by Eden Winters
Take that, tabloids!
But… the crazed fan might still be out there, and would now know of Henri’s return.
The next night Henri sat in his living room, watching the press conference on the big screen. He’d texted Seb a few times, but no answer yet. More than likely he was still singing his heart out for the good folks of Peoria.
Tessa was right. The white sleeveless T-shirt and simple blue jeans, minus facial scruff and with a touch of eyeliner, gave Henri a more professional appearance.
Plus, he nearly didn’t recognize himself without his hair.
Good.
The questions came to a close. Henri on-screen dropped his bombshell; Henri in his living room munched popcorn while the news anchors puzzled out his meaning. Oh, yeah. They’d been the first in line to kick Henri when he was down, adding fuel to the “drug” fire. Let them eat those words.
His phone buzzed and he snatched it up. Maybe he’d get to talk to Sebastian tonight. Instead he found a text message from Margo: Is it true? Were you really drugged?
He tapped a reply on the keypad. What do you care?
I’m your mother!
Then act like it! Henri silenced his phone and tossed it to the side. Hopefully, she’d spend the next few hours recalling what she’d said and done after the incident. Especially the not-hugging him part.
Seventeen
“Answer the phone!” Henri checked his watch: 10:00 p.m. No telling where Sebastian might be. This news couldn’t wait.
His call went to voice mail. “I e-mailed you a recording of today’s session. You won’t believe this, but I hit high C consistently now.” How Henri would love to speak to Sebastian directly and share today’s triumph. Sebastian would smile, say, “Told you so,” and then he’d reward Henri with a kiss.
“We’re starting off small, trying out the new songs in a club next week in Fresno. I… I’d like if you were there. I understand if you can’t be, but I owe you more than I can ever repay. Especially the high note.”
He hung up, today’s achievement somewhat dampened by the inability to properly share with the one person whose approval he still sought. Maybe he should give the band the day off for good behavior and pay a little visit to the opera world. If he could enter a church, he could enter an opera house.
Henri tugged at his collar. No use. The damned suit seemed made for discomfort. He passed by a mirror. Seb was right. He did clean up nicely. Now if only he cleaned up well enough to impress Seb. If not, the two dozen gladiolas should help. Or the late reservation in a private dining room at Akron, Ohio’s swankiest restaurant.
Dressed to the nines and with his trademark locks missing, no one seemed to recognize Henri. Of course, if they recognized him, it might be for the wrong reasons. He still had a ways to go to undo his bad-boy reputation, if he ever managed such a feat.
Outside the opera house the billboard displayed “Othello.” Maybe Henri should have Googled, found out more. Then again, Sebastian sang the role of someone named Cassio. What else did he need to know? He’d sit through the performance, make sure to show his appreciation, then whisk Cassio away for a private evening. Simple.
He relaxed back into his seat overlooking the stage and tuned out the murmurs around him. At last the lights when down and the stage lit up. The sets, the costumes, the orchestra—nothing else mattered when Sebastian took the stage. As before, in the theater, when he raised his voice, the room filled with sound. Cold chills cha-cha’d up Henri’s spine. He chanced a glance around him at the transfixed audience. He wanted this enthralling magic for himself and his band. The chanting, the wolf whistles, the fanatical idol worship were one thing, but to be able to captivate the crowd, elicit a collective gasp or titters that echoed throughout the room…. the ability to play a group of people like a piano was a gift. A gift Henri envied.
After the performers took their final bow and the applause died, Henri made his way backstage, having greased a few palms to gain entry.
He tapped lightly on the dressing room door. “Come in,” a familiar voice called.
Henri opened the door and slipped inside, cradling the box of gladiolas under his arm.
“You’re early. I told you to give me twenty minutes.” Sebastian didn’t sound happy. He sat with his back to the door, scrubbing at his face with a cotton ball.
“You were awesome.” Henri sat the box on the vanity and wrapped his arms around his lover.
Seb whipped around so quickly he nearly fell off his stool. “You!” Not exactly the welcome Henri envisioned. “You can’t be here! You have to go. He can’t find you here!” The pallor of his skin couldn’t be explained by makeup alone.
