by Eden Winters
“I didn’t do it.” Hee. The title to one of his songs, actually, about a man pleading innocent and being guilty as sin.
LA wiseasses being a dime a dozen, the cop didn’t comment on the lame attempt at humor. Maybe he wasn’t familiar with the song. “Your toxicology report shows your blood-alcohol level was well below the legal driving limit, and there was evidence of venlafaxine hydrochloride, in keeping with the prescription you provided. It checks out. However, we also found GHB in your system, as well as in the glass you left by the bed.”
“I was drugged?” He knew it! A chill ran up his spine.
“Unless you like playing Russian roulette by mixing alcohol with sedatives, yes. Bad enough you drank with your prescription.”
Drugged. “Fuck. Oops, sorry, Officer.”
“Detective.”
“Sorry, Detective.”
“Under the circumstances, I believe ‘fuck’ is appropriate.” The guy never cracked a smile, but his stiff manner softened. “Tell me, do you recall anyone near your drink at any time?”
“The guy who gave it to me. He tried to talk me up, but was too friendly, like, creepy-stalker friendly. I figured he was safe enough—he couldn’t have gotten past security without an invitation.” At least, not to Henri’s knowledge. Of course, a pretty face and a smile went a long way in winning favors.
“Can you describe him?”
“Not really. About my height and weight, dark hair, which describes about half the guys there. Oh, I believe he said he’d come from New Jersey.”
“We found concealed cameras in your hotel room, and rope and duct tape in the closet. Housekeeping insists they weren’t there the last time you were in your room, as they cleaned shortly after you left for your concert. Feel free to say ‘fuck’ again. It appears you were set up. Do you have any idea who’d do such a thing?”
Holy shit! Really? Really? Straining his brain didn’t help to bring a face into focus. Some of Henri’s band members might have a grudge, but why shoot the cash cow? “I have no idea. Could have been anybody. I’m in a pretty cutthroat business.” Shit. Another problem and another reason to watch his back. “Not to mention how damned obsessed with viral videos people are these days.” Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck. No telling what the guy intended.
“You’re safe enough here, but I’d recommend additional security before you go back out in the world.”
Yeah. Made sense. “Can I ask you a question?”
“Sure.”
“I can’t get papers in here and they censor my magazines”—Henri added air quotes—“for my own good. What happened to the cop I kissed?” Not one of his finer moments, for sure.
A slight upturn of lips might have been all the smile the detective could manage. “He caught hell at the precinct, took a few days off, and has been getting requests from your fans to sign their ‘I kissed Henri Lafontaine’ T-shirts.”
Henri slapped his hand over his face. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. To be honest, it gave us something to talk about besides homicides, domestic violence, and budget cuts.”
“Go easy on the guy, will ya? I feel bad enough already.” Henri peeked out from between his splayed fingers.
The detective winked. “At the station, if we’re not picking on you, it’s because we don’t like you. Officer Reyes is none the worse for the wear, I can assure you.”
“Oh crap. He has a name!” Henri slapped both hands over his face. “Next, you’re gonna tell me he has a wife and two kids.”
“No, he’s single. But I’m told his fourteen-year-old sister is jealous. He won major cool-brother points for meeting her idol.”
Henri dropped his hands in time to witness Shepard’s eyes crinkling at the corners. “Tell him I’m sorry.”
Any humor left the man’s face. “Mr. Lafontaine, you’re the victim of assault. It may not have gone as far as the perpetrator intended, but you were violated. We don’t blame victims for acting out of character. Stress does funny things to people. Now, if you recall anything else helpful, please give us a call. We’ve spoken to a few people at the party and questioned the hotel staff, but no one had anything else to add.”
“Did you talk to my manager?” Margo had spoken to the guy. Would her fear of gay rumors keep her from cooperating?
“Yes. She gave the same description you did.”
“Did you tell her why you wanted to know?”
“Until we know otherwise, everyone in the club could be a suspect. She simply knows we wanted to question anyone you’d come into contact with that night.”
