by Eden Winters
Uh-oh. Better stop before Tessa started in on politics. She made a good point, not that Henri would concede.
“Besides, you’ve complained about headaches. Your hair looks pretty heavy. Have you considered that maybe it’s the weight causing the problem?”
She might have a point. Not to mention getting wound up in his hair in his sleep, and having to force the mass underneath his helmet. Tangles, spending precious time trying to beat curls into submission. Cutting off pieces when his hair got caught in something.
His mother forbade him to cut his hair, saying he’d ruin his reputation.
To hell with his reputation.
Would Seb like his hair shorter? “Let’s see what you’ve got in mind. Tessa, you go first.”
“Aww… you look so pur-day.” Michael laughed and skipped away from Henri’s swat. Damn. Somehow Tessa’s friend had managed to tame the locks hundreds of stylists had backed away from in fear. Granted, his “every hair for itself” ’do had been as much a part of his image as the black leather he’d worn while performing with his old band. He ran a hand over his much-shorter hair and stroked his now-smooth chin. Would Seb like it?
“It makes those sexy eyes of yours stand out, and we can finally see your face. Your female fans will slide right out of their chairs.” Tessa accepted Henri’s tag and swatted Michael for him, since she stood between the two. Strange. Michael didn’t duck Tessa’s hand, and he wore a strange smile while rubbing the spot she’d hit.
“Um… is that a good thing?” Oh shit. Had Henri said that aloud?
The guys trotted on ahead; Tessa sidled up beside him. “The men are gonna like it too.” She laughed and took off toward the rest of the band. Men in general he wasn’t worried about. Only one. Though Seb would surely approve of Henri’s hair tucked into a bag, on its way to Locks of Love to help a child with cancer.
They entered the mall together, Henri pulling a hat down over his head to hide. His long hair might no longer give him away, and he no longer stood out among his shorter-haired bandmates. Now they all blended in with the afternoon shoppers, with the exception of Jake, who claimed to be too old to “hang out at the mall.” With teenaged daughters, he probably spent enough time there without being dragged back by Henri and the crew.
Damn, but he felt so much lighter, and the beginnings of a headache faded the moments his hair fell to the floor. Tessa might have been on to something.
“Over here,” Tessa called, pressing her nose to the glass of a department store window. Inside the shop dwelled Goth Heaven.
“Not my taste.” No way was Henri struggling into skinny jeans to try to move onstage.
“Who said anything about you?” She wormed her way between Henri and the window to get through the door. Henri rolled his eyes and followed her inside. Best to keep her close. She had a tendency to wander off.
Twenty minutes later they emerged with a black lace hat and fingerless gloves. “Tessa, repeat after me: ‘I am not Sheila E.’”
“I’m not!” Her indignation gave way to a grin. Holy hell. She was gonna get carded at every club they played. “I’m Tessa E.!” She marched over to where the remaining band members waited on a bench.
“Oh my, God! I know you!” a teen girl squealed. Fuck no! Henri wanted to shop in peace. The fan charged right for…. Michael. “You’re Michael Lindley, aren’t you? Tell me, what’s Henri Lafontaine really like? He’s dreamy!”
Dreamy? Dreamy! Henri was not dreamy! That was so “boy band.”
Tessa flashed an “I told you so” smile.
What to do when a fan squealed and bounced two feet away, harassing a bandmate? Why, throw the bandmate to the wolves. Henri spun on his heel and made a quick escape.
After downing a hot dog and soda in the food court, he ventured into the main part of the mall again. He found Tessa at a perfume counter, bottle in hand. “Which do you like best, Acqua di Gio—” She sprayed a card and held it under his nose. “—or Burberry?” She repeated the process with the other fragrance.
“Both are nice, but aren’t they a bit masculine for you?” If rhyme or reason existed in her fashion sense, Henri hadn’t yet spotted a pattern.
“It’s for you, silly! I got you cleaned up, now to make you smell nice.”
Henri sniffed a few bottles. What did Sebastian wear?
“Well?” Tessa waited, hand on her hip.
