by Eden Winters
“I do not sound like that!” Do I? Henri squared off against Seb, hands braced on his hips.
“Yes, you do!” Seb huffed out another ‘roaring bull’ breath. “And you have a lovely singing voice.”
A compliment? From Seb?
Seb gave back any points he’d won by adding, “Too bad you insist on screeching.”
“I don’t screech.” Technically, Henri preferred the term wailing.
“Yes, you do.”
“Lucky me. My fans don’t care.” And the band stayed too stoned to notice.
“Very lucky. You rock stars are all the same.” Sebastian shook his head, sending his curls bouncing. “You sing, you flop around the stage like a dead fish.” He flapped his arms like a seagull taking flight. “And how much money do you make? Houses, cars, jets. The world is your plaything, and you treat your gift, the one thing enabling you to live your lavish lifestyle, as less important than your stupid motorcycle.” Sebastian clomped around the room, hands in the air. “Meanwhile, I practice six hours a day, study dance, acting, and languages, to make no more than the average high school teacher.” His nostrils flared, and a crazed look appeared in his eyes. “And most of that goes toward lessons to improve my performance!”
Henri didn’t know how much teachers made, but it couldn’t be much. “But you own this nice house, lots of prime real estate. If you need money, why don’t you sell…?”
Sebastian’s face shaded to scarlet. “Sell my home? Sell my home, he says, he who has three or four and doesn’t worry for a roof over his head. Here I am, trying to help you be a better vocalist, and Mr. I’ve-got-gold-records-who-the-fuck-needs-you tells me to sell my home.” Sebastian stalked over to Henri, leaning down to put them nose to nose. “I’m doing this for Lucas, not for you. I made a promise to a friend and I intend to keep my word. Now, I’m leaving. You have two choices. Do as I say and practice your breathing, or pack your things and go back to LA, to bellow like a wounded animal until someone more willing to listen to reason topples you from the charts.”
Wow. Talk about righteous indignation. And Sebastian had gotten all that out without a noticeable breath. It really could be done. “Where are you going?”
“It’s Monday. I have a class.” Sebastian slammed the music room door so hard the windows shook.
The nerve of the guy. How dare he scold Henri like a spoiled child? Did he have any idea who Henri was? Fans waited hours in the rain for a glimpse of him. Women ripped off their shirts for him to sign their breasts, for Christ’s sake. And a little nobody opera tenor spoke down to a rock legend. Well, Henri hoped to be a legend one day, if he survived long enough in the music industry. Therein lay Henri’s problem. He’d gotten his first recording contract at seventeen. At twenty-seven, he’d enjoyed a successful career, but he’d never won a Grammy or an American Music Award.
Some bands lasted seemingly forever, keeping their existing fans and gaining new ones, but Hookers and Cocaine wasn’t the Stones or Aerosmith. Before “the incident” their record sales had begun to dwindle. If Henri was to succeed, he’d have to try harder, be smarter, and write songs that touched hearts—or keep himself in the headlines through bad behavior, an exhausting proposition. Without the music he’d be nothing. Unacceptable.
Every day a barrage of younger, hungrier lead singers appeared on the scene. If he didn’t constantly struggle to survive, he’d be left behind. And therein lay the key: he’d stay hungry, and surround himself with equally hungry musicians who’d go the extra mile.
He ran upstairs and logged into his computer to call up a video from this year’s Grammy-winning band. Damn but the guy could sing, and even in his wildest dreams, Henri’s vocal range couldn’t compare. Though he strained to hear, never once did the guy pull in a breath midsentence. Maybe Sebastian had a point. “Loo, loo, loo, loo, loo, loo, loo, loo.” Down the stairs Henri sang. If he looked and sounded ridiculous—so be it. After warming up, he attempted his song again, focusing on his breathing.
It took four hours, but by the time Seb returned, Henri managed two lines without pausing. Not well, but he’d improved.
The worry in Seb’s eyes faded to relief. “Good. Now try another song.” Had he really thought Henri might leave? And was he more concerned with the money he’d forfeit, letting a friend down, or the possibility of Henri leaving angry?
