by Eden Winters
After twenty minutes of the most stunning licks this side of the Rockies, the volume faded and died. Tessa’s chest rose and fell with her breathing, and her bangs stuck darkly to her forehead. No wonder she wore her hair in pigtails, to keep it out of the way.
Henri approached, handing over his nearly empty water bottle. “Play this.”
“How?”
“However you want.”
Tessa took the cap off and blew into the opening, controlling the tones by squeezing the sides. With a grin, she resealed the bottle and stood to place her newfound instrument on her stool. Rat-a-tat-a-tat, went her drumstick on the trashcan lid, followed by a clash of cymbals and two licks on the bottle.
Henri glanced back over his shoulder at Lucas, who seemed to have lost the ability to properly close his mouth. “Told you she could play anything.”
Lucas whistled and stood, affording her a one-man standing ovation. Henri joined in.
A deeper pink crept into Tessa’s cheeks. “You liked it?”
“Liked it? I loved it!” Lucas approached the drum kit. “You look familiar. Did you ever play with Hocus?”
Tessa shook her head. “I haven’t played with a band since college.”
“What was their name? I might know them.” Lucas stepped into full manager mode. Any second now he’d suggest signing her. Too bad Henri spotted her first.
“The Mighty Titans.”
Lucas did a double take. “What?”
“The Mighty Titans. I played in the marching band. We ruled halftime.”
“You mean, you haven’t played drums professionally?”
“Well, no. Why?”
“I swear I’ve met you somewhere before.” Lucas cocked his head to the side, as though viewing her from another angle might jar his memory.
“You might have.” Henri stepped forward to wrap his arm around Tessa’s shoulders. “We met in rehab.”
“Did you get the recording I sent? What did you think?” Henri lay across his bed, phone to his ear. He hadn’t hidden in his room to take a phone call since high school. Something about Seb, though, reminded him of his first forays into dating. Assuming his old “teenager on the phone” stance seemed right, somehow.
“Yes, I did. Were those Tibetan bowls there at the beginning?”
“Yes.” Henri imagined Seb, sitting in the big house alone. If they both weren’t busy, Henri could catch a plane and be there in a few hours. And do what? He was a student, asking a teacher’s opinion. Sebastian wasn’t his boyfriend.
Then why did butterflies dance in Henri’s stomach? Why did he hang so much hope on Seb’s approval of Tessa? Maybe because of the man’s music sense. If he didn’t feel Tessa was a good choice, Henri should listen. He’d deliberately sent sound only, not wanting to influence Sebastian unduly. He’d love Tessa, her passion, her fire. If he noticed, sight unseen, that was the effect Henri wanted.
“And the drums later in the recording. Same person?” Seb’s voice, rich as a cup of hot cocoa, slid along Henri’s spine. Was he lying across his bed too? Or was he sitting at the piano, gazing through the window at the woods? Did his heart ache as much as Henri’s?
“Yeah. The woman can play anything. Put a couple of books in front of her, hand her two pencils, and she’ll make music.” Henri held his breath, waiting for Sebastian’s approval.
“You trust her?”
Did he? “Yes, I do.”
“Keep her.”
One down, three to go. “I can take a day off if you’re gonna be nearby. I can come up, or you can come here. Hang out, maybe. I’ve got some new songs I’d like you to hear.” Why did Henri feel the need to show off the new songs? An opera singer’s opinion shouldn’t matter so much.
“I’m afraid I can’t. I’ve got a full schedule.” Seb answered a bit faster than seemed natural. Maybe, since he’d cashed the check, he had no further use for a struggling rocker. Henri’s heart dropped to his stomach. Of course Sebastian didn’t want any more to do with him. He’d been a paid teacher, no more. The sex had been a bonus.
“I’m sorry I’m wasting your time if you’re busy.” Henri started to hang up.
Seb stopped him. “I do want to see you. I’m just… busy. I have two days off next week, but my patron is hosting a party and I have to be there. He wants to show off his pet tenor.” A touch of resentment flavored the words.
