By the time Henri regained his feet, Seb was busy spraying the fire with a water hose. He rubbed his throat where Seb had touched him. “Point taken.”
* * *
Seb andHenri sat on the settee, listening to a playback of Henri singing. “What is that?” Seb point a damning finger at the stereo.
“I dunno. A Bose?”
Seb didn’t need knives in the kitchen. His cutting glare could chop through steel. “There! Right there!” He jabbed a remote button and played the chorus again.
“Me breathing?”
“Yes! Breathing! In the middle of a line! Can’t you wait until the end?”
“Well, no.”
“Stand up.”
Henri rose. Oh hell, what was the guy gonna set on fire this time? Seb slapped his hand against Henri’s middle. “This is your diaphragm.” He raised his fingers to Henri’s throat. “This is your voice box. Air must come from here—” He patted Henri’s stomach again. “—travel up here—” He traced his fingers up Henri’s sternum. “—and come out here. Now, take a deep breath.”
Henri complied.
“No, no, no. Again! Watch how only the top of your chest rises. You’re not breathing deeply enough. Pull the air in all the way down here.” Again he touched Henri’s middle.
Henri reared his shoulders back and inhaled, trying to visualize taking the air into his belly. How stupid. Besides, Seb was bigger. Much bigger. Henri gasped, imagining Seb pinning him to a bed, taking control, wrapping his fingers around Henri’s wrists….
“Good, good. Now sing the line again.”
“What?” Oh fuck. The line. Henri sang, but ran out of air before reaching the end of the sentence. How could he possibly manage breath control when visions of a naked Sebastian left him breathless? If he left right now he could be in Vegas tonight, scratch a few Seb-inspired itches, and be back tomorrow.
“You need to learn to let your air out at a controlled rate.” Seb launched into a note Henri might reach with a stepladder. He held it, and held it. Never once did he fade before ending the note on a crisp cutoff. “I have an assignment for you. Practice until you can sing inhaling only after every second line. When I come back, I expect you to be able to hold your notes.”
Henri had had enough. “I’ve got gold albums.” Or one, at any rate. “I’ve been nominated for a Grammy.”
Seb released Henri like he burned. “You’re lucky none of your fans appreciate good music. Any opera lover in the house would cover their ears every time you inhaled.” Seb exaggerated an inhale, sucking in air like a drowning man. “Got a date with a bullet.” He whooshed out the breath, then sucked in another equally noisily. “Got a date with a gun.”Whoosh.
“I donotsound like that!”Do I?Henri squared off against Seb, hands braced on his hips.
“Yes, you do!” Seb huffed out another ‘roaring bull’ breath. “And you have a lovely singing voice.”
A compliment? From Seb?
Seb gave back any points he’d won by adding, “Too bad you insist on screeching.”
“I don’t screech.” Technically, Henri preferred the termwailing.
“Yes, you do.”
“Lucky me. My fans don’t care.” And the band stayed too stoned to notice.
“Very lucky. You rock stars are all the same.” Sebastian shook his head, sending his curls bouncing. “You sing, you flop around the stage like a dead fish.” He flapped his arms like a seagull taking flight. “And how much money do you make? Houses, cars, jets. The world is your plaything, and you treat your gift, the one thing enabling you to live your lavish lifestyle, as less important than your stupid motorcycle.” Sebastian clomped around the room, hands in the air. “Meanwhile, I practice six hours a day, study dance, acting, and languages, to make no more than the average high school teacher.” His nostrils flared, and a crazed look appeared in his eyes. “And most of that goes toward lessons to improve my performance!”
Henri didn’t know how much teachers made, but it couldn’t be much. “But you own this nice house, lots of prime real estate. If you need money, why don’t you sell…?”
Sebastian’s face shaded to scarlet. “Sell my home? Sell my home, he says, he who has three or four and doesn’t worry for a roof over his head. Here I am, trying to help you be a better vocalist, and Mr. I’ve-got-gold-records-who-the-fuck-needs-you tells me to sell my home.” Sebastian stalked over to Henri, leaning down to put them nose to nose. “I’m doing this for Lucas, not for you. I made a promise to a friend and I intend to keep my word. Now, I’m leaving. You have two choices. Do as I say and practice your breathing, or pack your things and go back to LA, to bellow like a wounded animal until someone more willing to listen to reason topples you from the charts.”
Wow. Talk about righteous indignation. And Sebastian had gotten all that out without a noticeable breath. It really could be done. “Where are you going?”
“It’s Monday. I have a class.” Sebastian slammed the music room door so hard the windows shook.
