Love You So Special

by Tara Lain

  Chapter Ten

  THE LOOK on François’s face flipped Artie’s stomach, so he took the musician by the horns. He exited the car and, after giving Joseph as significant a glance as he could, he mimicked Joseph and reached a hand in toward Madame. She stared at it for a second as if a snake had been let loose, but she finally took his hand and stepped out. Joseph, bless his heart, offered her his arm and escorted her to the door.

  Artie leaned down, looked in, smiled, and extended his hand.

  François blinked a few times, then blew out his breath and reached out to Artie’s hand. He let himself be guided out. When his feet hit pavement, he froze, but Artie squeezed his hand. “Come on, man. I don’t do this for just anybody. Give me a smile to let me know I’m doing it right.”

  That did the job. François’s smile was a bit strained but he still flashed teeth, slipped his arm through Artie’s, and walked to the artists’ entrance without breaking into a run. When they got inside, he gave a little bow. “Well done. No one would know you’re a man-hand virgin.”

  Artie made a gargly sound in his throat but managed to say, “Thank you, kind sir.” He glanced around the backstage area, where people walked around carrying instruments and other people wore headsets and looked frantic.

  Madame bustled over. “All right, mon ange. Do your preparations. We’ll see you after the performance.”

  François glanced at his mother, then away, and said, “Artie, will you come in my dressing room with me?”

  “Sure.” He spoke before he realized Madame was staring at François like someone hit her with a brick. He wanted to ask what the hell was going on, but he bit his tongue and waited.

  François spoke hurriedly without really looking at his mother directly. “I just want to try something different.”

  “Are you sure?” Her eyebrows practically touched in the middle. “You’re usually so—”

  “Yes, I know. But I want to try it.” He took Artie’s arm and led him down the hall until he got to a door that he unlocked, then stepped back and let Artie go in first. It was a medium-sized room with a big, lighted makeup mirror like they showed in movies. There was a small couch, a couple of chairs, and a rack that must have been for clothes, but nothing was hanging on it.

  François looked a little awkward but said, “Please sit down. Can I get you a mineral water?”

  He seemed anxious to do something, so Artie nodded. “Sure. That’d be great.” He leaned back. “So why’d your mom look so—”

  “Freaked?” He grabbed a bottle of water from a small refrigerator, opened it, and handed it to Artie with a glass from on top of the fridge. “I don’t usually let anyone in my dressing room before a concert.” He grabbed another bottle of water, turned the cap, and took a swig. “Or during or after a concert, for that matter.”

  “So why am I here?”

  “Like I told you. You’re relaxing to me, and that’s my problem before a concert. I’m super tense. So I thought I’d try it and see how I feel. Hell, I can’t feel worse than I usually do.”

  Artie crossed his arms over his chest. “Jeez, I’m not sure a guy likes to be thought of as relaxing.” He said it jokingly, but he meant it at least half-seriously.

  François chuckled. “I’m sure you’re not relaxing to women.”

  Well, shit. This conversation got more and more depressing. “So what are you playing?”

  “Chopin. That’s what they requested.”

  “Choppin’, right?” He grinned.

  “Yep. Did you really think that’s how it sounded?”

  “No. Actually a woman I met in the hall told me they had a soloist playing Chopin. I didn’t know what or who that was, so I looked up sho-pan.”

  “Just like it sounds.”

  “Yes. And it came up. Amazing, right? I guess a lot of people get it wrong. You should have seen me trying to spell your name.” He shook his head. “Fortunately Google’s way smarter than I am, and it came up with both words. Man, do you know how many videos you have on YouTube? I mean, seriously. Everything from real professional shit to home movies somebody took on their phone. And the music? Whoa. I must have sat there for an hour and never stopped listening. You’re really a talent. Whoever’s in that audience is lucky, man.”

  François’s cheeks got pink and his eyes got shiny. “Thank you.”

  “That, my friend, is basic truth.”