Henri’s hackles rose. “Hey, whenever you have time, text me. If there’s any way possible, I’d like to touch base with you.” He dropped his voice to a whisper. “I miss you. You’re the only one I can talk to who doesn’t think I’m crazy.”
Sebastian restored the mood with a snicker. “I don’t think you’re crazy. I know you are.”
“That’s what I like about you. I’m watched all the time, and anything I say or do gets used against me. With you I can be as crazy as I want to be, and the worst you’ll do is raise the eyebrow of death at me. You also don’t just tell me what I want to hear, or whatever will get your way.” You save me from myself.
A belly laugh reverberated over the phone. “If only you’d listen.” Seb’s laugh ended abruptly. “Ihavetogonowbye!” Silence.
What the fuck?
Fourteen
“Now, Henri, I had to pull a few strings, but I managed to get Godfrey Chambers to audition.” Lucas’s grin suggested Henri should give a shit. “You know, formerly of The White Lions of Kent.”
If he were that damned good, the Lions wouldn’t have dumped his ass. Henri extended his hand. Might as well show good manners for the ten minutes it’d take to get rid of the asshole. What a pitiful handshake. “Let’s see what you got.” Henri wiped Godfrey’s palm sweat off on his jeans and took his place beside Lucas. Godfrey reeked of tobacco smoke and appeared none too steady on his feet. He tuned up and launched into a riff. Not bad. He stopped and fired up a cigarette, letting it hang loosely in his lips while playing.
Oh hell no. Henri stalked up, grabbed the coffin nail, and flung it to the floor. He ground out the fire with the heel of his boot.
“Hey! What you do that for?” Godfrey took a swipe at Henri and missed.
“Let me ask you something.” Henri stood toe to toe with one hell of a tall fucker. Didn’t matter. As wasted as he appeared to be, a strong wind might blow him over. “How late were you out drinking last night?”
“Two? Three? What’s that got to do with anything?”
“With a show to play at 9:00 a.m.?”
“Show? This ain’t no show.”
“No, it’s an audition, when you’d better be your best. If this is your best, I’d hate to see you on the night we play a half-full tent at some state fair.” Henri took a step forward. The guitarist took a step back. “If you don’t respect yourself, don’t ask me or the rest of the band to respect you. A chain is only as strong as its weakest link. The rest of us plan to get up on stage and give it our all, night after night. We deserve better than you. Now go on, get out of here.”
He vaguely heard Lucas following the guy to the door, making apologies. No more half-assed shit. Plenty of musicians would give choice body parts to be a part of this band. Henri didn’t need anyone only in it for the money, women, or whatever else motivated a musician besides the music in their souls. Holy shit. The music in their souls. “Lucas!”
The manager who definitely earned his money came trotting back. “Henri, what are you doing? We’ll never find a lead guitarist if you keep this up!”
“I already found him.”
“What? Who?”
“Back when I was on a talent show, a kid named Michael Lindley competed. Six strings, twelve, four, you name it. If it has strings, he’d tear it up.”
“Michael Lindley? I’ve never heard of him.”
“That’s ’cause he didn’t make it to the finals. He did join my first band for a while before my mother tossed him out.” And the reasons why might present more problems than simply his plain face.
“What instruments do you play?” Luc
as studied Michael with all the skepticism Henri had expected.
Henri turned his smug setting down to “low.” Let Lucas ask questions to his heart’s content. If Henri’s band needed to be distinctive to get attention, he’d struck pay dirt in the originality department.
Michael Lindley was one of a kind, and quite possibly took the honor of being the lankiest guitarist on the planet. Even without his Gibson clasped before him, he hunched over, as though any minute he’d launch into a killer riff. He’d played air guitar almost constantly during the rehearsals for the talent show. Only one small problem had kept him from making finals. And come hell or high water, Henri would work out the details. The band needed uniqueness. Michael brought uniqueness in truckloads.
Michael set his guitar down with an affectionate pat, then shoved his hands into his pockets, gazing off to a point left of Lucas’s shoulder. “Guitar, fiddle, dulcimer, banjo, harp.” From anyone else the claim might sound boastful. Somehow Michael managed to come off humble.
