He’d trade everything he owned for his family to be uncomplicated again. He glared at his mother. “Hug me.”
“What?” She blanched, pulling back as far as the chair allowed. Professionally painted fingertips petted her crisp jacket.
“I told you to hug me.”Don’t I mean more to you than wrinkles?
Her wary gaze ricocheted between Henri and the doctor. The doctor tipped her head sharply toward Henri.
Henri waited. An aggrieved sigh wafted out of the woman that the little boy in Henri still wanted to idolize, and she awkwardly bent in to wrap a loose grip around his shoulders. Even begrudgingly given, Henri sought comfort from the gesture, until she warned, “Watch my hair.”
He jerked back, smacking his head against the headboard. All warmth fled and he flung back the barb she’d used to hurt him. “You’re my manager, something I can’t change—right now. But you’re not acting like my mother. You’re too damned worried about the money and what people might think. Get out. I could’ve died, and you’re more concerned with wealth and power and your fucking hair. I ask for a simple hug and you can’t give it. Get the hell out.
“You can stay,” Henri told the doctor.
Margo opened and closed her mouth several times, outrage bubbling to the surface of her faux-polished exterior. Exhaling a slow breath, she turned up the corners of her lips in a terrifying smirk. Shit was about to get real.
“Dr. Worthington?” she asked, voice syrupy sweet. “I believe my son may not be competent to make his own decisions. What’s your professional opinion?”
The doctor, silent during the past exchange, stepped up on the opposite side of the bed. “With all due respect, ma’am, you brought me here to assess your s….”—the doctor spared a raised-brow inquiry to Henri before changing to—“client’s mental state, which I have over the past week. He’s competent.”
Margo’s grin grew positively feral. “But you could change your report, right? If he started displaying abnormal behavior again?”
“Ma’am, Henri suffers from anxiety and has a history of depression. With therapy and perhaps better adherence to medication schedules, we can get his condition under control. However, I won’t fake a diagnosis for you or anyone else. You brought me here for my professional opinion and I gave it.” Dr. Worthington reached into a briefcase hanging from her shoulder and extracted a tablet computer. “Besides, I’ve already written my report, ordered prescriptions, and scheduled appointments for this young man’s therapy.” The woman’s hand on Henri’s shoulder offered more comfort than the earlier fake hug.
Margo bolted from the chair. “Well, I suppose I’ll find a new doctor.”
Henri corrected her. “No, you won’t.”
“That’s not up to you to decide!” Angry wasn’t a good look for Margo.
“Mo… Margo, I’m twenty-seven. I’m filthy fucking rich, and I can damned well hire my own doctor.” He slapped his hand over Dr. Worthington’s. The doctor showed support with a quick squeeze, the most genuine affection to be tossed Henri’s way since his sister’s “Thank you for the car” squealing birthday hug. “Now, I need some time to talk withmy doctor… alone. Would you please leave?”
Arms folded over her chest like a petulant child, Margo pouched out her lip. “Make me.”
Rather than argue, Henri grinned. “Fine! If you won’t leave, I will.” He flung the covers back and launched himself out of the bed, coming close enough to touch, but stopping short. Storming from the suite, he turned deaf ears to her hurled insults.
Clop, clop, clopsounded in his wake, and he hurried to the elevator and punched the down button. “Please, please hurry!” he whispered to the car. Margo got there first. Henri headed for the stairs instead, clutching the handrail to keep from tumbling. His pursuer couldn’t follow in her heels. Dr. Worthington, in her sensible suit and shoes, might be able to, but as long as she was on Henri’s side, let her deal with Margo.
Henri beat his momager to the ground floor by a matter of seconds. The doctor dogged her heels, pleadings falling on deaf ears.
A crowd of onlookers notwithstanding, Margo caught him and jabbed a pointed nail at Henri’s silk-covered chest. “You will not do this! You will not disrespect me.” Spittle showered his face.
“Watch me.” Henri spun on bare feet and marched across the cold marble lobby floor toward the front entrance of the hotel. He hung onto the revolving door a moment after exiting, reveling in the purple face and hateful words of someone who he would no longer let hurt him.
A few feet away a uniformed officer peered at him from over the top of mirrored shades, pausing midmotion in writing a ticket to an illegally parked Rolls-Royce. Margo’s Rolls-Royce. How ironic that her car cost more than Henri’s, when he’d made the money to buy the damned thing. One month’s payment on the pearl-white status symbol would have bought two of the aging Chevy his mom had once shuffled him to practice in.
The officer took a step toward the commotion, and Henri let loose his hold on the door. Margo stumbled and nearly fell. Her piled-high curls lost the battle with gravity, strands sticking up at odd angles.
Henri tipped an imaginary hat at the officer and trudged off down the street in pajamas, his fluffy hair hanging down his back in a tangled mess.
Margo trotted behind, her words sweet music to his ears. “If you do one more stupid thing—”
Really? He stopped. “You’ll what?”
“Then… then… you can figure your own way out of this bullshit. I’ve had it up to here with your irresponsible behavior.”
He eyed the doctor and then the cop. “Did you hear her?” His heart thudded a mile a minute. “Did she just threaten to drop me?” Escape couldn’t be this easy.
“Sounded like it to me,” the doctor replied, followed by the conveniently placed officer’s quiet, “Yes.”
Henri faced Margo, tamping down the part of him longing to bend to her will, do anything, say anything, for her approval. She glared.
Although famed for his creative song lyrics, when asked to produce bad behavior out of thin air, nothing immediate came to mind. Several bystanders stood on the sidelines, snapping pictures with cellphones.May each benefit properly from their cold-hearted nosiness into someone else’s meltdown.
He had to do something, anything, outrageous. Beyond rehab stints, trashed hotel rooms, or drunken brawls in seedy clubs. What to do? What to do? Escape lay at his fingertips if he could push his mother a fraction of an inch further. What the hell could he do to piss her off?
Gaze falling on the cop, Henri muttered, “Sorry, man. But it’s for a good cause.” He brought both hands up to hold the officer’s head and slammed his lips down, initiating a game of tonsil hockey with a surprised opposing team.
