A Matter of When

by Eden Winters

  “How’s the band coming along?” Seb lay on his back, a thin sheet offering up tantalizing glimpses of his body.

  Henri rolled to his side to rest his head on Seb’s shoulder. “Good. I found someone for keyboards who thinks he’s Bruce Lee.”

  “I liked Bruce Lee.” Seb’s energetic nod rocked his shoulder, which, in turn, rocked Henri’s head. “But can he play?”

  “Like nobody’s business. And I found a bass player. You probably don’t remember them, but he played with Alternate Phantasm back in the nineties. He crashed, burned, and now he’s back. He’s a fixer-upper, but he’s talented.”

  “I’ve never heard Alternate Phantasm, but if he played in the nineties, isn’t he a bit older than the rest of your band?” Seb. Never judging, merely offering the voice of reason.

  “No one else wanted to take a chance on him because of his age and background.”

  “What is he? Late forties, maybe? Forty is young for an opera singer.”

  “For a rocker it’s the kiss of death. But he’s got the sound.” Boy, did he ever.

  “Aren’t rockers supposed to be thin, young, and beautiful? Isn’t skinny and hot a requirement? Unless you’re one of the Stones, that is.”

  “What? You mean I’m not young and beautiful enough?” Actually, Seb had never once complimented Henri on his looks—only on his music. The slight soreness in his posterior said Seb at least found him useful. Many times in the past, Henri had been just a fuck, and happy for the short-term arrangement. He didn’t want casual with Seb. He wasn’t sure exactly what he did want, but a little genuine affection wouldn’t hurt.

  But no. Soon he’d leave again to go back to life in LA while Seb went off to wherever he needed to go. He’d be grateful for the time they’d had; he didn’t have the right to ask for more. “I’ve got a problem I hope you can help me with.”

  A laugh rumbled through Seb’s chest. “I thought I just did.”

  “A musical problem.”

  Henri’s arm-pillow curled around him, pulling him closer to Seb’s fur-covered chest. “What kind of problem?”

  “I believe I’ve found the best lead guitarist ever to pick up an instrument.” An understatement, plain and simple.

  “I listened to the demo you sent. He’s talented. What’s the problem?”

  “He’s okay with small groups, and the kids he teaches, but in front of an audience, he freezes. Can’t play a note. We played together for a few weeks with my first band. My mo… manager didn’t think he was worth the trouble—or pretty enough.”

  Sebastian responded after several moments of quiet. “That is a problem. Has he been to a therapist?”

  “Yes. And he’s tried meds, but says they sap his creative drive. Not only does he play, he writes his own songs too.”

  “You signed a guitarist who can’t play concerts? You could use him for a studio musician and find someone else to tour with.”

  Yes, Henri could. But he’d made his mind up, and he wouldn’t settle for less than the best. Michael was the best. “Yeah, but I want Michael. He’s incredible.”

  They lay in silence for a while, Henri soaking up the tranquility of being with his own personal calm and fully trusting Seb to suggest a viable solution.

  “Do you attend church?” wasn’t an answer Henri expected.

  “Do what?”

  “Come.” Seb slid his arm out from under Henri’s head. “If we hurry, we can make eleven o’clock services.”

  “We’re going to pray for Michael’s stage fright?” While Henri hadn’t actually attended Sunday services much in his life, he’d sort of assumed that, vampire-like, he might incinerate upon breaching the door. He’d been told he was bound straight for Hell on many occasions—to his face, via letter or e-mail, phone calls, and one deranged psycho had painted the words on his naked body and offered to send Henri there personally.

  If he did manage to make it past the doors, the good people inside the fancy building with the steeple might burn him at the stake after taking one look at his sleeve tats. It took a special breed to appreciate winged-gargoyle body art.

  “You’ll see. I do believe we’ll find our answer in church.”

  Suit, suit, suit. Dress. Hat. A parade of folks passing Henri’s last-pew perch dressed far finer than his blue jeans and black band shirt. He scrunched farther down, the better to hide his tats. Beside him, Seb wore pressed khakis and a button-down. “How good to see you!” a woman exclaimed, bypassing Henri to hug Seb. “Are you going to sing for us this morning?”

