by Eden Winters
“Of course it is.” Sebastian took a seat opposite of Henri. Real wood paneling gave the room a homey feel, unlike the marble and granite of Henri’s primary home—pretty, but uninviting. “Anything worth doing is worth doing with style.” Sebastian sounded like Dr. Worthington, with her “Nothing worthwhile is easy.”
Instead of the usual loaf bread his mother had used, the creation on Henri’s plate involved a sesame-seeded Kaiser roll. Bits of green that weren’t iceberg lettuce peeked from between the bread. He lifted the top of the bun to find the brownish bits he expected, mixed with tomato, onion, and chopped celery. “You don’t half do anything, do you?” At least the creation wasn’t meticulously prepared for maximum nutrition and minimum flavor, like the stuff at the rehab facility.
“Some people live, others live well, even in the simple things.” Sebastian bowed his head and folded his hands before biting into his sandwich. Uh-oh. Henri didn’t have much experience with believers beyond the ones who wrote him to inform him he was headed for Hell. Non-news. If Hell existed for sinners, he’d already paid for his ticket, though to be honest, Heaven and Hell hadn’t recently crossed his mind. “Heaven and Hell,” now there was a good song title.
Take me to Heaven,
Send me to Hell,
Something, something, something, something.
He’d work on the lyrics later. His sandwich waited. He took a bite and chewed. Wow! Damned good for a simple meal.
Sebastian polished off his sandwich and made another. “More?” he asked.
“No thanks. I’m good.” Henri’s late night caught up to him and he yawned. “I think I’ll turn in early, if that’s all right with you.”
“Sure. I’ll clean up down here and see you in the morning. By the way, I provide meals, but don’t expect maid service. I’m a singer, not a servant.”
Hell, the guy had to be hard up to take a total stranger into his home. For all he knew, Henri was an ax murderer. He gave no sign of recognition. Surely Lucas had told the man who’d be sharing his roof. While Henri hadn’t counted on five-star treatment here, he had at least expected his host to be impressed. He was Henri Fucking Lafontaine for fuck’s sake!
It was going to be a long month.
“Loo, loo, loo, loo, loo, loo, loo, loo.”
The loo-loos traveled from high to low and back up the scale. Henri lay awake, staring at the ceiling. Make it stop! Every note pounded through his skull.
“Loo, loo, loo, loo, loo, loo, loo, loo.”
Sebastian had a great voice, but did he have to have a great voice at… Henri checked his phone… 7:00 a.m.? A pillow over his head didn’t help much. If he’d known he’d entered the lair of an early riser he wouldn’t have stayed up until two. He flipped the covers back, nearly knocking his MacBook to the floor. For three full hours he’d stared at the screen, typing a few words and later deleting them. “Heaven and Hell” lived up to its name, promising one and then giving the other.
At one point in time, words and ideas flowed from his brain to his fingers. Now, the injustice of abandoning his brainchildren to somebody else pissed him off so badly he couldn’t write. Still, Lucas had made a good point. Best to start anew. New band, new music, new attitude. Only, please, could he do it at a later hour?
He pulled on yesterday’s jeans while mulling over the matter of a new band name. He struggled into his T-shirt. Henri Lafontaine was the largest part of Hookers and Cocaine. Any publicity he gained in the future would inadvertently boost them as well. Oh hell no. No freebies. They’d made their last dime off of old Henri.
He followed the loo-loos down the stairs. Going back to the name Henry was out of the question. Who’d buy a rock album from Henry? He stopped in his tracks at the kitchen door. Sebastian danced around the sun-lit space, loo-looing away while periodically checking pans on the stove. The scent of coffee teased Henri’s nose. Coffee. Beans of the gods. His stomach growled from whatever burbled in a pot. Sebastian glanced up, smiling when he noticed Henri. “I hope I didn’t wake you. I’m one of those annoying morning people. This is my favorite time of day.”
Oh. One of those. They should come with warning labels. Well, it was only for a month. Hopefully by then Lucas would have worked his magic and redirected Henri’s career. Henri decided on honesty. “Actually you did.” Sebastian’s smile fell. It returned with Henri’s, “But if some of what’s cooking is for me, you’re forgiven.” Might as well be nice—at least until after breakfast.
