Sweet relief wrapped around him when they stepped into their evening’s venue. A poster of the band huddled around his Harley hung on the door. He smiled. His band. And suddenly he found himself swept back ten years, to the first time he’d seen a Hookers and Cocaine poster. How proud he’d been. If only he’d known.
“On stage in one hour,” Lucas announced, breaking into Henri’s thoughts and leading him to the dressing room. The rest of the guys fell in step behind. Where the hell was Tessa?
Henri stopped short in the hallway. “Who is this?” The blue-Mohawked guy lounging in the doorway sent the weirdness factor into the stratosphere. And a rock band featuring everything from Tibetan bowls to a hammered dulcimer had already set the weirdness bar pretty high.
“This is Steve. Steve, meet the band.” Tessa peered out from around the tall, dark, and heavily made-up man. “He’s a stylist.”
“But we’ve been through this already. The leather look didn’t work, so we tried our own thing.” Henri was through with a manager, or anyone else, telling him how to dress. And hell if she’d get him to change his hair again. “What’s wrong with my Ramones T-shirt?” Oh, wait. After their first night, he had wanted a stylist, hadn’t he? Funny how the later shows and worrying about Seb made fashion slip his mind.
“Nothing. It’ll win over the punk fans. He’s not here to change any of us. He’s only going to help us market what we have.” Tessa skipped across the floor to lay a hand on Henri’s arm. “Trust me.”
Well, yeah, based on their first show, they probably could use some help with style. At least Henri could get his warm-ups in while waiting his turn.
One hour and a lot of hairspray later, Henri had to admit the band looked better. Tessa once more wore a stripe of pink war-paint across her face, accentuated with a glittery rhinestone at the edge of her mouth. Her hair stood on end, teased into plumage that Steve sprayed with glitter. Black lined her eyes, making the green even more vivid.
“Can you play in that thing?” Henri eyed the magenta puffy dress she wore.
“It’s more comfortable than it looks.”
Good, ’cause it looked excruciating.
Jake sported a retro ambiance, a la Keith Richards from the Stones, who he sort of resembled. Well, a younger version of Keith Richards, anyway. Colton wore black: T-shirt, jeans, and fingerless gloves. Applied with Steve’s sure hand, the runes were more interesting than weird.
A little bit of squirming got Henri into low-cut black skinny jeans—a black leather vest obscured part of his T-shirt.Ah, hell. I’m a sellout. I’m wearing skinny jeans.
“Here.” Steve pulled out a cross necklace.
Henri bent to have the chain slipped over his head. Steve threaded the chain through Henri’s belt loop, letting the pendant hang down. If he moved right, it’d hang between his legs. Oh. Naughty.
“Wear that to every show, and in a month, it’ll be the next big thing,” Steve assured him. A touch of liner and mascara later, and the stylist pronounced them ready.
Now to test the new look. And no fairy wings, thank God.
A bigger venue this time: a small club. Anaheim. Where he’d met stalker boy. The band waited backstage, soaking up thunderous applause when an announcer called their names. Whether the fans cheered for real or were influenced by a certain manager was left to question. Henri wouldn’t put it past Lucas to hire folks to whip the crowd into a frenzy.
This time, an opaque sheet would hide Michael from view. Or rather, he couldn’t see the audience, but backlit, they’d see his silhouette. With Michael’s wild gyrations while playing, they’d get an eyeful.
The crowd chanted, “Henri!” Time for an image change. He wasn’t a solo act and had no intention of using his band as a backdrop. They were Mismatched Delusions. Five people coming together to be awesome. Michael waited behind his screen, nervously caressing Sylvia’s fingerboard. A spotlight illuminated him, and he worked his magic on the guitar, keeping the crowd occupied while Colton and Tessa darted onstage.
“Young’uns,” Jake declared before sauntering out at a leisurely pace. Mr. Been There, Done It All simply couldn’t appreciate the excitement of a concert. Henri followed the others onstage.
The lights came up, the cheers grew deafening, and the band launched into their first song. Damn, he’d missed this.
He stood in the spotlight, folks he trusted at his back, and Lucas smiling at him from the wings. How had he lived without the adoration? Was this how Seb felt onstage? Was this why he put up with a manipulative asshole of a patron? Wait. Except for the sex and beating, Henri had pretty much done the same thing. It had started slowly, someone he trusted pushing for more and more, until his life wasn’t his own. And his mother once threatened his career as that bastard Charles had Sebastian’s.
Why? Because Henri was her bread and butter. He hadn’t needed her anymore, so she’d had to convince him he did. And Sebastian sure as hell didn’t need Charles.
Even if he never again held Sebastian in his arms, even if Sebastian never loved him, Henri would free the man or die trying. Though he belted out “Ice Inside,” in his head the words to a new song formed: “Die Trying.”
The audience cheered and screamed. Thongs, joints, and a few hotel keys hit the stage. The euphoria ended too soon.
“Oh my God, that was the best thing evah!” Tessa tapped out a beat on Michael’s back all the way back to their dressing room. Colton’s wide grin had to hurt his cheeks. Jake tried to play it cool, but Henri caught him smiling whenever he thought no one was looking.
Lucas slapped Michael on the back. “Rumors are flying, speculating who the mystery guitarist is. You’ve been compared to guitar legends!”
Their shared elation died the moment they opened the dressing room door. A bouquet of dead roses sat on a dresser, with a note that read “Miss me?”
Oh fuck. Dead roses. A line from“Rose Through the Heart.”