  Seb ducked his head, his auburn ringlets contrasting with his suddenly red face. “No, ma’am. Just visiting. I’d like you to meet my friend, Henri Lafontaine.”

  Here it comes. The squeals of recognition, or maybe condemnation depending on what the woman had heard. Neither happened.

  “Nice to have you here, Henri. Are you related to the Lafontaines in Mercer, by any chance?” The woman wandered off after a moment or two of small talk. Henri hadn’t been able to go out in public unnoticed in years. Maybe the paparazzi had the same fear of being reduced to ash and didn’t enter cross-bearing buildings. Yet here he sat, tattoos, long hair, and all. Hmmm… now if he held hands with Seb….

  Stage curtains drew back to reveal a band, complete with a tattooed lead singer. Really? Dang! Since when had churches gotten so progressive? Instead of hymns, the band performed rock music with a religious message. Wow! Rock in church.

  Once the band finished, Seb whispered, “Watch closely.”

  A thin man in a three-piece suit took to the stage. “Good morning,” he said into a microphone. “And welcome.”

  “What am I supposed to watch?” Henri whispered back to Seb.

  “Look at his feet.”

  Holy crap! Henri stared at the man now reading from a Bible. No feet! Or rather, the image faded toward the stage. “How?”

  “Reverend Cole preaches at three different churches. He’s physically at one. The rest are holographic projections. Pretty good likeness, isn’t it?” Seb’s curls framed a wide grin.

  A hologram. They’d found a way for Michael to appear onstage.

  Seb was a fucking genius. Oops, did Henri actually think that in church? He waited for the lightning bolt.

  Fifteen

  Henri faced his new band in his basement studio. He didn’t have the fancy equipment necessary for professional-quality recordings, but the former owner, an eighties era producer, had left the room relatively intact. The perfect place to rehearse. First, a little business. “I’m gonna tell you up front that I’m in recovery. I don’t do drugs, hell, I don’t even drink anymore, and having someone fire up a joint on one of my bad days might set me back about ten thousand dollars’ worth of therapy. Hookers and Cocaine gained a reputation for a drug band. That stops here. Anyone got a problem?”

  Tessa chimed in first. “I’m drug tested on a regular basis. Not worth flushing four years of college down the tube. Besides, I’m on a natural high.” Her leg bounced up and down. Henri wanted to tell her to knock it off, but even if she did, it wouldn’t last.

  Whirr, chik! She spun around in her chair.

  And so it began. “Jake?” The bassist’s partying reputation once rivaled Henri’s own.

  Whirr, chik!

  Henri gritted his teeth.

  “I’ve got six kids with four different ex-wives. I can’t afford drugs, man.”

  Fair enough. “Colton?”

  Whirr, chik!

  Mental note: banish moveable chairs from the room.

  “My body is a temple.” The keyboardist smacked his hands together and bowed. Someone really should tell the guy he wasn’t Bruce Lee.

  “That leaves you, Michael.”

  A muscle twitched in Michael’s jaw when Tessa whirled again. Ahh… it wasn’t only Henri’s nerves she trampled on.

  “Dude, my family’s from rural Alabama, the land of ‘hold my beer and watch this.’ We don’t do drugs. Too Hollywood for us. We’d rather hang out
at bars, get drunk, fight about football, puke behind bushes, and yell, ‘Roll Tide!’ at inappropriate moments. We do like our Crimson Tide football.”

  Jake asked, “What about speed?”

  All eyes roved to Tessa, spinning ’round and ’round in her chair. Oh, Tessa and speed? Not pretty at all. “Anybody who gives Tessa speed is dead.”

  As one, they snapped, “Tessa! Stop that!”

  She stopped turning. Her leg bounced. Here they went again.

  “It’s only fair to tell you what happened with my last band. You have a right to know.” No telling what they’d heard. Time for Henri to clear the air.

  “You don’t have to tell us, Henri.” Easy for Tessa to say. She’d already gotten a full history.

  Jake, Colton, and Michael kept quiet. At least they gave him the courtesy of not asking. “After a concert a fan brought me a drink—laced with enough GHB to keep me out for days.” Or kill him, if not for a handy guard with first responder training.