“Let me think about it.” He shot toward the back of the store to text Seb in private. Buying cologne, which u like? Acqua di Gio or Burberry? Answer, answer, answer, answer!
His phone pinged almost immediately. Anything but Burberry.
“Acqua di Gio it is!” Tessa would be proud.
Henri glanced around to make sure of no witnesses, ripped off his hat, and took a few quick pictures of himself with his phone. The best one he sent via text and hoped Seb wouldn’t laugh. His phone chimed a moment later with a reply. You clean up nice.
Hey! He recalled the first time he’d met Sebastian, the “clean up before dinner” comment. Did he really used to look scruffy?
Maybe.
The studio wasn’t the most state of the art Henri’d ever been in, but it wasn’t the worst. At least he wasn’t starting at rock bottom again. Besides, if he and his newly acquired group couldn’t provide the goods, no amount of equipment would turn them into Grammy winners.
Lucas observed from the sound booth. A burly technician sat beside him. Henri addressed them both. “What we’re trying to create is a studio jam session effect. Nothing too structured.” Not for ‘Ice Inside.’ If they even came close to their practice session, he’d be a happy man.
One by one his band arrived. What the hell?
So much for their afternoon with a stylist.
Colton’s attire suggested he’d been to a dojo for training, Jake’s jeans and T-shirt had survived at least four different presidents, Michael appeared ready to mow the lawn—in slept-in clothes—and Tessa….
“What are you wearing?” A filmy, gauzy creation floated around her slender frame. She stood out as a rose among thorns.
“I spent the morning at the Ren Faire and got back a little late. Sorry. This is my fairy costume.”
“You’re going to play in that?”
“At least I left the wings in my car.” A small favor.
Okay. Whatever. They planned to record, not film. “Let’s do this.”
Lightning struck twice, or rather, the magic of their practice crackled within the room. Gorgeous. Absolutely gorgeous.
Kids at Christmas didn’t grin as broadly as Lucas when he emerged from the control booth. “Damn, boy! Whatever’s gotten into you, I like it.”
Now probably wasn’t the time to mention Seb’s name. “What? You doubted me?”
Lucas slapped Henri on the back. “Not for a minute.” His smile fell. “It’s hard to pitch an album if the band doesn’t have a name.”
Henri took in his band: lanky, T-shirted Michael leaning down to talk to a living, breathing, fairy maiden, while blast-from-the-past Jake stared over a white-clad shoulder at something Colton pecked out on the keyboard. Henri was crazy as hell if he thought this would work. Too bad Crazy as Hell was already taken as a band name. Alternate Reality?
Maybe he should leave the decision making to someone else. “Tessa, if you had to label us with one word, what would it be?”
She tilted her head to the side, favoring each band member with a lopsided smile. “Either ‘mismatched’ or ‘delusional.’ Take your pick.”
Mismatched? Delusional? Henri rolled the words around inside his head and broke out in a grin. Oh hell yeah. “How about both? We’re Mismatched Delusions.”
Sixteen
“Okay, Tina, sweetheart, why don’t you climb up on the back seat of the bike?” The photographer flipped a hand at her: Up! Up!
“Her name is Tessa,” Henri growled. He glowered at Lucas, sending the mental message, Where the hell did you find this asshat?
Lucas replied with
a raised brow, a reminder of Sebastian and his animated expressions. “Trust me. This guy rocks cover art.”
Henri steadied his Harley for Tessa to crawl up on the seat. The last person to sit there had been Seb. Goose bumps adorned Tessa’s arms. She must be freezing. If she’d been Henri’s sister, he’d insist she go put more clothes on. The leather miniskirt and bustier didn’t leave much to the imagination.
“Now, you.” The photographer gestured to Henri. “Stand in front of her, and grab the edge of the seat.”
“Here?” Henri placed his hand dead center, where his ass normally perched.
“No, further up.”
He slipped his palm north a few inches. “Here?”
“Higher.”
Henri ran out of driver’s butt real estate and moved up to the passenger seat. “Here?”
“Higher.”