  A tap on the door made François look up—and look worried. “Five minutes, Mr. Desmarais.”

  Artie leaned forward. “Okay, so we’re going to walk out of here together, and I’ll go with you to the side of the stage and stay there the whole time, okay? I mean, to get to see you and hear you play from that close is like a total gift, man. You want me behind you, or shall we walk to the other side so you can see me?.” He spoke casually on purpose. “Of course, why you’d ever want to see my ugly face, I don’t know.”

  “Come on, you’re not ugly. Not even a little.”

  Good. If he was fighting back, he wasn’t thinking about being scared. “Okay, but you still don’t have to look at this.” He pointed at his face.

  François was starting to look a little deer in headlights-ish, but he said, “No. I’d really like to be able to see you.”

  “Okay, deal.” He stuck out his arm even though it made him cringe, but hell, he was here for one reason. Make François comfortable.

  François gave him a smile and linked his arm. Artie opened the door and practically ran into Madame when he walked out. She stood there looking stormy. He was trying to make François smile, and there she stood glaring like somebody killed her fucking giraffe. He plastered on a smile. “Hi, Madame. François’s all ready to go on stage, and we better get there.” With a firm grip on François’s arm, he just kept walking past her. “Where’s the entrance to the stage?”

  François pointed to a door farther down the hall, and Artie strode there feeling the heat of Madame’s stare between his shoulder blades. He opened the door for François, and they both stepped into the subdued lighting of the offstage area. The sounds of voices and feet moving around filtered through the heavy curtain that separated the stage from the audience as people moved back to their seats after the intermission. A huge black piano stood in the middle of the stage.

  Artie totally got why this was scary. Giant numbers of eyes would be staring up at François as he tried to play, some of them admiring, some bored, maybe even some pissed-off. François said everyone knew he was gay. What if somebody in that mass of people hated gay men? Shit, what if they decided to make some statement?

  François’s whole body trembled. Artie tightened his hand on that tense arm.

  Shit, take a breath. Stop freaking yourself out. Remember why you’re here. “Have you ever considered asking for a white piano?”

  François frowned. “What?”

  “You know, like shiny white? We could get you a sequined suit.”

  His expression went from outraged to amused. “Uh, you were thinking I should play ‘Pinball Wizard’?”

  “Nah. ‘Bennie and the Jets.’”

  His teeth were now showing. “I’ve got it. ‘The Bitch is Back.’”

  Artie laughed. “There you go. That’s my boy. Give ’em hell.”

  His smile faded, but he didn’t look scared. “I like being your boy.” He leaned forward, pecked Artie on the lips, then grinned. “That was for luck.” Chuckling, he turned and strode onto the big bare stage just as the curtains slid apart and the place burst into an ocean of yells, applause, and enthusiasm.

  François never faced the audience or bowed. Maybe people wondered why he walked in from the back of the piano and crossed around to the keyboard, but he didn’t look awkward. He just slid onto the piano bench, looked up at Artie—and winked.

  Before Artie even stopped vibrating, music poured from the piano, and Artie didn’t care if he never thought again. All he wanted to do was feel. He thrust out a hand until he felt a wall, staggered toward it, and leaned.
Hold me up. The music flowed through him like a shot of bourbon with a beer chaser and a mouthful of François’s champagne. Wow, what would it be like to be able to create that? François’s brain must be full of music all the time.

  The piano looped and soared, raising Artie’s heart into his throat, then dropping it to his belly. François’s eyes were mostly closed, but every now and then he’d open them and gaze at Artie. Then a hint of a smile would turn his lips as his eyelids drifted shut again.

  No one but François could sound like that. He was sure of that. Artie might not be an expert, but he’d listened to a lot of other piano players on YouTube since he’d started working for Madame, and to his mind, François was the best.

  He slowly let his breath slide out between his lips and lolled his head against the wall. Man, I’d settle for just hearing that music every day forever.