“What about video? There were cameras everywhere.”
“A security camera showed someone entering your room while you were out, but a hooded sweatshirt hid their face. The party guest list didn’t turn up anything suspicious. And it seems the video at the party had been turned off to preserve your privacy.”
What the hell? Oh. So no one could see who he left with. That had to be Margo’s idea. Fuck. “What should I do now?” Bad enough his band hated him. At least he knew where those guys lived. But a total stranger? He could be anywhere.
“Now we continue our investigation. In the meantime, be careful what you say to the press.”
“Can I tell them what happened?”
“Yes, but leave out details and descriptions until we have the suspect in custody.”
Margo. She’d stood toe to toe with a crazed fan, had talked to him, even. If she believed him to be an intended hookup, though, she might not have been forthcoming. And no video? Really? Without consulting him? Sometime soon, if Henri ever talked to her again, they’d have a long heart-to-heart about priorities.
Now, he didn’t have a family, he didn’t have a band, and he did have someone out to get him. And recreational drugs were no longer an option—unless he wanted to burn out young and join the 27 Club. Great, just great. Walking a tightrope without a net. Hey, that might be a good song title, if he lived to write the words.
Four
Manager prospect number one wasn’t winning any points. “First, we’ll tell your fans the stress got to you and you snapped. Not only will you be admitting your failures, you’ll win sympathy points.”
“I was drugged.” Henri tore his gaze away from the window and the fat robin sitting on a branch outside. He’d been in rehab long enough. Soon it would be time to join the bird out in the world again. Did he have to?
“Do you really want your fans to know the truth? I mean, they haven’t found the culprit yet. Now, I can set up negotiations to get you back into Hookers and Cocaine, with me as your manager, of course.”
Margo wouldn’t go for such an arrangement, and neither would Henri. “I don’t want to go back. I want to move on.” He wasn’t sure of much these days, but making all the same mistakes over again wasn’t an option.
“You’d give up your place as front man for a successful group to go solo?” The dollar signs flashing in the man’s eyes were getting pretty annoying.
“They’re called Hookers and Cocaine. How much worse can it get?”
The man cocked a brow, adding a smug little smile. “A lot worse. Trust me.”
Trusting the bastard would never happen. “Fuck you and get out.”
“Deny everything.” Manager prospect number two looked the part of a smarmy spin doctor—down to his shark smile and snake oil salesman vibe.
“People will think I’m guilty. Can’t I hold a press conference and tell my side of the story?” God, what Henri wouldn’t give for a joint or a drink. Perhaps both.
“I can assure you that honesty isn’t in your best interest here. I also suggest you patch things up with your band and move on.”
“Why is everyone hung up on me getting back with a bunch of two-faced losers? Fuck you and fuck them. Without me they’d be nothing, and not a one of them has so much as called me. No, they couldn’t wait to spill their damned guts to the press. I’m done with them.” Assholes. They’d said everything in the gossip rags fr
om “We always knew it was only a matter of time ’til he OD’d” to “I tried to get him to stop. He wouldn’t listen.” Bastard! Giles had no room to talk about drug use.
At least no one had outed Henri—yet. But then again, Margo would have their balls if they did. He might not be her client anymore, but she wouldn’t allow anyone to hurt royalties. As a manager, she had her uses, however misguided.
“Henri, I don’t believe you fully realize what’s at stake.”
“My band, my livelihood, my family, my fans, and my pride?”
“Well, I think—”
“I think you need to go back to my mother and say, ‘No deal.’”
Dr. Worthington sat next to Henri, legs crossed and arms hanging loosely over the sides of her chair. A restful pose. She always appeared unrushed, and never once consulted her watch during their visits. “Have you considered what you’d like to do next, when you leave here?”