“What bands have you played with?”
“Just Henri’s, and only for a few weeks.”
Lucas shot a wide-eyed, raised brow glare at Henri, “What the fuck?” written on his face.
Henri entered the fray. “Michael, can you play the original piece you wrote, the one that got you into the competition?”
Michael’s face shaded to red. “That old thing? Nobody wants to hear something I wrote during my pimply teenaged years.”
Henri fought back a snort. The guy’s pimply teenaged years weren’t long gone. Time to play on a musician’s ego. He might be humble, but Michael’s musical talents were his pride and joy. If only he didn’t freeze in front of audiences. But they’d fight that battle later.
First to convince Lucas, then to convince Michael. “I loved that song, the cool transition, the slides. What do you say? A little demo?”
A muscle clenched in Michael’s jaw. He darted a gaze from Lucas to Henri and back. The breath he blew out ruffled overly long bangs, revealing more of his face. If Henri needed to expand his fan base, he’d certainly win over some punk rockers with a Joey Ramone look-alike on lead guitar, while Tessa would pull in teen girls with aspirations of being in a band, and guys who preferred their women cute over sultry.
“Sure,” Michael finally replied.
Henri and Lucas plunked down in two wooden seats designed for the fifth and sixth graders who unknowingly learned music from one of the finest musicians to ever live, in Henri’s opinion. Michael didn’t climb on the stage of the school music room. Instead he perched on a stool a few feet away, snugging the guitar up to his chest. Mother-of-pearl inlay spelled out “Sylvia.” He still named his instruments, did he? His fingers flitted over the strings, faster than the eye could follow. And this was just his warm-up.
A small smile lifted the edges of his mouth, and he stared down at his Gibson, never once glancing up at his audience of two. The smile fell. The music began, dozens of notes, faster than lightning. Pleading, begging, tugging at the heart. Desperation. Longing. All from six strings.
The hairs on Henri’s arms rose. Seb. He needed Seb. The comfort of the man’s warmth, the security of being held. He pictured his lover, head back, eyes closed, arms thrown wide as if to embrace the music.
If this haunting melody came from Michael’s pimply teenaged years, he’d win Grammies with the compositions he probably still hammered out every night and stored in a notebook. Henri’d been privileged to take a look inside the notebook. He sat in the presence of greatness. And Michael had no clue.
Now for Henri to find a way to overcome the man’s one small obstacle.
The Enter the Dragon Bruce Lee T-shirt was Henri’s first hint of Colton Ferguson marching to the beat of his own drummer—the headband came in second. The keyboardist’s choice of “Kung Fu Fighting” for his audition put the icing on the cake. But damn, he gave the song his all.
“Okay, but try this.” Henri handed over a music sheet for a new number he’d been working on.
Colton hit a few random chords, staring at the sheet, then launched into the melody only before heard in Henri’s head. Colton paused and scratched his head. “Can I make a suggestion?”
“Sure?” Now the audition got interesting.
“Instead of…” Colton pecked out a simple measure. “… how about….” His fingers raced over the keyboard.
“Do that again.” Henri added vocals to the score. Colton was right. A little tweaking went a long way. “I like it.”
Colton bowed.
“He realizes he’s from Topeka and not Hong Kong, right?” Lucas side-whispered.
“I don’t care where he’s from,” Henri replied. “We’ve found our man for keyboards.”
“Actually, Bruce was born in San Francisco, not Hong Kong,” Henri’s new keyboardist offered.
“Jake Steadman, damn but I’m glad to meet you.” In his teen years Henri had idolized Alternate Phantasm, Jake’s former band. And Jake’s mean bass playing stood out in his memory.
“You sure you want an old fart like me uglying up your band?” Jake reared back in his rocking chair, propping a pair of worn cowboy boots on the porch railing. He’d come a long way from packed auditoriums to an aging farmhouse in the middle of nowhere.