  His head snapped up. Holy shit, do I really feel that way? He stared hard at François’s spectacular face framed by the impossible-to-control pale blond hair like a wacky halo. The guy was weird, temperamental, and about as obviously gay as anybody since Elton John. Just showing up somewhere with him could blow Artie’s whole fucking cover. But looking at that face made his cock do some kind of happy dance, just when he’d been thinking he wasn’t much of a dancer.

  Maybe I’ve got to break down and tell him I’m gay.

  Like he’d heard Artie’s thoughts, François’s eyes opened. For a moment he looked dreamy; then he cocked his head and broke out in the one full-wattage smile he’d shown the whole night.

  Artie fell back a step as if he’d been hit with a laser beam, and his perfectly tailored trousers felt like his too-tight jeans.

  The music built and soared. François’s stare barely left Artie’s face, and Artie wanted to run across the stage, slide over the piano, and kiss François—among other things. As François crashed to the end, he might have puckered his lips at Artie—or maybe Artie imagined it.

  Their eyes clung as the audience went apeshit. Whereas they’d been enthusiastic when he walked in, clapping and cheering loudly, this time they practically rose to NFL proportions, cheering along with the applause.

  Then the miracle happened. François rose from the piano, his chest expanded with what had to be a huge breath—and he turned to the audience and bowed.

  If they’d gone ape before, now they became the whole zoo, stomping and whistling. Obviously a bunch of them must know the man usually ran off the stage right after he played, and he’d just given them a special gift.

  He stood straight, turned, and actually jogged off the stage. When he got a few feet from Artie, he hurled himself and landed with his arms around Artie’s neck, laughing. “Oh my God, you’re a miracle worker. I never had fun on the stage before, ever, unless I was totally alone. You just transformed the whole experience for me.” He kissed Artie’s cheek. “Thank you.” He kissed a little closer to Artie’s mouth. “Thank you.” He puckered his lips to say it again, and Artie couldn’t take it. He turned his head and captured the thanks with his mouth.

  For a second they both froze with their lips locked. Artie was so shocked by what he’d done, he partly wanted to take it back—but even more he didn’t. The feel of those lips seeped into his brain like someone lit a fire. First it burned a huge hole in his capacity to think; then it dove for his groin and his balls turned into magic cauldrons full of bubbling trouble of the very best kind. As his arms started to tighten, some brain cell sprang to life. They were standing offstage from thousands of still-applauding fans while theater people swarmed all around. He pulled his lips back. “Uh, not the best place.”

  François came up frowning. “Excuse me. Not the best place for what? What the hell are you doing?”

  “Isn’t it obvious?” Ha screwed up a smile.

  “It’s obvious you’re kissing me. Not an activity I generally associate with straight men. So unless you’ve gotten damned homocurious damned fast, I think you owe me an explanation.” He crossed his arms over his chest and glowered.

  Artie glanced around as people rushed all over the stage in front of them, moving the piano and messing around with lights. “Is there a chance we could table this until later?”

  François seemed to wake up from his one-track mind and looked around him. “Okay. But don’t mess around, Artie. I want an answer.”

  Artie gave a single nod, then took hold of François’s bicep. “Let’s go find your mother. She’s probably freaking out.”

  François released a long slow breath. “Sad but true.”

  Artie led François down the still dimly lit stairs and out the door into the hall that led to the dressing rooms and rehearsal halls—the backstage. A lot of people now crowded the hall, chatting and, in some cases, holding glasses of wine. A regular party.

  Artie stepped in front of François automatically and felt François grasp his arm from behind.

  Like a gazelle escaping a pack of lions, Madame emerged from the crowd and ran to François. “Are you all right?”

  He frowned. “Of course. Didn’t you watch the performance?”

  She glanced down and then back at him. “Of course, you were—very good.”

  The crease between François’s eyebrows deepened, and Artie wanted to yell at Madame. Damn, he was brilliant and you won’t say it because he didn’t do it your way.