“Breakfast is the most important meal of the day. Now, what would you like to drink? I have coffee, tea, and orange juice.”
“Coffee works.”
“Help yourself.” Seb nodded toward a nearly full pot. A cup tree like Henri’s grandma used to have held a trio of cups. Another sat near Sebastian’s elbow by the stove. “Oh, and since you’re not used to the altitude, you might get a headache.” He handed Henri a bottle of ibuprofen and returned to his cooking and loo-looing.
Henri swallowed two pills and washed them down with orange juice. “What are you doing?”
Seb brandished a spatula. “What does it look like I’m doing?”
“I meant the singing.”
Both auburn-colored eyebrows rose toward Sebastian’s rather high hairline. “Don’t you do vocal exercises to keep your voice in shape?”
“Vocal exercises?” He was kidding, right?
“Didn’t you learn drills from your teacher?”
“Teacher?”
Confusion flashed across Sebastian’s face and settled into disbelief. “You’re a world-famous singer and you’ve never had lessons?”
Henri shrugged. “No. I just sing. It’s a gift.”
Sebastian slapped his free palm over his face. “This is going to be a long month.”
“Got milk?” Henri stared into the refrigerator—one of the few new-looking items in the home.
“Milk? You drink milk?” Seb drew back as though from a rather nasty bug.
“What’s wrong with milk?”
“Nothing, if you want to clog your throat with phlegm. There’s almond milk on the second shelf.”
It was going to be a long month.
Tessa,
I’m stressed, help!
Henri
Henri,
Follow this link, and remember—meditation, not medication!
Tessa
Henri clicked on the provided link and rolled his eyes when he landed at “The Eternal Fairy Queen’s Mystical Bower.” Heh. Had she read his mind, or did others see her the same way Henri did? He clicked again on an embedded video. There sat Tessa, behind her bowls. “For my friend, Henri,” the Tessa onscreen said. He closed his eyes and whooshed out a breath to Tessa’s murmured, “Let go of the stress….”
He might survive after all. Even if it was going to be a very long month.
Six
“Where are we going?” Henri stared out the window of the tiny Volkswagen Beetle, the car seeming much smaller for being filled with Sebastian’s broad shoulders.
“You’ll see.” Sebastian hummed to himself with the radio off. If he wasn’t speaking, he sang; if not speaking or singing, he hummed. Chances were, he sang in his sleep. Oh, that’d be interesting.
The trees, the mountains. How tranquil… until they merged onto I-70. Both hands gripping the steering wheel, Sebastian stared with single-minded determination through the windshield. His gentle humming took on an urgent quality. Was that the soundtrack to the big battle scene from Apocalypse Now? “I’d hold on if I were you,” he advised. He hit the gas, neatly inserting the car between two eighteen-wheelers.
They were so close to the rig in front of them that Henri could count the scratches on the bumper. A quick glance in the side mirror showed the truck behind them close enough to reach out and touch.
A sign appeared on the right: “Runaway truck ramp 2000 feet.” Runaway truck? Oh shit!
Seb veered again, hauling them out of the right lane and into the middle one. Henri glanced at
the space they’d just left. Too fucking small. A quick turn had him grabbing the “oh shit” handle to keep from crashing into Seb.
He glanced at the speedometer. Eighty? Normally, on the bike, Henri loved speed, but…. “Could you fucking slow down?”
“Slow down out here at your own risk.” With a lot of glancing back and forth between his mirrors, Sebastian maneuvered them into the left lane with mostly passenger vehicles and a few trucks.
May this particular bug not wind up on anyone’s windshield.
Down and down they traveled, Seb’s knuckles turning white. And then….
“Oh dear God!” An eighteen-wheeler appeared over a rise in Henri’s side mirror, heading straight for them.
Sebastian stopped humming. “Is something wrong?”
Henri peered through his fingers while a bright red, two-ton missile rumbled by with what seemed inches to spare. The Beetle swayed in the passing breeze. He let out a sigh of relief.