He glanced up at a wide-eyed Tessa. “If you’re asking me to put my hand between her legs, I will not disrespect my drummer, or any other woman. She’s a serious musician, same as the rest of us, and I’ll treat her no differently.” Asshole. He sure as hell wouldn’t ask Henri to appear to fondle Michael, Jake, or Colton.
Behind him Jake whispered to Michael, “I’m not a serious musician. Are you a serious musician?”
Henri barked, “Jake, you aren’t helping.”
The photographer on the brink of losing a job didn’t know when to shut up. “Sex sells. Now, Tina, lean over. Show me some cleavage.”
“Lucas?” Henri glared at their manager, who shifted to focus one mean case of gimlet eye on the photographer. Time to cut their losses. If they got crappy cover art, at least it wouldn’t be exploitative.
“Yes?” Lucas gave his approval with a nod.
“Show this guy the way out. And get someone we can work with.”
“I’ll get right on it.”
Henri turned to his band. Michael shrugged out of a black leather jacket. “Man, that thing’s too damned hot.”
Jake attempted to scratch his leg through his leather pants. “Anybody got a ruler… or something?”
Tessa’s biker girl from Hell garb wore her instead of the other way around—what little bit there was. Fuck. They’d been made up to look like Hookers and Cocaine. Hell the fuck no. “Remember how you showed up for our recording session?” Time to take control.
Colton replied first. “Yeah, I came straight from the dojo and didn’t change, and fairy princess over there showed up glittery.” He hiked a thumb at Tessa.
“Hey!” Tessa tried to glare but her too-big hat fell down over her eyes.
Being eaten by her own clothes wasn’t a good look for her. Or the rest of the band. “Go home and dress exactly as you did before. And Tessa? Feel free to bring your wings.”
“I can’t tell you how thrilled I am to be here. I’m a big fan, Mr. Lafontaine. A big fan. Now, I want you to stand naturally, don’t over pose, but be comfortable. Tessa, this would work better if you climbed on the back seat.”
Uh-oh, not again. Tessa clutched Henri’s arm for support. Michael arranged a pair of gossamer blue wings behind her.
“Oh, yes! Perfect! Now Michael, over there. Stand behind the bike. Tessa, lean back towards him a bit, watch the wing. Raise your chin. Jake, over there.” The photographer pointed. “Now, Colton, crouch down in front. Adjust your belt. Perfect!” The guy flipped his fingers. “Henri, turn a touch to the right, please. Yeah, that’s it. I want to get the full pattern of your tattoos.” This photographer at least had taken the time to learn his clients’ names.
Click, click, click went the camera. The photographer adjusted lights, moved the band members around, and took a few more shots. Singly and in groups, Henri, Tessa, Michael, Jake, and Colton posed for the better part of the afternoon, to a chorus of "Nice!", "Awesome!", and "Oh yes, perfect!"
At last the guys broke for dinner and to review digital proofs. Of the many poses, the first best captured the spirit of the band. Tessa had draped an arm over Henri’s shoulder, not like a woman clinging to a man for support but like an equal, a friend, a buddy. And she flat rocked as a fairy.
Each and every band member appeared exactly as Henri imagined them in his mind: Michael, Mr. Average Boy Next Door; Jake, aging rock star who still had the moves; Colton, the living tribute to Bruce Lee; Tessa, ethereal, unconventional, a free spirit; himself, caught somewhere in between, wearing his bike chaps and a band T-shirt.
No one member stood out any more than the others. They were an ensemble cast. A band.
They were Mismatched Delusions.
And they were gonna kick some rock and roll ass.
“Henri, a word please?” Lucas lounged in the hallway, leaning against a wall. Snippets of conversation came from the hotel’s conference room down the hall. A cameraman hurried past, gear hoisted onto his shoulder.
“You go ahead, guys, I’ll be right there,” Henri told the band, nodding in the direction of the voices. “What’s up, Lucas?”
“Two things. First, I want them to go ahead so you can make a grand entrance. Secondly, I want to give you a heads-up. Give them thirty minutes. Answer the reporters’ questions, evade what you want to, but at the end, call on the woman in the purple sweater. We’ll leave these newshounds with something to chew on.” Lucas hiked up one side of his mouth in his conniving manager grin. Thank God he was on Henri’s side.
