Seventeen
“Answer thephone!” Henri checked his watch: 10:00 p.m. No telling where Sebastian might be. This news couldn’t wait.
His call went to voice mail. “I e-mailed you a recording of today’s session. You won’t believe this, but I hit high C consistently now.” How Henri would love to speak to Sebastian directly and share today’s triumph. Sebastian would smile, say, “Told you so,” and then he’d reward Henri with a kiss.
“We’re starting off small, trying out the new songs in a club next week in Fresno. I… I’d like if you were there. I understand if you can’t be, but I owe you more than I can ever repay. Especially the high note.”
He hung up, today’s achievement somewhat dampened by the inability to properly share with the one person whose approval he still sought. Maybe he should give the band the day off for good behavior and pay a little visit to the opera world. If he could enter a church, he could enter an opera house.
* * *
Henri tuggedat his collar. No use. The damned suit seemed made for discomfort. He passed by a mirror. Seb was right. He did clean up nicely. Now if only he cleaned up well enough to impress Seb. If not, the two dozen gladiolas should help. Or the late reservation in a private dining room at Akron, Ohio’s swankiest restaurant.
Dressed to the nines and with his trademark locks missing, no one seemed to recognize Henri. Of course, if they recognized him, it might be for the wrong reasons. He still had a ways to go to undo his bad-boy reputation, if he ever managed such a feat.
Outside the opera house the billboard displayed “Othello.” Maybe Henri should have Googled, found out more. Then again, Sebastian sang the role of someone named Cassio. What else did he need to know? He’d sit through the performance, make sure to show his appreciation, then whisk Cassio away for a private evening. Simple.
He relaxed back into his seat overlooking the stage and tuned out the murmurs around him. At last the lights when down and the stage lit up. The sets, the costumes, the orchestra—nothing else mattered when Sebastian took the stage. As before, in the theater, when he raised his voice, the room filled with sound. Cold chills cha-cha’d up Henri’s spine. He chanced a glance around him at the transfixed audience. He wanted this enthralling magic for himself and his band. The chanting, the wolf whistles, the fanatical idol worship were one thing, but to be able to captivate the crowd, elicit a collective gasp or titters that echoed throughout the room…. the ability to play a group of people like a piano was a gift. A gift Henri envied.
After the performers took their final bow and the applause died, Henri made his way backstage, having greased a few palms to gain entry.
He tapped lightly on the dressing room door. “Come in,” a familiar voice called.
Henri opened the door and slipped inside, cradling the box of gladiolas under his arm.
“You’re early. I told you to give me twenty minutes.” Sebastian didn’t sound happy. He sat with his back to the door, scrubbing at his face with a cotton ball.
“You were awesome.” Henri sat the box on the vanity and wrapped his arms around his lover.
Seb whipped around so quickly he nearly fell off his stool. “You!” Not exactly the welcome Henri envisioned. “You can’t be here! You have to go. He can’t find you here!” The pallor of his skin couldn’t be explained by makeup alone.
“If who finds you here?” came from behind Henri.
Seb cringed and blanched even further, beggingplease, please, pleasewith his eyes. Please what?
In the doorway stood a well-dressed man, a bit of gray showing at his temples. “Who is this, Sebastian? And what is he doing here?”
Henri stepped back. Who was this guy, and why did he act like he owned Seb? “I’m Henri Lafontaine. And you are?” Henri didn’t offer his hand.
Seb answered for the man. “Henri, this is Charles. My patron. Charles, this is Henri. A singer I’ve been working with.”A singer.Not “my lover.” Hell, not even “a friend.”
Charles raked his gaze over Henri and cast a narrow-eyed glare at the flower box. “I see. Well, Mr. Lafontaine, I hope you enjoyed the performance, butfansaren’t allowed backstage. I’ll call security to escort you out.” Seb flinched when Charles dropped a hand to his shoulder so hard it smacked.
Granted, Henri had only known Sebastian a short while, but the cowering seemed out of character for a man who carried himself with such confidence onstage.
“No, I’ll go. I came to watch the show and tell Sebastian thanks for his help. He’s made a tremendous difference.”Look at me!he silently ordered Sebastian. Sebastian stared at the floor, as drawn in on himself as a man of his size could be.
“Hurry, Sebastian, I don’t like to be kept waiting.” Charles’s fingers on the back of Sebastian’s neck squeezed too tightly. Asshole.
Maybe Henri should call security.
“Henri, thanks for coming. I’ll see you at our next lesson. Now, if you’ll excuse me, Charles is hosting a private party tonight. I need to get ready.” The hand on Sebastian’s neck might as well have belonged to a ventriloquist—the words weren’t Seb’s.
Leaving the room took all of Henri’s willpower. As he passed by, Charles’s scent tickled a memory.
He leaned against the wall outside, straining for bits of conversation from within the room. Charles spoke too softly for him to hear, but the occasional hissed threat didn’t bode well for Sebastian.
“Oh my. Look what I found!” A man in a dressing robe strode down the hall and stopped in front of Henri, fluttering his lashes. “I call dibs!”