“If who finds you here?” came from behind Henri.
Seb cringed and blanched even further, begging please, please, please with his eyes. Please what?
In the doorway stood a well-dressed man, a bit of gray showing at his temples. “Who is this, Sebastian? And what is he doing here?”
Henri stepped back. Who was this guy, and why did he act like he owned Seb? “I’m Henri Lafontaine. And you are?” Henri didn’t offer his hand.
Seb answered for the man. “Henri, this is Charles. My patron. Charles, this is Henri. A singer I’ve been working with.” A singer. Not “my lover.” Hell, not even “a friend.”
Charles raked his gaze over Henri and cast a narrow-eyed glare at the flower box. “I see. Well, Mr. Lafontaine, I hope you enjoyed the performance, but fans aren’t allowed backstage. I’ll call security to escort you out.” Seb flinched when Charles dropped a hand to his shoulder so hard it smacked.
Granted, Henri had only known Sebastian a short while, but the cowering seemed out of character for a man who carried himself with such confidence onstage.
“No, I’ll go. I came to watch the show and tell Sebastian thanks for his help. He’s made a tremendous difference.” Look at me! he silently ordered Sebastian. Sebastian stared at the floor, as drawn in on himself as a man of his size could be.
“Hurry, Sebastian, I don’t like to be kept waiting.” Charles’s fingers on the back of Sebastian’s neck squeezed too tightly. Asshole.
Maybe Henri should call security.
“Henri, thanks for coming. I’ll see you at our next lesson. Now, if you’ll excuse me, Charles is hosting a private party tonight. I need to get ready.” The hand on Sebastian’s neck might as well have belonged to a ventriloquist—the words weren’t Seb’s.
Leaving the room took all of Henri’s willpower. As he passed by, Charles’s scent tickled a memory.
He leaned against the wall outside, straining for bits of conversation from within the room. Charles spoke too softly for him to hear, but the occasional hissed threat didn’t bode well for Sebastian.
“Oh my. Look what I found!” A man in a dressing robe strode down the hall and stopped in front of Henri, fluttering his lashes. “I call dibs!”
Not now. Not fucking now. “Who are you?”
“Me? Darling, didn’t you watch the performance? I’m the guy so far in the back you needed opera glasses to see me. However, I’m not above a private performance. Say, at your place?”
Henri was not in the mood for flirting. Wait. Private performance. Maybe this guy had information. “What have you heard about Sebastian Unger?”
“He landed my dream role, dammit.”
“What about his patron, Charles?”
The guy grinned, more sharkish than friendly. “His patron is loaded, for one thing. And between you and me, I think he’s a little more than merely a patron.”
Oh hell no! This guy was not going to drag anything to do with Sebastian through the mud. “What are you talking about? Lots of opera singers have patrons, don’t they?”
“Oh, we do, but not many have a patron like Charles. He’s possessive. Keeps Sebby-poo on a tight leash.”
My fist and this guy’s face should meet. Henri fought back a growl when the guy dropped a silk-coated arm around his shoulders and whispered into his ear.
“While the rest of us attend the after party, Charles insists on taking Sebastian away to a private affair. The people who hold season passes to the opera house pay good money to mingle with the stars. Let me tell you, good ole Charles’s selfishness isn’t winning Sebastian any fans.”
“What are you talking about? Wouldn’t these same people attend Charles’s party?”
The guy laughed, a raucous, evil sound. “You haven’t been around much, have you? The private party might be only for Charles and Seb. Not all patrons are like that, but some definitely are.”
Rose to the Heart, a dagger of love…. Seb, how could you? Henri closed his eyes and sagged against the wall. His unwelcome witness chattered on, words falling on deaf ears. Seb. The one thing in Henri’s life he’d been able to count on. No, they’d never said the words, they’d never even discussed being exclusive. In fact, Sebastian had even said he understood if Henri found others upon his return to LA. It didn’t lessen the pain. Seb, his Seb, wasn’t his.
His heart a lead weight in his chest, Henri stumbled down the hall toward the exit. The elusive scent memory clicked into place. Burberry. Charles the dickwad reeked of Burberry.