Henri paused in the doorway, studying what lay ahead. Damn, but he needed a joint right now. Or one of his emergency pills. Or better yet, Sebastian Unger holding his hand. Face your issues, you wuss. He filled his lungs and leaked out the air in a controlled exhalation. Then he nodded to Lucas and followed his band into the conference room. A long table sat before several rows of reporter-filled chairs, his band already seated at the table. One empty chair remained. He blew out his breath and joined his crew.
Flashes announced the moment’s preservation on camera. A few people murmured when he sat down, and he fought a grin. He’d changed a hell of a lot in the last few months—for the better. He’d worn a sleeveless shirt to let his tats show, but his bandmates didn’t have to pull back their chairs to make room for his hair.
“Good afternoon. I’d like to thank you for coming.” For the first time Henri got to address the press directly. Normally his mother would have taken control. Not this time, and never again. “I’d like to introduce you to a few people I’ve been hanging out with.”
A few giggles sounded from the audience.
“To my right here is Tessa Eklund, the finest percussionist in the business, and beside her is Michael Lindley. You might remember him—we started out together years ago. He plays lead guitar, among a million other instruments.
“To my left is Jake Steadman, a man with a lot of…” He let the sentence hang before adding, “experience.” Several journalists chuckled. “Lastly, a man who can flat tear up the keyboards, Mr. Colton Ferguson.”
Hands shot in the air. Without being called upon, a man in the front row shouted, “Mr. Lafontaine, why did you leave Hookers and Cocaine?”
“I learned the error of my ways?” Snickers sounded from the back of the room. Henri invoked his bland face. Maybe he should have gone to acting lessons with Sebastian. “Why would any sane human being leave a successful band? Is that what you’re asking?” Let them chew on his words awhile. “Creative differences. Most of the band liked our direction, while I wanted to try something new. That’s why I’m now working with the fine folks here with me today. Each has something unique to bring to the table.”
“Is it true you had a falling out with the band?” Mr. Rude-and-won’t-wait-my-turn asked.
Fucking vulture. “They’re my brothers. They’ll always be my brothers even though we’ve parted ways.” And he wasn’t wasting any time or money on a slander suit by saying what he really thought of the assholes.
“Will you be playing any of your old songs on tour?”
Would someone please shut this fuckwad up? Why the hell was he dwelling on th
e past, when this was a Mismatched Delusions press conference? “What’s the use of making changes if I intend to do the same ole, same ole?”
Someone groaned.
Henri winked. “I’d reserve judgment if I were you.”
A woman asked, “You’ve certainly changed your appearance recently. I, for one, like what you’ve done. Is there a reason for the sudden turnaround?”
“Do you mean like the love of a good—” He couldn’t resist teasing. He could almost see the news-hungry predators’ ears flapping. He finished with “—cop?”
Fits of laughter erupted from the gathered journalists. Some of them hadn’t known him during “The Great Cop Incident,” but the most embarrassing news story ever likely hadn’t been missed by any of them, thanks to YouTube footage. “Now if you don’t mind, I’m getting a bit tired. How about a question for Tessa?”
Henri sat back and let his bandmates have their moment, while carefully deflecting questions from Michael. Poor guy appeared ready to bolt and clung tightly to Tessa’s white-knuckled hand. Henri checked his watch. About thirty minutes. Time to wrap up. He scanned the room for the woman in purple. There she was. Oh, wait. Or was she over there?
Frantically he searched for Lucas, who held up his hand and wriggled his fingers. What the hell? Henri studied the two women again. One sported three-inch, purple claws to match her outfit. Oh, those were fucking scary.
“One more question,” Henri shouted to be heard. “The lady in the back.”
“Henri, is it true your supposed breakdown resulted from having been drugged by a fan, and you took a hiatus to recover from your ordeal?”
The crowded room quieted fast.
Henri exaggerated a frown and put-upon sigh. He lowered his eyes. Damn, what dirty carpet. Make them feel it, he heard in Seb’s voice. “I’m sorry, ma’am. Due to an ongoing investigation, I’m not at liberty to answer your question.”