Henri sprawled on the floor on his back, hands tucked behind his head. Hey, he got three square meals a day, nobody bothered him, and his room beat most hotels he’d stayed in. Why leave rehab? “I haven’t figured that out yet. I’m having a hard time finding a manager who’ll let me do anything but perpetuate the insanity of doing the same old thing. I want to make a clean break. There’s no one in my band I called friend or remotely trusted.”
The doctor nodded. “Whatever happened the night of your concert was only the final straw. From what you’ve told me, the pressure had been building for some time. Sooner or later, you were headed for a breakdown. And you should have disclosed your suicidal ideation to your past doctor.”
“But I didn’t try to kill myself.”
Henri’s shout didn’t penetrate Dr. Worthington’s unnerving calm—something Henri both loved and hated about the woman. Sometimes a guy needed a good fight, and the doctor wasn’t inclined to deliver. “I know that, you know that, but you did entertain suicidal thoughts, a possible side effect of your medication. I’ve changed your prescription, but at the first sign of trouble, I want to know. And you have to take your medicines as prescribed. I can’t help you if you won’t let me. Under no circumstances are you to use recreational drugs or alcohol. If you run into problems, I’ve prescribed a limited number of lorazepam, to be used only in emergencies.”
Henri forced a smile. “Gee, take the fun out of my life why don’t you? I’m still allowed hookers, right?”
Without so much as a flinch, she replied, “Only if you practice safe sex.”
“Jeez, lady! I’m kidding! I’m part of Hookers and Cocaine. Or was. I have a reputation to uphold.”
“Henri, no one’s trying to control you or keep you from having fun. We’re trying to show you how to enjoy life in a non-self-destructive way. You’ve got a lot on you at the moment. You don’t need added burdens.”
Damn. Why’d she have to talk sense? It was much easier to ignore the shrinks who quoted text-book psychobabble. “What should I do?”
“Get away for a while. Clear your head. Decide what it is you want from life. Not your mother, not your band, but what you, Henri Lafontaine, want to do.”
Henri stared at the ceiling. “I wish it were that easy.”
“Nothing worthwhile is ever easy, Henri.”
“If I paid you more, would you start telling me what I want to hear instead of talking sense?” Henri shot her a glare, meant to be intimidating.
“As you say on your Shark Infested Waters album: ‘No Way in Hell.’”
Henri logged into his e-mail. Only five thousand today. He checked the folder marked “Shit I’ll Actually Read.” Hot damn! He clicked open the e-mail from his sister.
Henri,
I’m sending this from Vivian’s house, ’cause Mom’s told me not to talk to you. She said you’re into drugs and that you’re a bad influence. That’s not true, is it? Henri, how could you?
Jenni
Damn. Margo had gotten to her. And there wasn’t much use in denials. He had been into drugs, but why had his mother waited until now to share the info with Jenni? Oh yeah. With Henri gone, the manager in her needed someone else to control.
How he’d love to move Jenni out of the family nest, or at least spend some time with her, find out if she really wanted the future Margo planned. But no. Here he sat in rehab, his future a hazy blur. How could he save Jenni if he couldn’t even save himself?
Henri had no idea how a mugger got in, or where he’d found the dull rusty knife, but it sure hurt like hell to get his heart carved out. Oh wait. Who needed a thug with a knife? He had the world’s most dysfunctional family—and he was the star of the show.
Time to take back his life. If only he knew how.
He picked up the center-approved magazine he’d been reading and opened to an article about a former star who’d made a comeback, thanks to his incredible “miracle-working” manager. Henri could sure use a miracle or two. He circled the name “Lucas Honeycutt.”
“You have a visitor.” Henri glanced up from his crossword puzzle, interrupting his quest for a six-letter word meaning “deranged.” “A Six-Letter Word for Deranged” might be a good song title. If only he’d gotten his stalker’s name, and if it contained six letters. The day nurse smiled sweetly at him. Her business casual attire, designed to hide her true vocation, suited her well. Any who met her outside of work probably wouldn’t guess the light sweater and dress pants cleverly disguised the key holder to the loony bin. Right, rehab, not crazy house. “Safe haven” more summed it up.
