Ten
“Where arewe going?”
“You’ll see.” Henri bypassed his Harley in favor of Seb’s car. The night would turn cool by the time they returned.
Henri wore jeans and a T-shirt, all he’d brought with him, and had tried to tame his fluffy, cotton-candy hair into a somewhat neat braid down his back. He’d even shaved. On a Friday.
Seb wore khakis and a button-down shirt. Based on evidence given, he didn’t even own jeans. He was a fiftysomething man living in a twentysomething body. Henri hoped to narrow the gap.
The restaurant he’d chosen had started life as the dwelling of a wealthy family, and perched on the edge of a mountainside. Over the phone they’d stated their dress code. Money changed everything. A private dining room, free from prying eyes, offered the best view on the whole mountain, so the manager said. Good. In years to come, Henri wanted Sebastian to remember this night.
“We’re not dressed for this,” Sebastian hissed when Henri pulled the car into the parking lot.
“You worry too much.”
Instead of entering through the main door, they were met by a young woman and escorted around back and up the stairs to a secluded balcony. “Good evening,” she said, “your server will be with you shortly.”
“Wow!” Sebastian’s eyes widened as he took in the vista below. At the bottom of the valley a river snaked through the trees, while houses, made tiny by distance, lined the banks.
“You like?” Henri breathed out a sigh of relief. Never had he wanted to please someone so badly. Maybe Sebastian’s gentle nature brought out his protective instincts. Then again, maybe wanting to share something special won out over caution. Either way, tonight had to be perfect.
A bouquet of gladiolas graced the table. Seb raised a brow when Henri pulled out his chair for him, but sat quietly. The brow rose again, joined by its twin, when Henri reached out to squeeze Seb’s hand.
Seb cleared his throat. “I love gladiolas.”
Henri smiled. “I sorta figured, with about a zillion of them growing in front of the house.”
“My grandmother tended the gardens when she was alive.” A faraway look momentarily appeared in Seb’s eyes. “They were her favorite flower too. I’m afraid I can’t match her green thumb, but I try.”
“My gran grew roses.” Henri pulled down the top of his T-shirt to show the long-stemmed red rose bud over his left nipple.
Henri expected a laugh—Seb didn’t disappoint. “Isn’t a rose a bit soft for a hardassed rocker?”
Sebastian had stepped right into his trap. Henri stood and pulled his T-shirt up to reveal the rose stem, sharpened to a dagger point, piercing a life-sized human heart inked into the skin over Henri’s own heart. A drop of blood clung to the point.
“I take that back. It’s not soft in the least.”
Henri smoothed his shirt down and rejoined Sebastian at the table.
“Do you mind me asking about your tattoos? Some are kinda… scary.”
“Which ones?”
Sebastian wrinkled his face and pursed his lips a moment, finally deciding on, “All of them.”
Henri held out his arm. “Most people call this a demon. It’s not. It’s a gargoyle. You know what a gargoyle is, don’t you?”
“Of course I do. Many opera houses and cathedrals have them. They’re supposed to ward off evil spirits. What about the rose through the heart?” Understanding crossed Sebastian’s face. “‘Rose Through the Heart’is one of your songs.”
“Yes, and here….” Henri showed his other arm, bearing the image of a .38 Special and bullets. “This symbolizes ‘A Matter of When.’ It’s from the cover.”
“You’ve inked your career into your skin. Tell me, what happens when you run out of skin?”
How many more albums would it take for Henri to run out of space? “I guess I’ll have to recycle concepts.”
“I have one more question.”
“Ask away.”
