“Get away for a while. Clear your head. Decide what it is you want from life. Not your mother, not your band, but what you, Henri Lafontaine, want to do.”
Henri stared at the ceiling. “I wish it were that easy.”
“Nothing worthwhile is ever easy, Henri.”
“If I paid you more, would you start telling me what I want to hear instead of talking sense?” Henri shot her a glare, meant to be intimidating.
“As you say on yourShark Infested Watersalbum: ‘No Way in Hell.’”
* * *
Henri loggedinto his e-mail. Only five thousand today. He checked the folder marked “Shit I’ll Actually Read.” Hot damn! He clicked open the e-mail from his sister.
Henri,
I’m sending this from Vivian’s house, ’cause Mom’s told me not to talk to you. She said you’re into drugs and that you’re a bad influence. That’s not true, is it? Henri, how could you?
Jenni
Damn. Margo had gotten to her. And there wasn’t much use in denials. He had been into drugs, but why had his mother waited until now to share the info with Jenni? Oh yeah. With Henri gone, the manager in her needed someone else to control.
How he’d love to move Jenni out of the family nest, or at least spend some time with her, find out if she really wanted the future Margo planned. But no. Here he sat in rehab, his future a hazy blur. How could he save Jenni if he couldn’t even save himself?
Henri had no idea how a mugger got in, or where he’d found the dull rusty knife, but it sure hurt like hell to get his heart carved out. Oh wait. Who needed a thug with a knife? He had the world’s most dysfunctional family—and he was the star of the show.
Time to take back his life. If only he knew how.
He picked up the center-approved magazine he’d been reading and opened to an article about a former star who’d made a comeback, thanks to his incredible “miracle-working” manager. Henri could sure use a miracle or two. He circled the name “Lucas Honeycutt.”
* * *
“You havea visitor.” Henri glanced up from his crossword puzzle, interrupting his quest for a six-letter word meaning “deranged.” “A Six-Letter Word for Deranged” might be a good song title. If only he’d gotten his stalker’s name, and if it contained six letters. The day nurse smiled sweetly at him. Her business casual attire, designed to hide her true vocation, suited her well. Any who met her outside of work probably wouldn’t guess the light sweater and dress pants cleverly disguised the key holder to the loony bin. Right,rehab, not crazy house. “Safe haven” more summed it up.
Here he’d been quite enjoying his isolation. No screaming fans, no screaming managers, no one with a hand out, no one making demands, and best of all, no one trying to drug him up and film him doing whatever scary-party-creep had planned. At least the detective hadn’t mentioned having found a goat in the closet, or chicken blood. Brr….
For a time, Henri had even begun thinking of himself as Henry again, shucking off the industry-created Henri persona for one slightly more comfortable and infinitely less high maintenance. He rubbed his knuckles against a scruffy chin. Was it Tuesday yet? He only shaved on Tuesdays.
“You checked them against the list, didn’t you?” His admittance paperwork contained a long listing of people he’d rather not deal with. Margo’s name topped the list, followed by any family members except for Jenni. Margo added too much stress to his life. Dr. Worthington had recommended he take this time out of his busy schedule to de-stress, relax, and consider the life he truly wanted.
Somewhat of an underachiever on all matters personal, Henri focused on the relaxing and de-stressing instructions, avoiding plans for the future. Margo had slipped a letter in, admonishing him for “neglecting his duties,” but Henri wasn’t Margo’s problem anymore, and every time the woman crossed his mind he found himself performing the good doctor’s grounding techniques to slow his pounding heart and hyperventilation. He’d sent a reply, using her own words to terminate their contract. Damn, but he wanted his mother back. Not “Marguerite,” not “Margo,” but “Mom.”
“They’re not on the list, Mr. Lafontaine.”
“Who is it? Did they give a name?”
“Lucas Honeycutt.”
Lucas Honeycutt? Henri rolled through a mental index, finding no memory matches for the name. “Doesn’t ring a bell.”
“He says you asked for him.”
Oh….Lucas. Holy shit! His one final hope at salvaging his career. “Send him in.”
* * *
Henri studiedthe man in the chair across from him, who appeared quite different from other managers of his experience. And handsome, in a rode-hard-and-put-up-wet kind of way. His bio put his age at fifty-seven. His craggy face and thinning, reddish-brown hair told a story of high mileage. His blue jeans and button-down shirt said he hadn’t come to intimidate. Point in his favor. A spark of intelligence shone from brown eyes that met Henri’s gaze head-on.
“Why did you call me? There are plenty of more prestigious managers out there who’d love to represent you. Why me?” The man’s dark-eyed regard dared Henri to lie.