  Before François could open his mouth, a familiar shriek went up from the crowd, and Margie from the restaurant elbowed her way past a couple of annoyed-looking people, leaped toward François—and came face-to-face with Artie. Or face-to-Adam’s-apple.

  She craned her neck to look around him. “Oh my God, François, you were brilliant. So amazing.” The same sequined jacket she’d worn at the restaurant was now layered over a long black skirt, and it twinkled as she literally jumped up and down.

  Madame stepped forward. “Please, don’t bother my son. He doesn’t—”

  Artie gave her a gentle shake of the head just in case she’d pay attention. She scowled but shut up. He looked back at François. “François, you remember Margie and George, from the restaurant.”

  François cleared his throat. “Of course. How are you? I hope you enjoyed the concert.”

  George stuck out his hand, and François looked at it as if it had been coated with Ebola.

  Artie put a hand out to George. “If you don’t mind, George. His hands are so delicate after he plays.”

  “Oh my God, of course, I should have thought of that myself.” He withdrew his hand and unconsciously wiped it on his slacks. “But I’ve just got to tell you, I’ve been to a lot of concerts. The missus really likes music. Man, I never heard anything like this. It was just great. We were already fans, but now? I mean we’re gonna buy every recording. You were just amazing.”

  Margie pressed her hands over her heart. “I couldn’t have said it better myself. You were Captain America and Superman all rolled into one.”

  François smiled. “I’m overwhelmed. Thank you. After committing so much to the concert, I’m really happy you got your money’s worth.”

  “Cheap at twice the price, dear. We just had to come back and tell you.” Margie giggled.

  George put his arm around her. “And all the people sitting near us felt the same way. You were a smash.”

  “I’ll try to keep up the good work.”

  “Oh yes, do that. Yes.” George laughed heartily. “You’re always great, of course.”

  Margie grabbed George’s arm, probably before he dug a deeper hole of embarrassment. “I suppose we should be going. Thank you again, François. It was so lovely seeing you, and we just adored the concert.” She glanced at Artie. “You too, dear.” She pulled on her husband’s arm. “Come on, George.” She waggled her fingers. “Bye.” They disappeared into the crowd.

  Madame whirled from watching their exit. “Have you lost your mind?”

  Chapter Eleven

  FRANÇOIS STARED at his mother, glanced at Artie, and back to his mother. The
whole night still vibrated through him—his playing better than ever because he got to stare at Artie’s wonderful face, then—Jesus, he kissed me. He kissed me. But I don’t know why. And then—those people rushing me and Artie protecting me and me being able to take an actual bow and talking to Margie and George and now— “No, Mother, I’m perfectly fine.”

  Suddenly someone in the assembled multitude started to clap. François swallowed hard but smiled and took a little half bow. “Thank you. Thank you so much.”

  He grabbed Artie’s hand and tried to look pleasant as he rushed to his dressing room.

  His mother called, “François, don’t you need to leave?”

  “Soon.” He powered through the crowd, threw open his dressing room door, let Artie cross in first, then closed the door behind him. Inside the room he whirled on Artie. “Why did you kiss me?”

  “Whoa. Sorry. Didn’t know that was at the top of the priority list conversationally.”

  “You said to wait until we were alone. We’re alone. Talk.”

  Artie’s powerful chest rose and fell. “I’m gay.”

  François felt his mouth open, then close. Okay, that was the sensible answer to why a guy sucked his face like ice cream, but he still hadn’t actually believed it. “You’re sure?”

  Artie snorted. “Yeah.”

  “How long have you known?”

  “Forever. Since I was, like, ten or something.”

  “What the fuck? You’re the straightest man since the Rock.”

  He shrugged kind of adorably. “I know. I’ve practiced so hard being macho, I barely know how to be anything else.”

  François crossed his arms. “Sweetie, you are macho. In the dictionary where it says James Bond, they have your picture.”

  His cheeks turned a light pink.

  François shook his head. “If you don’t count the blush.” He looked up through his lashes. “Damn, you’re cute.”