“If I didn’t want you, I wouldn’t have come all the way to Wyoming to track your ass down.” Jake had the skills, his band had broken up, and as he’d alluded to, a whole lot of younger competition vied for any available openings. Henri wanted Jake. He needed a bass player, and a good one, with a proven track record. Jake needing the money might encourage loyalty too. But never far from Henri’s thoughts were how he’d spend the extra days if he managed to put his band together early.
Henri had made up his mind. Lucas played businessman. “Come out to LA for a few rehearsals. See what you think and if you fit in.”
“Oh, I’ll fit in all right. Got me a chance to back up Henri Lafontaine? A man would have to be crazy to pass up such an offer.” Jake’s drawl “could melt ice,” as Henri’s late grandma used to say.
His favorite bassist had heard his music? “Really?”
“Sure. Got a teenaged daughter who plays your music from sunup to sundown.” Jake winked. “But I won’t hold a rebellious kid’s taste in music against you. She will, however, kick my ass if I say no to her idol.”
Henri left Jake and Lucas to hash out the details. He had a phone call to make.
“Seb? You wouldn’t happen to be free, would you? I’ve got four days, and I want to spend them with you. “
Another reason to come to Casper to visit Jake in person: only a four and a half hour ride to Evergreen. Lucas didn’t know it yet, but he was about to take a flight back to LA and leave Henri the rental car. Ah, nice to be the rock god calling the shots.
Henri shaved a half hour off the GPS’s estimated time of arrival, and didn’t even bother to grab the bags he’d stowed in the trunk. He ran, kicking up dust in Seb’s front yard, and bounded up the stairs two at a time. Seb met him at the front door, stark naked, dragged him inside the house, and slammed the door. Maybe he’d missed Henri after all.
Sebastian tugged at Henri’s clothes while hauling him up the stairs. They didn’t quite make it to a bed. In a tangle of arms and legs they rolled on the floor, connected at mouth and groin. Had it been only two weeks?
Henri wrapped a hand around Seb’s cock. “Bed!” he commanded. Somehow they made it to the closest option—the four poster in Henri’s old room. Sebastian jerked a drawer out of the bedside table. A rain of brightly colored packets showered the floor. They hadn’t been there two weeks ago. A tube skittered across the hardwood floor.
“Oh no, you don’t.” Henri hopped off the bed and chased the escapee down. He slicked up his fingers and returned to the bed. Sebastian’s cock stood out among its bed of surrounding curls. A feast for the mouth. Henri sucked the head in, sliding down the length while working his fingers against the resistance at Sebastian’s opening
. Seb laced his fingers in Henri’s braided hair, bringing him down more fully. Oh hell yeah. He loved the man’s forceful side.
The pushing turned to tugging. “Up.”
Henri grabbed a packet from the floor and sheathed himself. He slid into Seb’s body little by little, painting a swath with his tongue over Sebastian’s chest. Damn how he’d missed this. Framed by his lover’s thighs, he erased two weeks of loneliness. In, out, breathe. He twined the fingers of one hand with Sebastian’s. “Stroke yourself,” he ground out.
He matched his rhythm with Seb’s, taking his cue to slow down or speed up. For the past two weeks, most men he’d met were too thin, too fragile, or otherwise didn’t capture his interest. With Seb he let go. Seb liked rough. Seb liked lots of touching. Seb wasn’t worried about mussing his hair, and he damned sure wasn’t worried about damaging what a surgeon’s knife had wrought.
His breath came out in gasps and moans, and he frantically tugged between their bellies. Close. So close. Henri slammed in. “Am I hurting you?”
“Oh, God, no.”
Harder. Faster, Henri wrapped his arms around Seb and pushed in as far as he could. Pulse after pulse exploded from him, and still he thrust in, until spatters hit his abdomen. He slid out and connected their mouths.
Desperate kisses grew less frantic, their breathing and heart rates slowed. Only then did Henry notice the breeze blowing in from an open window, carrying the crisp scent of the great outdoors.
Damn, but it was good to be home.
A lazy Sunday morning spent in bed, where they’d pretty much stayed since Henri’s arrival. He’d been here three days and hadn’t even taken his bag out of the car—not that he’d needed clothes.
