“I’m gonna sing, aren’t I?”
“In a room this size, you need a microphone?” Sebastian crossed his arms across his chest.
It was a pretty large room. “Never mind.”
Seb stalked off toward the back. What the hell? How was he supposed to hear back there? He took a seat on the last row, dead center. “You may begin.”
Henri started in on “A Matter of When.”
Sebastian popped out of his seat. Had his ass even touched the plastic? “Wait! Stop! You can’t simply start singing. You’ll strain your voice. Warm up first.”
“Warm up?”
“Loo, loo, loo, loo, loo…,” Seb began.
I feel like a fucking idiot.Henri joined in on the third set of loo-loos.
Apparently satisfied after fifteen rounds of varying pitches, Seb relented. “Try now.”
Henri started out low and built toward the chorus of a song he no longer planned to perform in public.
Seb moved forward. Twice. “Good for lower scale. Now let me hear upper.”
“Umm… that was it.”
Seb didn’t comment, but his cheek sank in on one side like he was chewing the inside of his mouth. He marched down front, pointed Henri toward the back, and took his place on stage. Even from a distance Henri saw the man’s chest swell as he seemingly sucked every bit of the air from the room. He threw back his head.
Deep, resonant, filling the entire space but never once overpowering, Seb’s voice drew prickles up Henri’s neck. He sang in another language. Italian, maybe. The melody took him from low notes to high, and never once did Seb waver.
Henri’s jeans grew tight, cold chills not the only thing rising. The song took a sad turn. Though the words weren’t in English, there was no mistaking the sheer pain, the crushing darkness of the notes. Henri wiped moisture from his eyes. Crying? Over a song he couldn’t even understand?
Seb reached the song’s climax and held the final note an impossibly long time. Impressive. And also unnecessary for a rock singer. A gold album on the wall said so.
But, damn, the expression on Seb’s face, full of longing. When he sang, Seb turned into a sensuous creature, one who whispered sexy promises into Henri’s ear and then surpassed every one. Women must throw themselves at the guy after every performance.
If only Henri could capture some of the man’s magic for himself.
* * *
“What areyou doing?” Seb folded his arms across his chest, reminding Henri of the time one of his teachers had caught him smoking behind the gym.
“It’s just a cigarette.” This time.
“There is no such thing as just a cigarette.” Sebastian snatched Henri’s Marlboro and dropped it to the ground, then stomped on the cherry until the glow died. “Your breath control is atrocious, you’re probably already suffering from a lack of oxygen at altitude, and you inhale smoke to help that along.”
“Hey!”
“For the next month you’re under my care. You can kill yourself on your own time. Now, pick that up. I’m not your servant.” Sebastian whirled and stalked off.
What right did he have to dictate Henri’s actions? Henri was a paying customer, and wasn’t the customer always right? He headed back inside for another cigarette. The stench of burning leaves from around the front of the house stopped him. Crap! He’d parked his bike out front.
He dashed into the front yard to find Seb gleefully tossing leaves on a fire, close enough for smoke to engulf his Harley. He charged. “What the hell are you doing to my bike?” He wrestled Sebastian to the ground, their fall broken by leaves.
“It’s just a bit of smoke.” Seb pinned Henri beneath him.
“Do you have any idea what smoke’ll do to the finish?” Henri squirmed but Seb didn’t budge.
Instead, he stared down, locking glowers with Henri. “You worry about a machine, but not your voice. If I set the thing on fire, you could get a new one tomorrow.” He trapped both of Henri’s hands above his head, securing them with one large paw. He lightly wrapped the other paw around Henri’s neck. “But if this goes, it’s gone for good.” Seb rolled away.
