Seven
“Dammit!” Henrislammed his hand down on the piano.
“What is it?” Sebastian poked his head through the door.
“Have you ever worked your ass off for something, only to have it taken away from you?”
Seb paused before replying, “Yes. What are we talking about here?” He held a dishcloth in his hand. The man cleaned more than anyone else Henri ever met, though Tessa the meditation guru came in a close second.
“My songs. I did most of the work, but since I shared credits, Lucas believes I should write more and forget the old ones.” His former band might as well have taken possession of his right arm.
One side of Seb’s mouth lifted. “I tend to agree.”
“What?”
“You’re Henri Lafontaine, former lead singer. Every time your old band advertises, they’re advertising you too.”
It worked both ways. “Yeah.”
“What do you know about passive aggression?”
Hmmm…. Seemed like Dr. Worthington used the term. “That it’s a bad thing?”
Seb laughed. “Useful sometimes. My mother called it ‘getting revenge and coming out smelling like a rose.’ Now, the song you sang the other day is called…?”
“A Matter of When.”
“And it’s a depressing piece about a man leaving a smothering lover by way of suicide, right?”
No one had ever summed up the song in quite the same way before. “You’re not helping, Seb.”
“I’m getting there. From what I understand, songs can be copyrighted, titles cannot.”
Lucas had said the same thing. “So? As you said, if I advertise a new song with the same name, I’m giving a bunch of douchebags free publicity.” No way in hell.
“Write a completely opposite new song, with the same name.”
“What’s that supposed to do?”
“Henri Lafontaine performs a song entitled ‘A Matter of When.’ It’s fresh, it’s cutting edge, it pushes boundaries you’ve never dreamed possible. Your former band performs a completely different song, very dark, and also five years old. Nothing says, ‘I’m over those losers and their morose lyrics’ like an in-your-face, tongue-in-cheek comeuppance.” Seb winked.
Easier said than done. “There’s only one little problem.”
“What?”
“Those are the best lyrics I’ve ever written. I’m not sure I can do better.” “Sober” and “songwriting” might be mutually exclusive, in Henri’s case.
“Sure, you can. You’ve been in love before, right? The butterflies in the stomach. The ‘will she call or won’t she?’ Your heart skipping a beat when a certain young lady enters the room.”
Okay, somebody didn’t get the memo, or read the tabloids. While he said grace before every meal, Sebastian had yet to go off on any homophobic rants. Besides, technically he was a paid employee—his opinions shouldn’t count. How odd that they did. “Sebastian, how much did you know about me before I got here?”
“Only what Lucas told me. You’re a rock vocalist preparing for a midcareer makeover. You need some coaching, and a quiet place to write.”
“You didn’t once look me up online or read any of those tabloid articles?” The next words out of Henri’s mouth could destroy their growing-more-comfortable-by-the-day relationship. Of the many restrictions Margo enforced, the one that chafed the most was having to be someone else, showing up at social events with a woman clinging to his arm, answering questions about his personal life with, “I’m too busy now with the band to have much of a social life.” What a lie. The rest of the guys had girlfriends or wives, a couple had both. Henri was alone because of Margo’s iron will. No more. With this new start, the mask must fall. Yet revealing his true self might cost him friends and fans.
Who was he kidding? What friends? And who wanted bigoted homophobes for fans?
“Sebastian, I can honestly and truly say I’ve never gotten butterflies in my stomach when a woman entered the room, unless you count the time Sister Mary-Agnes caught me composing dirty limericks in the school music room.” Henri shuddered. “That woman had no qualms about taking a ruler to my knuckles.”