  A collective groan rose from the group.

  “He tried to take me back to my room, where cops found rope, duct tape, and a video camera. No telling what he planned. He’s still out there, and may try again. Being around me may put you in danger.” Best to let them know the truth and be prepared.

  Jake spoke up first, with his deep drawl. “Dude, I’ve played backwoods country bars in towns no one’s ever heard off. One deranged fan is nothing compared to a room full of rednecks who’ve had a few beers too many.”

  “Why can’t they find the guy?” This from Michael. “Get Tessa to read your terror cards or something. Shake some crystals at you for protection.”

  “Hey!” Tessa shouted. “They’re tarot cards, not ‘terror.’”

  Colton assumed some kind of weird pose. Martial arts? Or vogueing? “My body is a weapon. I will protect you.”

  First a temple, now a weapon? What was this guy, some sort of Kung Fu monk?

  Tessa’s leg bounced faster.

  Next time Henri called Doc Worthington, he’d mention “a friend.” There had to be a name for what ailed the woman.

  “Okay.” Time to move on. “Now that you know what kind of deranged lunatics might be after me, let’s make some music. You’ve been over the selections?”

  Michael’s fingers flew on his guitar’s fingerboard, proving he’d at least practiced the new version of “A Matter of When.” “No offense, dude, but I’ve heard you sing. Can you actually hit the high C on ‘Ice Inside’?”

  Details, details. But the song wasn’t the same without the high notes. “We rehearse as is. When we get there, we’ll adjust as needed.” And if all went according to plan, adjusting wouldn’t be necessary.

  “Whatever you say. You’re the boss.” To his guitar Michael murmured, “C’mon, Sylvia. Time to rock.”

  The “yes, I am the boss” didn’t quite make it off Henri’s tongue. “No. We’re a band. This isn’t about me but about all of us.” Where the hell had the “all for one” speech come from? Tessa, Michael, Jake, and Colton stared back at Henri. Each of them was the best he and Lucas could find. If there was a weak link, it had to be Henri himself, with his limited vocal range and less than stellar history. In the past he’d relied on kickass lyrics to make up for the lack, which had only gotten him so far. He’d been working to improve, but had he improved enough? He focused a determined gaze on Michael. “I’ll hit the fucking note. ‘A Matter of When,’ from the top.”

  Michael nodded and fingered the intro silently once before launching into a wake-the-dead solo. Ha! That’d get an audience’s attention. Jake joined on the count of five, followed by Colton and Tessa. Lastly, Henri cleared his throat and joined his band in making music.

  “Where have you been?

  All my life spent lonely,

  I know you’re out there,

  The one I’ve waited for….”

  He sang toward the band, watching their timing, how they interacted. This being their first rehearsal, he expected frequent stops. Instead, Tessa caressed her drum kit, downplaying her role for the sake of the melancholy tune. No egos took over, none of the musicians attempted to dominate. They played together like a well-oiled machine, with only the odd note or two marring the perfection.

  “I know I’ll find you,

  It’s just a matter of when.”

  The song ended. Nothing spectacular. It wouldn’t be a hit single without major work, but it would serve as a nice intermission between the edgier pieces. And it held appeal for romance-seeking fans.

  The next song on the list required more skill, and featured the dreaded “C.” Henri’s private attempts succeeded about 50 percent of the time, but he wasn’t ready to sacrifice the chorus yet, not without a fight. He needed a chocolate bar and a high shelf, and the new album needed this hard driving song to keep his heavy metal fans happy and balance out the softer tracks. “Okay, now for ‘Ice Inside.’”

  Michael made eye contact but didn’t speak. He began playing, the others joining in. After the introduction, Henri filled his lungs per Seb’s instruction and imagined reaching way up into the pantry. I can do this.

  “Ice inside where his heart used to be,

  Though he hides it well so none can see,

  With a smile on his face he fools passersby

  I know him well, I see the lie.

  They only see what he wants them to see,

  But he can never hide the truth from me.”

  So far, so good. The chorus approached. And the “C.”

  “Some may believe,

  Some won’t care,

  Deep within he hides despair.

