand to tuck it behind his ear, revealing the five gold rings that rimmed the delicate shell. “My father is a percussionist.”
“So it runs in your blood.”
Hell smiled. “It does. My sister teaches, as well.”
“Whoa. That’s better’n me.”
“Not so. Being self-taught is an amazing skill. To have picked it up yourself is amazing.”
“Yeah, I didn’t really start playing until I was twelve, though.”
Hell nodded. “Yes, I know.” His grin was impish and maybe just a touch shy. “You taught yourself, and then you taught Luc.”