Eighteen
My music. I still have my music. “Okay, guys. From the top again.”
Groans sounded around him. “We’ve already done it six times.” The whine came from Colton’s direction.
“And we’ll keep on going until we get it right. We’ve only got one more practice until our debut.” “A Matter of When” rocked in Seb’s music room. Why couldn’t Henri reproduce the effect here? Maybe because every time you sing you hesitate, waiting for the Italian echo?
“This old-timer needs a nap.” Jake yawned.
“That’s enough for now,” a disembodied voice announced over the speakers. Lucas waved from his vantage point in the unused control booth. “Henri, I need to talk to you.”
Yeah. Lucas, the man who’d introduced him to Seb to begin with. The bastard had a lot to answer for.
“See you later.” Tessa led the charge out of the room, followed closely by Colton and Jake. Michael took time to pack up Sylvia before joining the other traitors in their mad dash for freedom. The man might be a little too attached to his guitar, explaining why he hadn’t snagged a recent girlfriend. Jake didn’t have issues getting dates—the fresh marks on his neck said so.
Lucas stepped into the room, lightly slapping a rolled-up magazine against his palm. Another tabloid, no doubt. Spewing whatever venom sold copies. “When was the last time you talked to Sebastian?”
“About a week ago. Why?” And no, he wasn’t disclosing the circumstances. Lucas owed him an apology about the “don’t hurt him” thing. It’s Seb he should have talked to.
“This.” Lucas unrolled the magazine and opened to the last page. “Othello” topped the first column.
Henri perused the article, hunting Sebastian’s name, but found no mention. “Why isn’t he listed? Wasn’t he supposed to play at every venue?” No one had actually explained how opera touring companies operated; Henri assumed a role to be like a band member. You occasionally shared the spotlight with someone else but never gave your place away.
“He’s not mentioned because he dropped out. After a certain rock star made an appearance backstage.” Gruffness reared its ugly head into full blown rage. “Exactly what were you doing in Akron?”
“Jeez, dude, chill! I wanted to hear him sing. It’s a free country. So what if I wanted to take a friend to dinner?”
“But he’s not just a friend, now, is he?” The low, simmering growl had Henri ready to shout for help. Lucas seemed ready to blow a gasket, and for the life of him, Henri couldn’t figure out why.
“You fucked him.” It wasn’t a question.
And none of Lucas’s damned business. “Sebastian and I are both grown men. What we choose to do with our own time isn’t your concern.” Henri edged toward the door.
“Listen….” Lucas moved so fast he closed the distance one minute and had Henri pinned to the wall the next. “I sent you to him hoping you’d help each other out, but not that way. He’d teach you how to make the most use of your God-given talents, you’d teach him to stand up for himself and give him the means to break free of that vulture. If I’d known you were gay, I’d never have sent you to him.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Don’t you get it? He’s not like you. He can’t sleep with someone and walk away the next morning. You? You’re free to do anything you want. Even squandering money like you’ve done the past five years, you lack for nothing. Homes, cars, men, women. And it comes easy to you.” Lucas dragged a hand through his sparse hair. “You take everything for granted and earn more in a year than Sebastian can in ten. And yet every waking moment he devotes to his craft.”
This wasn’t news. Sebastian had said similar things. “And I bought a ticket to hear him perform. How am I hurting him?”
Lucas snatched the magazine from Henri’s fingers and hurled it to the floor. “In opera, it takes money to make money. The guy only makes about $55,000 a year. Do you have any idea how much he pays for acting and dance lessons? How much it costs to travel to auditions? Do you?”
“It’s not like he’s hurting,” Henri countered. “He’s got a huge house—”
“And not one damned thing to call his own.” Lucas blew out his breath in a huff. “His mother was much like Seb—spending every dime to make the big time, only worse—she liked to pretend she’d already arrived. She left a world of debt behind when she died. Debt a struggling tenor couldn’t pay.”
“Why didn’t he sell the house?” A question Sebastian had nearly ripped him a new asshole for asking.