  Lonely with his lover near,

  The pain is more than he can bear.”

  He pulled in a deep breath and wailed, “There’s ice inside, there’s ice inside.”

  Fuck.

  “Did somebody step on a cat?” Jake asked, an agonized grimace on his face.

  “Dude, we can take it down a bit,” Michael offered. “How about this?” He improvised the chorus in a lower key.

  Henri sighed. “No, I can do this. Take five.” He stalked out of the room and up the steps to his living room. “Loo, loo, loo, loo, loo, loo, loo, loo.” After pulling in a few deep breaths and exhaling slowly, he tried again. “Loo, loo, loo, loo, loo, loo, loo, loo.” One eye on his watch, he tried to recall all Sebastian had told him.

  No one seemed to have moved out of place when he returned. “Try it again, from the top.” He gave Michael a pointed look. “The original notes.”

  His heart sped when they reached the fateful chorus.

  “There’s ice inside, there’s ice inside.”

  Holy shit! Was that sound coming from him? Henri continued to exhale, gaze locked with Michael’s, which reflected Henri’s wide-eyed shock. He vaguely noticed the band’s silence. The note continued. Purer, sweeter, higher. Henri’s voice soared, filling the room even without the microphone he’d dropped to his side. At last his lungs emptied, but the note never wavered. The perfect C ended on his command.

  Jake and Colton seemed unmoved, not being privy to Henri’s previous vocal limitations. Tessa and Michael stared with blank faces, jaws hanging open.

  Tessa spoke first. “That was amazing!”

  Michael brought reality crashing down. “But can you do it again?”

  Henri’s throat didn’t burn as it had in the past when he’d overreached. “Only one way to find out.”

  On the second go-round, he never said a word to his band, but Michael joined in, as he’d done years ago while with the band that would later be Hookers and Cocaine. His smooth tenor wrapped around Henri’s deeper tones, taking the edge off, and reminding Henri of singing with Sebastian. Hookers and Cocaine had never sounded this good.

  At the precise moment Henri found perfection, perfection took wing and flew on the voice of an angel. Tessa’s sweet soprano wove in and out of the patchwork Michael and Henri created. On the final verse, deeper tones added to the mix, from bass guitar and
bassist.

  The song ended. Henri didn’t. Nodding to his band, directing with his hands, together they created a sound that blew away his wildest expectations. God, he needed Seb right now.

  “A makeover? Why the hell do we need makeovers?” Henri glared at Tessa.

  Tessa glared back. Her friend backed up a few steps away from Henri’s folded-arms indignation. There wasn’t one damned thing wrong with Henri’s appearance. Just because he’d made the worst-dressed list three years in a row didn’t mean jack shit but that nosey paparazzi always seemed to catch him while taking out the trash or working on his bike.

  “No offense, Henri.” Tessa batted her eyes, reminding Henri of his sister, the non-made-up-to-look-forty version. “I’ve been to a few of your concerts, have some of your music, and check your website on a regular basis.” A natural blush overpowered her cosmetics. “And let’s say that, as much as I adored you and your music….”

  In rehab she’d acted like she hadn’t recognized him prior to his first admission. “Go on.”

  “Well….” She scraped her top teeth across her lower lip. “You kinda always looked… well… scruffy.”

  “Scruffy? I look scruffy to you?” Henri spun to face his remaining band members. Granted, it being Friday, he hadn’t shaved the few scraggly whiskers on his chin, and he hadn’t bothered to control his air-dried hair—it poofed out in a fluffy mass. Then there was the whole “holey T-shirt” thing, and jeans nearly worn through in the seat. Dammit, comfort came before style, in his book. “Guys, do I look scruffy?” He patted at his errant hair.

  Colton turned away, guilt in his eyes. Jake puffed his cheeks and blew out his breath while slowly nodding. Michael, who’d known him since high school and who favored the same casual look while not teaching, declared, “Hey, you look fine to me.”

  “It’s okay if you want to be adored by teenaged girls who want to terrify their parents by swearing they’re gonna marry you someday,” Tessa said. “Is that what you want, or do you want fans old enough to vote, and with enough sense not to elect candidates based on how cute they are?”