And then another truck appeared.
“I’d recommend you close your eyes and trust me.” Did Sebastian have to sound so smug?
After three more of what appeared to be near misses, Henri took the man’s advice. The humming turned to chuckling. Asshole. Henri clutched his seat belt with both hands. Please, please, let them not get plowed by a Peterbilt.
The road hadn’t been this winding and steep when he’d driven up on his Harley, had it? The Hollywood Hills didn’t even come close to this asphalt nightmare.
He opened his eyes when they slowed and exited the road from Hell. Hallelujah! A stoplight!
“Are you all right?” Sebastian asked, darting a quick glance to Henri before the light changed to green.
“Sure, fine,” Henri lied. “What makes you think anything’s wrong?”
Sebastian entered a mall parking lot. Was he out of his mind? They couldn’t go in there. He’d be recognized. Seb drove around the mall and parked in front of a movie theater.
The car stopped! Finally! Would kissing the ground be overly dramatic? Henri peeled his fingers off the seat belt. “Isn’t it a bit early for a movie?”
“Movies don’t start until one. They allow me to use an empty theater to practice.”
Henri followed Sebastian in through a side door, trying to hide the tremor in his legs. How often had Sebastian driven the hellish road? And how much money would it take to keep him from doing it again with Henri in the car?
“Hey, Seb,” a smiling woman said. “You can have seven.” She pulled the door closed behind them.
Sebastian hummed his way down the hall and underneath a banner for an action-adventure film. Cool! Henri had been waiting for the show’s release. Must have happened while he’d been in rehab. Maybe they should stay and watch. A raised platform stood in front of the floor-to-ceiling screen. The room must serve double duty as an auditorium.
“You stand here.” Seb pointed to a spot dead center of the stage. “I want you to sing something that shows me both your upper and lower limit so we can work on your range. Breathing might be a bit harder than you’re used to because of the elevation, but not as bad as at the house.”
Yeah, his range. The weakness preventing Henri from performing some of the songs that sounded better in his brain than coming out of his mouth. He climbed up on stage. “Hey! Where’s the microphone?”
“What microphone?”
“I’m gonna sing, aren’t I?”
“In a room this size, you need a microphone?” Sebastian crossed his arms across his chest.
It was a pretty large room. “Never mind.”
Seb stalked off toward the back. What the hell? How was he supposed to hear back there? He took a seat on the last row, dead center. “You may begin.”
Henri started in on “A Matter of When.”
Sebastian popped out of his seat. Had his ass even touched the plastic? “Wait! Stop! You can’t simply start singing. You’ll strain your voice. Warm up first.”
“Warm up?”
“Loo, loo, loo, loo, loo…,” Seb began.
I feel like a fucking idiot. Henri joined in on the third set of loo-loos.
Apparently satisfied after fifteen rounds of varying pitches, Seb relented. “Try now.”
Henri started out low and built toward the chorus of a song he no longer planned to perform in public.
Seb moved forward. Twice. “Good for lower scale. Now let me hear upper.”
“Umm… that was it.”
Seb didn’t comment, but his cheek sank in on one side like he was chewing the inside of his mouth. He marched down front, pointed Henri toward the back, and took his place on stage. Even from a distance Henri saw the man’s chest swell as he seemingly sucked every bit of the air from the room. He threw back his head.
Deep, resonant, filling the entire space but never once overpowering, Seb’s voice drew prickles up Henri’s neck. He sang in another language. Italian, maybe. The melody took him from low notes to high, and never once did Seb waver.
Henri’s jeans grew tight, cold chills not the only thing rising. The song took a sad turn. Though the words weren’t in English, there was no mistaking the sheer pain, the crushing darkness of the notes. Henri wiped moisture from his eyes. Crying? Over a song he couldn’t even understand?
Seb reached the song’s climax and held the final note an impossibly long time. Impressive. And also unnecessary for a rock singer. A gold album on the wall said so.
But, damn, the expression on Seb’s face, full of longing. When he sang, Seb turned into a sensuous creature, one who whispered sexy promises into Henri’s ear and then surpassed every one. Women must throw themselves at the guy after every performance.