“Can I stop now?”
“I said ‘good,’ not ‘perfect.’ Is ‘good’ good enough for you?” Sebastian arched a brow. Showoff.
What the fuck! “Hey! You’ve got home field advantage. I’m fighting altitude here!”
“Excuses, excuses.”
“Well….” Gold records. Younger singers.
Sebastian glared, arms folded over his chest. “Will ‘good’ win you a Grammy?”
“Well….”
“I’ve got a date with a bullet….” Sebastian gave an audible gasp. “See, you even write your songs to allow for pitiful breath control.”
“Hey—” The caring in a pair of soulful brown eyes cut off what Henri might have said next.
Sebastian dropped his voice to a beguiling croon. “Why limit yourself? Being a better singer costs you nothing but your lessons, which you’ve already paid for.” Before Henri could reply, Sebastian added, “Keep practicing while I fix dinner.”
Limit himself? Sebastian believed Henri limited himself? The nerve. Lucas’s words came back to him: write more. Whatever Henri wrote had to beat any Hookers and Cocaine song. Damn but he needed some greasy fast food, a joint, and a beer. And not necessarily in that order.
“Dinner’s ready,” Sebastian called a short while later.
The spicy aroma from the kitchen didn’t bode well for burgers and fries.
“Grilled chicken breast with baba ghanoush, pita chips, and green salad.”
So much for Henri’s fast-food craving. “You’re going to feed me healthy every day I’m here, aren’t you?”
“If I filled your motorcycle’s tank with trash, would it run?”
“No.”
“Then why do you expect more from your body? Optimum performance calls for optimum fuel.”
A pretty ironic statement from a guy who appeared blessed by genetics and didn’t need gym visits to stayed toned. Then again, all the dance lessons probably helped. Seb wasn’t bulky or ripped, but… perfect. Without even trying! Damn him.
A slave driver, that’s what Seb was, with his “you will sing this” and “you will do that.” Henri would kill for a smoke. Or a bowl of ice cream. Or milk. Hell, he’d settle for one measly Hersey’s Kiss.
He ticked off another day on the calendar. Four down, twenty-six to go. Thank God June was a short month. What he wouldn’t give for a night out on the town. Seb wasn’t too shabby in the kitchen, if you liked healthy food, but Henri thrived on grease and fat, burning off the extra calories onstage.
The man in question poked his head through the music room door. “I’m going for a walk. Care to join me?”
“Where are you going?”
“Just for a walk. I must exercise to stay in shape on days when I’m not dancing.”
Bored with practicing the same song over and over, Henri donned tennis shoes and followed Seb out the door. The late spring sunshine beat down, but this high up in the mountains the day held a bit of cool. Pine and sunshine. Not a hint of smog. Henri could get used to this.
Seb hummed and loo-looed to the edge of the tree line Henri had noticed from his bedroom window. Surely he wouldn’t have to put up with that during their walk. “Do you constantly warm up?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Why?”
“My tour group’s season ended in May and starts again in September. I begin rehearsals in late July. However, the Central City Opera here in Colorado has a lively summer season, and they’ve called me to fill in for sick performers. And I guarantee you, every member of my company is practicing as much as I do. You wouldn’t want me to fall behind, would you?” He exaggerated a pout,
with lips a shade too full for the rest of his face. Kissable lips, or lips made to wrap around a cock. The anonymous fuck in Vegas had happened too long ago. Henri needed some action.
But “fall behind”? Damn, opera singers were more competitive than rockers. “You take your singing seriously.”
“Why wouldn’t I? It’s my life, my livelihood. All I’ve ever wanted to do.” Seb picked his way around a boulder, following a meandering path up a short rise. Wildflowers created a riot of blue, pink, yellow, and lavender amidst green grass, and the sweet scent of blossoms rode the breeze.
Henri followed a few steps behind. “Really? Even when you were a kid? Didn’t you want to be a fireman when you grew up?” The Henri of today snickered at his younger self having once aspired to be a cop. As if.