“He did, to Charles, his patron. After Annette’s death I offered to help him, with what little I could. I hadn’t seen him since he was small. Annette and I weren’t on speaking terms for a while.” The anger seemed to drain from Lucas. “I went to visit her in the hospital—I refused to take no for an answer. She told me everything. How Seb’s new patron promised to take care of him. She put a lot of stock in a man she hardly knew.”
A tangled web of lies hung in the air, things said before not matching Lucas’s current speech. “You said you were a family friend and had been watching over Seb his whole life.”
Lucas paced to the far side of the room to contemplate Tessa’s drum set. “I have. From a distance. That’s the way Annette wanted things. And I always gave her what she wanted. Right now I’d like to go back in time, though, and make a few changes.”
He glanced back over his shoulder. There was pain in his eyes, and pleading, when he focused on Henri. “Regardless of how she went about it, she truly did want only the best for her son. I don’t think she meant for him to wind up in involuntary servitude to a man as manipulative as Charles. He promises the moon and takes all of it away for minor infractions to rules no human can live by.”
“I don’t follow you. He and Sebastian are lovers.” The bitterness still burned. When Henri closed his eyes visions of Charles and Sebastian filled his mind.
Lucas snorted. “Not lovers. More like owner and property. With his talent, Sebastian should be singing at the Met. While Charles enjoys basking in Seb’s glow, he’s not about to let his pet get big enough to break away. That’s where you came in. I was hoping you’d help me save him. You weren’t supposed to use him too.”
“Wait a damned minute! I didn’t use him. Whatever he and I did was consensual, I can assure you. I’d never do anything to hurt him.” Lucas couldn’t be as surprised as Henri by the claim, or by the truth in the words. But wait! “Owner and property?” The frantic cleaning, the too-tidy house, the “my patron this” and “my patron that.” Seb wasn’t trying to impress the man or show respect, and his cleanliness wasn’t a nervous habit. He’d been terrified.
If only Henri had noticed when he’d had the chance to do something. Even now, as the knee-jerk hurt at Seb simmered for being with another man, first and foremost H
enri wanted to ensure Seb’s safety.
“Annette died before Seb turned seventeen. I filed a custody suit and got laughed out of court for my efforts. No one would give a teenager to me when I had a record of being in and out of rehab and a few minor arrests for drunk and disorderly.”
Some of the web came unwoven. “Why did you want custody when you hadn’t even seen him in years?” Ice water poured through Henri’s veins. Oh shit. He’d seen the similarities and hadn’t put two and two together. Until now.
“Why wouldn’t a father want to care for his son?”
A conversation of this magnitude required coffee, privacy, and doughnuts—in that order. Henri started the coffeepot and rummaged through his cabinets for junk food. Not fresh doughnuts, but a pack of nearly expired chocolate sandwich cookies might offer enough comfort to get through an enlightening talk.
Only when they’d settled down to the kitchen table did Henri say more than “Sugar? Cream?”
“Okay, now back to business. How can you be Seb’s father? What about…?”
Lucas stared into his coffee cup. “Tell me, Henri, what would you do if you were a rising starlet, fighting tooth and nail to start a career, and discovered you were pregnant… and unmarried.”
“Couldn’t she have married the father?”
Lucas raised watery eyes. “And ruin her career by tying herself to a man with no money? No. As much as I loved the woman, I’m the first to admit her drama extended past the stage. A certain tenor of some renown had escorted her out a time or two.” Lucas gave a humorless smile. “He enjoyed having pretty young women on his arm. He also loved racing. When he crashed in France he made headlines. Leaving behind a bereft and pregnant fiancée”—Lucas added air quotes—“earned Annette pity, not scorn, and catapulted her into the public’s eye.
“That’s why we had our falling out. We’d met at an after party. I was only there because a business partner gave me tickets. I pitched a musical idea and she was all ears. We started seeing each other, quietly, of course. To be honest, I was thrilled when she told me she was pregnant, and even pawned a few things to get her a ring.” Lucas examined his cup as though the answers to his problems lay at the bottom. “She said Sebastian wasn’t mine. I suspected differently, but when he began to draw notice as a tenor, the opera world touted him as a chip off the old block. Not that I could have given him much in the way of the life.”
