Fourteen
“Now, Henri,I had to pull a few strings, but I managed to get Godfrey Chambers to audition.” Lucas’s grin suggested Henri should give a shit. “You know, formerly of The White Lions of Kent.”
If he were that damned good, the Lions wouldn’t have dumped his ass. Henri extended his hand. Might as well show good manners for the ten minutes it’d take to get rid of the asshole. What a pitiful handshake. “Let’s see what you got.” Henri wiped Godfrey’s palm sweat off on his jeans and took his place beside Lucas. Godfrey reeked of tobacco smoke and appeared none too steady on his feet. He tuned up and launched into a riff. Not bad. He stopped and fired up a cigarette, letting it hang loosely in his lips while playing.
Oh hell no. Henri stalked up, grabbed the coffin nail, and flung it to the floor. He ground out the fire with the heel of his boot.
“Hey! What you do that for?” Godfrey took a swipe at Henri and missed.
“Let me ask you something.” Henri stood toe to toe with one hell of a tall fucker. Didn’t matter. As wasted as he appeared to be, a strong wind might blow him over. “How late were you out drinking last night?”
“Two? Three? What’s that got to do with anything?”
“With a show to play at 9:00 a.m.?”
“Show? This ain’t no show.”
“No, it’s an audition, when you’d better be your best. If this is your best, I’d hate to see you on the night we play a half-full tent at some state fair.” Henri took a step forward. The guitarist took a step back. “If you don’t respect yourself, don’t ask me or the rest of the band to respect you. A chain is only as strong as its weakest link. The rest of us plan to get up on stage and give it our all, night after night. We deserve better than you. Now go on, get out of here.”
He vaguely heard Lucas following the guy to the door, making apologies. No more half-assed shit. Plenty of musicians would give choice body parts to be a part of this band. Henri didn’t need anyone only in it for the money, women, or whatever else motivated a musician besides the music in their souls. Holy shit. The music in their souls. “Lucas!”
The manager who definitely earned his money came trotting back. “Henri, what are you doing? We’ll never find a lead guitarist if you keep this up!”
“I already found him.”
“What? Who?”
“Back when I was on a talent show, a kid named Michael Lindley competed. Six strings, twelve, four, you name it. If it has strings, he’d tear it up.”
“Michael Lindley? I’ve never heard of him.”
“That’s ’cause he didn’t make it to the finals. He did join my first band for a while before my mother tossed him out.” And the reasons why might present more problems than simply his plain face.
* * *
“What instrumentsdo you play?” Lucas studied Michael with all the skepticism Henri had expected.
Henri turned his smug setting down to “low.” Let Lucas ask questions to his heart’s content. If Henri’s band needed to be distinctive to get attention, he’d struck pay dirt in the originality department.
Michael Lindley was one of a kind, and quite possibly took the honor of being the lankiest guitarist on the planet. Even without his Gibson clasped before him, he hunched over, as though any minute he’d launch into a killer riff. He’d played air guitar almost constantly during the rehearsals for the talent show. Only one small problem had kept him from making finals. And come hell or high water, Henri would work out the details. The band needed uniqueness. Michael brought uniqueness in truckloads.
Michael set his guitar down with an affectionate pat, then shoved his hands into his pockets, gazing off to a point left of Lucas’s shoulder. “Guitar, fiddle, dulcimer, banjo, harp.” From anyone else the claim might sound boastful. Somehow Michael managed to come off humble.
“What bands have you played with?”
“Just Henri’s, and only for a few weeks.”
Lucas shot a wide-eyed, raised brow glare at Henri, “What the fuck?” written on his face.
Henri entered the fray. “Michael, can you play the original piece you wrote, the one that got you into the competition?”
Michael’s face shaded to red. “That old thing? Nobody wants to hear something I wrote during my pimply teenaged years.”
Henri fought back a snort. The guy’s pimply teenaged years weren’t long gone. Time to play on a musician’s ego. He might be humble, but Michael’s musical talents were his pride and joy. If only he didn’t freeze in front of audiences. But they’d fight that battle later.
First to convince Lucas, then to convince Michael. “I loved that song, the cool transition, the slides. What do you say? A little demo?”
A muscle clenched in Michael’s jaw. He darted a gaze from Lucas to Henri and back. The breath he blew out ruffled overly long bangs, revealing more of his face. If Henri needed to expand his fan base, he’d certainly win over some punk rockers with a Joey Ramone look-alike on lead guitar, while Tessa would pull in teen girls with aspirations of being in a band, and guys who preferred their women cute over sultry.