“No. My mother was a soprano. My whole life I’ve been surrounded by music. I was even born in Modena.” Sebastian’s voice held a note of pride.
Modena. “Is that in Wisconsin?”
Sebastian snorted. “Modena, Italy. Where Pavarotti was born. I toured with my mother, and some of the greatest voices in the world sang me to sleep at night.” He launched into an, “ahhhh-ahhhh” that echoed off the mountains. A half smile erased years from Seb’s face, allowing Henri to glimpse how he might have looked during childhood.
“I bet you were a handful.” He imagined a little Seb wandering around backstage, getting into mischief.
“I was. But many of the performers missed their families while touring. They adopted me. And they taught me their native tongues.”
“If you already speak them, why do you study languages?”
“It’s not enough to merely mouth the words. You must understand them, feel them, live them.” Seb launched into one of the more soulful pieces in his vast repertoire, the one that had gotten Henri misty-eyed in the theater.
Puzzle pieces from Seb’s life slipped into place. In the few short days they’d known each other, Seb had never sounded like a man in his twenties. His philosophies, his outlook on life, even his speech at times, seemed much older. “Were there ever any other kids to play with?”
“Who needed other kids? I had music.” This time the smile didn’t reach Seb’s eyes.
Henri only toured in his late teens and as an adult, partying into the night, surrounded by willing bodies to keep him company. Or at least at first. Now, no matter how many people tagged along, he still felt alone. Was that how Seb had felt, the only child in an adult world?
“Occasionally I stayed here with my grandmother, but she died when I was twelve.” Seb stopped to examine a flowering vine.
“How old were you when your mother passed, if you don’t mind my asking?”
“Not at all. I was six months shy of my seventeenth birthday. She dedicated herself to her craft, ignoring her own health. And found out too late about her breast cancer.”
Seventeen, his sister’s age. Damn. As independent as he was, and as angry at his folks, Henri still couldn’t imagine being alone in the world so young, or his mother dying. “Where did you go?”
A shadow flitted across Sebastian’s face, gone as quickly as it had come. He averted his gaze and resumed his hike through the trees. “A family friend took me in and continued on as my patron.”
A tightening of Sebastian’s lips said there was more to the story. “What does a patron do?”
“He backed me financially until I began drawing an income, helped me apply to the Met’s young artist program, and ensures I have everything I need.”
Yes, definitely more here than met the eyes. No one did something for nothing, not in Henri’s world, anyway. “What does he get out of it?”
“Why, the pleasure of being a part of my success.” Seb’s laugh held a bitter edge. “Actually, he’s a huge supporter of not only me, but the opera itself. He’s extremely generous with the Met, as well as some smaller companies. If he or a friend throws a private party, I’ll attend and give a concert.”
Wow! Must be a pretty rich guy to have his own pet opera star. Henri kept the words to himself.
“This way.” Sebastian veered down a path to the left. “I’ve neglected my walking while you’ve been here. I need to get five miles in today. Are you game?”
“Five miles? You walk five miles a day?” The farthest Henri had trekked lately was from a tour bus to a stage door, running a gauntlet of grabby fans.
“Every other, but yes, I must stay in shape.”
Henri bit down on a too-easy retort. Sex burned lots of calories, and if done right, worked all the major muscles groups, including those firm glutes hidden beneath Seb’s pants. “Why don’t you lift weights?” With a house the size of Seb’s, it’d be easy to turn an unused room into a gym.
“If you change the contour of the instrument, you change the pitch. I walk, I lift light weights, but nothing designed to change my shape.” Seb patted his chest. “When someone casts me in a production, they expect a certain sound. I work hard to make sure they get their money’s worth.”
Jeez. The only time Henri worried about weight was if his jeans got too tight, then it was all about being thin. Seb worried about losing weight, rather than gaining. A first, in Henri’s book.
The path took them up an incline. Seb loo-loo’d the rest of the way. Henri huffed and puffed a few paces behind him. Damned high altitude! He’d kill for a walking stick to either help him climb or to whack the guy currently bounding up the trail like he had springs for legs.
