Two
Marguerite hoveredover the bed in Henri’s hotel room, hands on her hips. “How could you do something so stupid? Think of someone other than yourself for a change! I had to call in a lot of favors to cover up your stupidity. We had to cancel shows because of you. Do you have any idea how much money we lost? How much promoters lost? How many tickets we had to refund? This little fiasco cost us—”Whah, whah, whah, whah.
Henri tuned out her droning. Any nosey paparazzi lounging in the hallway were getting an earful. “It’s All About the Money” played in Henri’s head, a song he’d written for his manager. She’d been flattered. She hadn’t realized the unflattering double entendres hidden within the words.
He rolled his gaze up to the ceiling. Yeah, thank God for the small favor of Marguerite keeping his name out of the papers, though not for the reasons she believed. If word of his overdose got out, he wouldn’t be considered legally competent to make certain arrangements without her knowledge, as he’d done in the scant few moments she’d allowed him alone since he’d woken up in the hospital a week ago.
“What the hell were you thinking? An overdose? Mixing drugs and alcohol? Being found drugged out in bed by a security guard? Do you have any idea what would happen to your career if a reporter found out?”
“What would happen to your career?”not“what would happen to you?”And“stupidity”?The nerve of her.
No need to point out that if the guard in question hadn’t been aspiring for better things, i.e. a nursing degree, Henri wouldn’t have a career to worry about. Of all the temporary employees in LA (were they in LA, or was this still Anaheim?) Henri had lucked out to OD in the presence of a trained first responder. And what better way for a creative type to come out of the closet to his fans than to end his life with a man in his room? What a way to go!
Only, the whole dying thing wasn’t on the agenda.
“It was an accident. I’m telling you someone put something in my drink.” He’d taken his meds. He hadn’t drunk, except for the one Jack and Ginger foisted on him by the fan who wouldn’t take no for an answer.
As usual, his manager had dressed herself based on TV’s idea of cutting-edge chic—maybe twenty years ago. The model he’d dated last spring had pursed her surgically enhanced lips and sneered at Marguerite’s lack of fashion savvy. And yet Marguerite had rallied to the woman’s defense the moment Henri cut ties.She’s good for your career!she’d said then. In the here and now, Marguerite huffed, “You can’t do anything right without my help, can you?”
Apparently notwent unsaid.
Another woman’s much calmer voice cut in. “Margo.”
“Don’t call me that!” the woman who’d dubbed herself “Marguerite” hissed.
The most recent shrink in Henri’s life persisted. “Given that he’s recovering from a near-fatal mix of drugs and alcohol, yelling at him isn’t in his best interest.” The woman who’d been standing quietly by the door made her presence known.
Henri gazed with new eyes at the latest in a long string of head doctors. With her short gray haircut and trim, no-nonsense suit, she could teach Marguerite a thing or two about appearing professional. Had he found an ally? She’d seemed so impartial during their daily counseling sessions, though she’d originally raised Henri’s hackles by being an old friend of Marguerite’s. Perhaps she’d been listening after all.
But Marguerite wouldn’t keep anyone around who didn’t mindlessly echo her own shallow thoughts. How many hours had Henri spent perusing his contract, trying to find a loophole to end her hold over him? But no, if nothing else, his manager had locked on a cast-iron shackle, only to be terminated, like everything else, when she gave the word, and not a moment before. However, her temper ran hot. If he played his cards right….
He’d never realized until a few day ago how easy it’d be to block her access to his finances and other aspects of his life. Nearly dying gave a man a new perspective, apparently. Even now, the locks and security codes on his three homes were being changed, and he’d removed her name from any accounts. Phase I of the “Free Henri” project neared completion. Now for Phase II.
Not giving a damn anymore about what she might do lent him audacity, and a possible backer in the room added a boost of courage. “Sit down,Margo,” he barked.
Midtap of spiked heeled pumps across the floor, Marguerite whirled, righteous indignation twisting her face into a mask of fury. Her blood-red lips formed an O of outrage. Henri beat her to the punch. “Sit the fuck down! I’m your client, dammit, and for once, you’re gonna listen to me!”
The color drained from the woman’s face, and her furious gaze darted around the room, seeking help. The doctor, appearing smugly satisfied, nodded at Henri. “You’d better do as he says,Margo.”
Henri hadn’t met this doctor before his overdose, but once he managed to break free of his current manager, he’d keep the counselor—manager’s old friend or not—because she obviously did her own thinking.
Margo sank onto the bedside chair, crimson talons gripping the padded rests. She had to wriggle in her skirt suit to sit. Years ago she’d watched soap operas to learn how to dress “rich,” never realizing that her outdated styles didn’t paint the successful business image she aimed for. Good thing she’d developed deafness to the snickers behind her back. Why did she insist on trying to be someone she wasn’t?
The small spark of independence living inside Henri, fanned to life by really good drugs and desperation, crowed. “Since I have your attention, we need to talk. There’s going to be some changes.”
“Changes?” Margo snarled. “Before you get high and mighty on me, you’d better realize who’s responsible for you even having a career.”
Oh, hell no, she didn’t go there. “You’d shoot the horse you rode in on? You may have gotten me where I am, but it’s me who makes the money. Without me, you’d be waiting tables at IHOP.”
“Why you ungrateful little—”
“No!” Henri held up a quelling hand, something he would never have done before he’d gotten a new lease on life. He’d taken his existence for granted before—never again.
Something about being held—and nearly losing the possibility of it ever happening again—had given him hope. He’d have love and respect for himself one day, for real this time, but to get there, he’d have to correct a few wrong things in his world. “It’s my turn to talk.” He sneaked a glance at the doctor, who winked, then slowly released a pent-up breath. Best not to push too far now. He’d already pressed further than he’d ever dared before.
Dressed in silken pajamas he’d never have picked out for himself, he extracted a sheath of papers from the end table drawer, delivered via courier while Margo had been out for a spa appointment. He donned a pair of glasses she’d forbidden him to wear in public, lest he tarnish his image, and proceeded to read aloud through a list. “Fifty-six thousand for a new car for my father. What’s wrong with the one I bought him last year?”
“It was last year’s. You want to keep your reputation up as being generous to your family, don’t you?”
