The nerve of the guy. How dare he scold Henri like a spoiled child? Did he have any idea who Henri was? Fans waited hours in the rain for a glimpse of him. Women ripped off their shirts for him to sign their breasts, for Christ’s sake. And a little nobody opera tenor spoke down to a rock legend. Well, Henri hoped to be a legend one day, if he survived long enough in the music industry. Therein lay Henri’s problem. He’d gotten his first recording contract at seventeen. At twenty-seven, he’d enjoyed a successful career, but he’d never won a Grammy or an American Music Award.
Some bands lasted seemingly forever, keeping their existing fans and gaining new ones, but Hookers and Cocaine wasn’t the Stones or Aerosmith. Before “the incident” their record sales had begun to dwindle. If Henri was to succeed, he’d have to try harder, be smarter, and write songs that touched hearts—or keep himself in the headlines through bad behavior, an exhausting proposition. Without the music he’d be nothing. Unacceptable.
Every day a barrage of younger, hungrier lead singers appeared on the scene. If he didn’t constantly struggle to survive, he’d be left behind.And therein lay the key: he’d stay hungry, and surround himself with equally hungry musicians who’d go the extra mile.
He ran upstairs and logged into his computer to call up a video from this year’s Grammy-winning band. Damn but the guy could sing, and even in his wildest dreams, Henri’s vocal range couldn’t compare. Though he strained to hear, never once did the guy pull in a breath midsentence. Maybe Sebastian had a point. “Loo, loo, loo, loo, loo, loo, loo, loo.” Down the stairs Henri sang. If he looked and sounded ridiculous—so be it. After warming up, he attempted his song again, focusing on his breathing.
It took four hours, but by the time Seb returned, Henri managed two lines without pausing. Not well, but he’d improved.
The worry in Seb’s eyes faded to relief. “Good. Now try another song.” Had he really thought Henri might leave? And was he more concerned with the money he’d forfeit, letting a friend down, or the possibility of Henri leaving angry?
“Can I stop now?”
“I said ‘good,’ not ‘perfect.’ Is ‘good’ good enough for you?” Sebastian arched a brow. Showoff.
What the fuck! “Hey! You’ve got home field advantage. I’m fighting altitude here!”
“Excuses, excuses.”
“Well….” Gold records. Younger singers.
Sebastian glared, arms folded over his chest. “Will ‘good’ win you a Grammy?”
“Well….”
“I’ve got a date with a bullet….” Sebastian gave an audible gasp. “See, you even write your songs to allow for pitiful breath control.”
“Hey—” The caring in a pair of soulful brown eyes cut off what Henri might have said next.
Sebastian dropped his voice to a beguiling croon. “Why limit yourself? Being a better singer costs you nothing but your lessons, which you’ve already paid for.” Before Henri could reply, Sebastian added, “Keep practicing while I fix dinner.”
Limit himself? Sebastian believed Henri limited himself? The nerve. Lucas’s words came back to him:write more. Whatever Henri wrote had to beat any Hookers and Cocaine song. Damn but he needed some greasy fast food, a joint, and a beer. And not necessarily in that order.
“Dinner’s ready,” Sebastian called a short while later.
The spicy aroma from the kitchen didn’t bode well for burgers and fries.
“Grilled chicken breast with baba ghanoush, pita chips, and green salad.”
So much for Henri’s fast-food craving. “You’re going to feed me healthy every day I’m here, aren’t you?”
“If I filled your motorcycle’s tank with trash, would it run?”
“No.”
“Then why do you expect more from your body? Optimum performance calls for optimum fuel.”
A pretty ironic statement from a guy who appeared blessed by genetics and didn’t need gym visits to stayed toned. Then again, all the dance lessons probably helped. Seb wasn’t bulky or ripped, but… perfect. Without even trying! Damn him.
* * *
A slavedriver, that’s what Seb was, with his “you will sing this” and “you will do that.” Henri would kill for a smoke. Or a bowl of ice cream. Or milk. Hell, he’d settle for one measly Hersey’s Kiss.
He ticked off another day on the calendar. Four down, twenty-six to go. Thank God June was a short month. What he wouldn’t give for a night out on the town. Seb wasn’t too shabby in the kitchen, if you liked healthy food, but Henri thrived on grease and fat, burning off the extra calories onstage.
The man in question poked his head through the music room door. “I’m going for a walk. Care to join me?”
“Where are you going?”