How the fuck did he do that?
Just when Henri thought his chest might explode, Sebastian quieted and stopped. “Look there.” He stepped back and let Henri have the view. “Have you ever seen anything more beautiful?”
Henri caught movement below and managed to steady his breathing enough to focus. A herd of deer grazed among wildflowers below them…. A hawk circled overhead. A light breeze kissed Henri’s cheek. Quiet. So quiet. “I understand why you like it here.”
“This land has been in my family for four generations.” A touch of sorrow stained the words. “We’re on the edge of the goldfields. My great-grandfather’s family used to own much of the valley, too, before they fell on hard times. Come on, we need to be getting home.”
Seb said not a word, nor did he hum, on the way back to the house.
Seven
“Dammit!” Henri slammed his hand down on the piano.
“What is it?” Sebastian poked his head through the door.
“Have you ever worked your ass off for something, only to have it taken away from you?”
Seb paused before replying, “Yes. What are we talking about here?” He held a dishcloth in his hand. The man cleaned more than anyone else Henri ever met, though Tessa the meditation guru came in a close second.
“My songs. I did most of the work, but since I shared credits, Lucas believes I should write more and forget the old ones.” His former band might as well have taken possession of his right arm.
One side of Seb’s mouth lifted. “I tend to agree.”
“What?”
“You’re Henri Lafontaine, former lead singer. Every time your old band advertises, they’re advertising you too.”
It worked both ways. “Yeah.”
“What do you know about passive aggression?”
Hmmm…. Seemed like Dr. Worthington used the term. “That it’s a bad thing?”
Seb laughed. “Useful sometimes. My mother called it ‘getting revenge and coming out smelling like a rose.’ Now, the song you sang the other day is called…?”
“A Matter of When.”
“And it’s a depressing piece about a man leaving a smothering lover by way of suicide, right?”
No one had ever summed up the song in quite the same way before. “You’re not helping, Seb.”
“I’m getting there. From what I understand, songs can be copyrighted, titles cannot.”
Lucas had said the same thing. “So? As you said, if I advertise a new song with the same name, I’m giving a bunch of d
ouchebags free publicity.” No way in hell.
“Write a completely opposite new song, with the same name.”
“What’s that supposed to do?”
“Henri Lafontaine performs a song entitled ‘A Matter of When.’ It’s fresh, it’s cutting edge, it pushes boundaries you’ve never dreamed possible. Your former band performs a completely different song, very dark, and also five years old. Nothing says, ‘I’m over those losers and their morose lyrics’ like an in-your-face, tongue-in-cheek comeuppance.” Seb winked.
Easier said than done. “There’s only one little problem.”
“What?”
“Those are the best lyrics I’ve ever written. I’m not sure I can do better.” “Sober” and “songwriting” might be mutually exclusive, in Henri’s case.
“Sure, you can. You’ve been in love before, right? The butterflies in the stomach. The ‘will she call or won’t she?’ Your heart skipping a beat when a certain young lady enters the room.”
Okay, somebody didn’t get the memo, or read the tabloids. While he said grace before every meal, Sebastian had yet to go off on any homophobic rants. Besides, technically he was a paid employee—his opinions shouldn’t count. How odd that they did. “Sebastian, how much did you know about me before I got here?”
“Only what Lucas told me. You’re a rock vocalist preparing for a midcareer makeover. You need some coaching, and a quiet place to write.”
“You didn’t once look me up online or read any of those tabloid articles?” The next words out of Henri’s mouth could destroy their growing-more-comfortable-by-the-day relationship. Of the many restrictions Margo enforced, the one that chafed the most was having to be someone else, showing up at social events with a woman clinging to his arm, answering questions about his personal life with, “I’m too busy now with the band to have much of a social life.” What a lie. The rest of the guys had girlfriends or wives, a couple had both. Henri was alone because of Margo’s iron will. No more. With this new start, the mask must fall. Yet revealing his true self might cost him friends and fans.