If only Henri could capture some of the man’s magic for himself.
“What are you doing?” Seb folded his arms across his chest, reminding Henri of the time one of his teachers had caught him smoking behind the gym.
“It’s just a cigarette.” This time.
“There is no such thing as just a cigarette.” Sebastian snatched Henri’s Marlboro and dropped it to the ground, then stomped on the cherry until the glow died. “Your breath control is atrocious, you’re probably already suffering from a lack of oxygen at altitude, and you inhale smoke to help that along.”
“Hey!”
“For the next month you’re under my care. You can kill yourself on your own time. Now, pick that up. I’m not your servant.” Sebastian whirled and stalked off.
What right did he have to dictate Henri’s actions? Henri was a paying customer, and wasn’t the customer always right? He headed back inside for another cigarette. The stench of burning leaves from around the front of the house stopped him. Crap! He’d parked his bike out front.
He dashed into the front yard to find Seb gleefully tossing leaves on a fire, close enough for smoke to engulf his Harley. He charged. “What the hell are you doing to my bike?” He wrestled Sebastian to the ground, their fall broken by leaves.
“It’s just a bit of smoke.” Seb pinned Henri beneath him.
“Do you have any idea what smoke’ll do to the finish?” Henri squirmed but Seb didn’t budge.
Instead, he stared down, locking glowers with Henri. “You worry about a machine, but not your voice. If I set the thing on fire, you could get a new one tomorrow.” He trapped both of Henri’s hands above his head, securing them with one large paw. He lightly wrapped the other paw around Henri’s neck. “But if this goes, it’s gone for good.” Seb rolled away.
By the time Henri regained his feet, Seb was busy spraying the fire with a water hose. He rubbed his throat where Seb had touched him. “Point taken.”
Seb and Henri sat on the settee, listening to a playback of Henri singing. “What is that?” Seb point a damning finger at the stereo.
“I dunno. A Bose?”
Seb didn’t need knives in the kitchen. His cutting glare could chop through steel. “There! Right there!” He jabbed a remote button and played the chorus again.
“Me br
eathing?”
“Yes! Breathing! In the middle of a line! Can’t you wait until the end?”
“Well, no.”
“Stand up.”
Henri rose. Oh hell, what was the guy gonna set on fire this time? Seb slapped his hand against Henri’s middle. “This is your diaphragm.” He raised his fingers to Henri’s throat. “This is your voice box. Air must come from here—” He patted Henri’s stomach again. “—travel up here—” He traced his fingers up Henri’s sternum. “—and come out here. Now, take a deep breath.”
Henri complied.
“No, no, no. Again! Watch how only the top of your chest rises. You’re not breathing deeply enough. Pull the air in all the way down here.” Again he touched Henri’s middle.
Henri reared his shoulders back and inhaled, trying to visualize taking the air into his belly. How stupid. Besides, Seb was bigger. Much bigger. Henri gasped, imagining Seb pinning him to a bed, taking control, wrapping his fingers around Henri’s wrists….
“Good, good. Now sing the line again.”
“What?” Oh fuck. The line. Henri sang, but ran out of air before reaching the end of the sentence. How could he possibly manage breath control when visions of a naked Sebastian left him breathless? If he left right now he could be in Vegas tonight, scratch a few Seb-inspired itches, and be back tomorrow.
“You need to learn to let your air out at a controlled rate.” Seb launched into a note Henri might reach with a stepladder. He held it, and held it. Never once did he fade before ending the note on a crisp cutoff. “I have an assignment for you. Practice until you can sing inhaling only after every second line. When I come back, I expect you to be able to hold your notes.”
Henri had had enough. “I’ve got gold albums.” Or one, at any rate. “I’ve been nominated for a Grammy.”
Seb released Henri like he burned. “You’re lucky none of your fans appreciate good music. Any opera lover in the house would cover their ears every time you inhaled.” Seb exaggerated an inhale, sucking in air like a drowning man. “Got a date with a bullet.” He whooshed out the breath, then sucked in another equally noisily. “Got a date with a gun.” Whoosh.
