Sebastian responded after several moments of quiet. “That is a problem. Has he been to a therapist?”
“Yes. And he’s tried meds, but says they sap his creative drive. Not only does he play, he writes his own songs too.”
“You signed a guitarist who can’t play concerts? You could use him for a studio musician and find someone else to tour with.”
Yes, Henri could. But he’d made his mind up, and he wouldn’t settle for less than the best. Michael was the best. “Yeah, but I want Michael. He’s incredible.”
They lay in silence for a while, Henri soaking up the tranquility of being with his own personal calm and fully trusting Seb to suggest a viable solution.
“Do you attend church?” wasn’t an answer Henri expected.
“Do what?”
“Come.” Seb slid his arm out from under Henri’s head. “If we hurry, we can make eleven o’clock services.”
“We’re going to pray for Michael’s stage fright?” While Henri hadn’t actually attended Sunday services much in his life, he’d sort of assumed that, vampire-like, he might incinerate upon breaching the door. He’d been told he was bound straight for Hell on many occasions—to his face, via letter or e-mail, phone calls, and one deranged psycho had painted the words on his naked body and offered to send Henri there personally.
If he did manage to make it past the doors, the good people inside the fancy building with the steeple might burn him at the stake after taking one look at his sleeve tats. It took a special breed to appreciate winged-gargoyle body art.
“You’ll see. I do believe we’ll find our answer in church.”
* * *
Suit, suit,suit. Dress. Hat. A parade of folks passing Henri’s last-pew perch dressed far finer than his blue jeans and black band shirt. He scrunched farther down, the better to hide his tats. Beside him, Seb wore pressed khakis and a button-down. “How good to see you!” a woman exclaimed, bypassing Henri to hug Seb. “Are you going to sing for us this morning?”
Seb ducked his head, his auburn ringlets contrasting with his suddenly red face. “No, ma’am. Just visiting. I’d like you to meet my friend, Henri Lafontaine.”
Here it comes.The squeals of recognition, or maybe condemnation depending on what the woman had heard. Neither happened.
“Nice to have you here, Henri. Are you related to the Lafontaines in Mercer, by any chance?” The woman wandered off after a moment or two of small talk. Henri hadn’t been able to go out in public unnoticed in years. Maybe the paparazzi had the same fear of being reduced to ash and didn’t enter cross-bearing buildings. Yet here he sat, tattoos, long hair, and all. Hmmm… now if he held hands with Seb….
Stage curtains drew back to reveal a band, complete with a tattooed lead singer. Really? Dang! Since when had churches gotten so progressive? Instead of hymns, the band performed rock music with a religious message. Wow! Rock in church.
Once the band finished, Seb whispered, “Watch closely.”
A thin man in a three-piece suit took to the stage. “Good morning,” he said into a microphone. “And welcome.”
“What am I supposed to watch?” Henri whispered back to Seb.
“Look at his feet.”
Holy crap! Henri stared at the man now reading from a Bible. No feet! Or rather, the image faded toward the stage. “How?”
“Reverend Cole preaches at three different churches. He’s physically at one. The rest are holographic projections. Pretty good likeness, isn’t it?” Seb’s curls framed a wide grin.
A hologram. They’d found a way for Michael to appear onstage.
Seb was a fucking genius. Oops, did Henri actually think that in church? He waited for the lightning bolt.