Here he’d been quite enjoying his isolation. No screaming fans, no screaming managers, no one with a hand out, no one making demands, and best of all, no one trying to drug him up and film him doing whatever scary-party-creep had planned. At least the detective hadn’t mentioned having found a goat in the closet, or chicken blood. Brr….
For a time, Henri had even begun thinking of himself as Henry again, shucking off the industry-created Henri persona for one slightly more comfortable and infinitely less high maintenance. He rubbed his knuckles against a scruffy chin. Was it Tuesday yet? He only shaved on Tuesdays.
“You checked them against the list, didn’t you?” His admittance paperwork contained a long listing of people he’d rather not deal with. Margo’s name topped the list, followed by any family members except for Jenni. Margo added too much stress to his life. Dr. Worthington had recommended he take this time out of his busy schedule to de-stress, relax, and consider the life he truly wanted.
Somewhat of an underachiever on all matters personal, Henri focused on the relaxing and de-stressing instructions, avoiding plans for the future. Margo had slipped a letter in, admonishing him for “neglecting his duties,” but Henri wasn’t Margo’s problem anymore, and every time the woman crossed his mind he found himself performing the good doctor’s grounding techniques to slow his pounding heart and hyperventilation. He’d sent a reply, using her own words to terminate their contract. Damn, but he wanted his mother back. Not “Marguerite,” not “Margo,” but “Mom.”
“They’re not on the list, Mr. Lafontaine.”
“Who is it? Did they give a name?”
“Lucas Honeycutt.”
Lucas Honeycutt? Henri rolled through a mental index, finding no memory matches for the name. “Doesn’t ring a bell.”
“He says you asked for him.”
Oh…. Lucas. Holy shit! His one final hope at salvaging his career. “Send him in.”
Henri studied the man in the chair across from him, who appeared quite different from other managers of his experience. And handsome, in a rode-hard-and-put-up-wet kind of way. His bio put his age at fifty-seven. His craggy face and thinning, reddish-brown hair told a story of high mileage. His blue jeans and button-down shirt said he hadn’t come to intimidate. Point in his favor. A spark of intelligence shone from brown eyes that met Henri’s gaze head-on.
“Why did you call me? There are plenty of more prestigious managers out there who’d love to represent you. Why me?” The man’s d
ark-eyed regard dared Henri to lie.
Henri could try flattery and stroke the man’s ego, or tell the truth and risk losing his last hope. No way would he admit because you take on hopeless cases and give them fresh starts. “Because you’re the only manager I’ve talked to who didn’t advise me to lie, cheat, or steal my way back into my old band.”
“They were choking the life out of you and turning your talent to rubbish. Why would I tell you to go back?” Lucas leaned forward in his chair, staring eye to eye with Henri. “Those other managers are fools.”
Really? “Mr. Honeycutt? We’re gonna get along fine.”
“I’ll warn you upfront: I won’t tell you what to do. I think you’ve had enough of other people’s manipulation. I will, however, make recommendations. And I absolutely insist that you meet me halfway. If you’re not willing to work hard, I’m not wasting my time on you.” Lucas sat back in his chair, one foot crossed over his knee and iPad in hand. “First off, you’re leaving the band, but what about the songs? You wrote most of the lyrics, didn’t you?”
“Yeah, but they’re listed as collaborations. My m… manager kept up with the copyrights.”
Calm and cool, the man who might become Henri’s new manager didn’t miss a beat. “Then write more. Some of those are old, and I’m sure you learned a bit along the way.” He winked and added, “Songs can be copyrighted. Titles can’t. Also, I want you to take a good, hard look at yourself. For the last few years you’ve been coasting. You’ve lost some of your sparkle, and your own band didn’t seem a good fit for you anymore. Now’s your chance to decide who you are, what kind of music you want to perform, and make it happen. Our spin will be you’re leaving the band voluntarily to pursue a new direction.”
