Click, click, clickwent the camera. The photographer adjusted lights, moved the band members around, and took a few more shots. Singly and in groups, Henri, Tessa, Michael, Jake, and Colton posed for the better part of the afternoon, to a chorus of "Nice!", "Awesome!", and "Oh yes, perfect!"
At last the guys broke for dinner and to review digital proofs. Of the many poses, the first best captured the spirit of the band. Tessa had draped an arm over Henri’s shoulder, not like a woman clinging to a man for support but like an equal, a friend, a buddy. And she flat rocked as a fairy.
Each and every band member appeared exactly as Henri imagined them in his mind: Michael, Mr. Average Boy Next Door; Jake, aging rock star who still had the moves; Colton, the living tribute to Bruce Lee; Tessa, ethereal, unconventional, a free spirit; himself, caught somewhere in between, wearing his bike chaps and a band T-shirt.
No one member stood out any more than the others. They were an ensemble cast. A band.
They wereMismatched Delusions.
And they were gonna kick some rock and roll ass.
* * *
“Henri, aword please?” Lucas lounged in the hallway, leaning against a wall. Snippets of conversation came from the hotel’s conference room down the hall. A cameraman hurried past, gear hoisted onto his shoulder.
“You go ahead, guys, I’ll be right there,” Henri told the band, nodding in the direction of the voices. “What’s up, Lucas?”
“Two things. First, I want them to go ahead so you can make a grand entrance. Secondly, I want to give you a heads-up. Give them thirty minutes. Answer the reporters’ questions, evade what you want to, but at the end, call on the woman in the purple sweater. We’ll leave these newshounds with something to chew on.” Lucas hiked up one side of his mouth in his conniving manager grin. Thank God he was on Henri’s side.
Henri paused in the doorway, studying what lay ahead. Damn, but he needed a joint right now. Or one of his emergency pills. Or better yet, Sebastian Unger holding his hand.Face your issues, you wuss.He filled his lungs and leaked out the air in a controlled exhalation. Then he nodded to Lucas and followed his band into the conference room. A long table sat before several rows of reporter-filled chairs, his band already seated at the table. One empty chair remained. He blew out his breath and joined his crew.
Flashes announced the moment’s preservation on camera. A few people murmured when he sat down, and he fought a grin. He’d changed a hell of a lot in the last few months—for the better. He’d worn a sleeveless shirt to let his tats show, but his bandmates didn’t have to pull back their chairs to make room for his hair.
“Good afternoon. I’d like to thank you for coming.” For the first time Henri got to address the press directly. Normally his mother would have taken control. Not this time, and never again. “I’d like to introduce you to a few people I’ve been hanging out with.”
A few giggles sounded from the audience.
“To my right here is Tessa Eklund, the finest percussionist in the business, and beside her is Michael Lindley. You might remember him—we started out together years ago. He plays lead guitar, among a million other instruments.
“To my left is Jake Steadman, a man with a lot of…” He let the sentence hang before adding, “experience.” Several journalists chuckled. “Lastly, a man who can flat tear up the keyboards, Mr. Colton Ferguson.”
Hands shot in the air. Without being called upon, a man in the front row shouted, “Mr. Lafontaine, why did you leave Hookers and Cocaine?”
“I learned the error of my ways?” Snickers sounded from the back of the room. Henri invoked his bland face. Maybe he should have gone to acting lessons with Sebastian. “Why would anysanehuman being leave a successful band? Is that what you’re asking?” Let them chew on his words awhile. “Creative differences. Most of the band liked our direction, while I wanted to try something new. That’s why I’m now working with the fine folks here with me today. Each has something unique to bring to the table.”
“Is it true you had a falling out with the band?” Mr. Rude-and-won’t-wait-my-turn asked.
Fucking vulture. “They’re my brothers. They’ll always be my brothers even though we’ve parted ways.” And he wasn’t wasting any time or money on a slander suit by saying what he really thought of the assholes.
“Will you be playing any of your old songs on tour?”
Would someone please shut this fuckwad up? Why the hell was he dwelling on the past, when this was aMismatched Delusionspress conference?“What’s the use of making changes if I intend to do the same ole, same ole?”
Someone groaned.
Henri winked. “I’d reserve judgment if I were you.”
A woman asked, “You’ve certainly changed your appearance recently. I, for one, like what you’ve done. Is there a reason for the sudden turnaround?”
“Do you mean like the love of a good—” He couldn’t resist teasing. He could almost see the news-hungry predators’ ears flapping. He finished with “—cop?”
Fits of laughter erupted from the gathered journalists. Some of them hadn’t known him during “The Great Cop Incident,” but the most embarrassing news story ever likely hadn’t been missed by any of them, thanks to YouTube footage. “Now if you don’t mind, I’m getting a bit tired. How about a question for Tessa?”
Henri sat back and let his bandmates have their moment, while carefully deflecting questions from Michael. Poor guy appeared ready to bolt and clung tightly to Tessa’s white-knuckled hand. Henri checked his watch. About thirty minutes. Time to wrap up. He scanned the room for the woman in purple. There she was. Oh, wait. Or was she over there?
Frantically he searched for Lucas, who held up his hand and wriggled his fingers. What the hell? Henri studied the two women again. One sported three-inch, purple claws to match her outfit. Oh, those were fucking scary.
“One more question,” Henri shouted to be heard. “The lady in the back.”
