“I will, you will, and you’re on.” Tessa lifted her pointy little chin another fraction of an inch. Stubborn woman. Henri liked her. A lot.
She scrounged through the room again, gathering up a variety of items: two glasses, which she filled to different levels of water in the sink, an empty soda can, a book, the tissue box, and “Aha! You owe me, mister!” She turned around, sheer triumph on her face. She held aloft a Chinese takeout box and set of chopsticks. Damn. Busted. “Someone’s been sneaking contraband in.”
“How much do you want to keep quiet?” Henri reached for his billfold. A guy couldn’t survive on the healthy meals provided by the center, and so far no one had figured out that “Cousin Joe” who faithfully visited every day worked for a delivery service.
Tessa skewered him with blasts of pure fury from her frosty green eyes. Oh hell. With Henri’s luck she’d live up the reputation of fiery redheads. “You swear to me it’s only food, no drugs, and we’re good.”
Henri held two fingers aloft, in a symbol for “scout’s honor”that he hadn’t used in fifteen years. “The nurses have a full list of everything I take. It’s on my chart.”
“Good.” She washed the chopsticks off in the sink. “Now, what song do you want?”
“I don’t care, you pick.” She’d never manage a decent rhythm with her assorted pile of junk.
“How about Sheila E.’s ‘The Glamorous Life’?”
“Works for me.” An oldie but a goodie.
Her malevolent grin put the evil day nurse to shame. Tessa took a deep breath and closed her eyes, chopsticks in hand.Tap, tap, rap, rap, bibbity bop, bop, bop.
Henri managed to slough off some of his lethargic stupor. Damn. In a good way. “How’d you learn to play?”
“Sheila E. was my idol growing up. A kickass woman who played drums? Awesome. I practiced on my desk at school with pencils, kept getting into trouble.” Her rhythm didn’t falter throughout the conversation. “Finally my dad gave in and sent me to lessons.” All grin and bright green eyes, it was easy to imagine her as a hyperactive kid. “I started in junior high band as a percussionist, went through high school and on to college.”
Hell, Henri pitied the woman’s teachers. Keeping her still must have been like trying to rope a cyclone. Unless they’d been the ones to discover the mighty power of setting a bronze bowl in front of her—the only thing he’d ever seen hold her attention for longer than five minutes.
Bip, bip, bip, bop.“At State I met a group of exchange students who introduced me to new instruments. They suggested Tibetan bowls for their calming effects.”
Heh. No need to wonder why.
She nodded toward the coffee table. “I’ve got a cool setup in my garage. Come by for a private concert sometime.”Thwack, thwack, boppity bop.
Here she was, a therapist, chatting with a so-called rock god about music. Her face nearly glowed. She wasn’t trying to sell him anything. She wasn’t asking him to make her famous. All she wanted was to share her passion—and maybe teach him to meditate.
Once upon a time Henri had felt the same way about his songs, before every single note became a commercial endeavor, words written to impress fans and earn money. What he wouldn’t give to have a bit of the old fire back. “Do you still play drums? Have you ever played in a band?”
“Only in college. Now I’m teaching my nephew, and occasionally entertain at parties with my bowls. I put away my rock star dreams a long time ago.” She gave a halfhearted smile. “My dad advised me to find a safer career option. Or demanded, rather.”
Dad had a point. “Yeah. Look at me. You might have turned into a drugged-out, rock has-been.”
She darted her tongue out, giving her the momentary appearance of a bratty twelve-year-old. “And wouldn’t that have been awful? They’d put me in the next room and we’d be neighbors.”
Somehow, except for the drugged-out part, Henri could imagine a lot less pleasant things than being Tessa’s neighbor. He’d simply send her to the rec room to play the pool table with cue sticks when she grew annoying.
Henri hadn’t told her he was gay from long habit of keeping things hidden that might affect ticket sales, and she didn’t ask. She also didn’t flirt or throw herself at him. She wanted nothing personal from him but conversation, his mental well-being, and a chance to clean up his room. And she didn’t scurry off, duty done, the moment she’d scribbled on his clipboard at the end of their sessions. She cared. What a rare gift. Nobody in LA cared anymore. They must have imported her from Iowa or somewhere.
She stopped dead still—for about three heartbeats. “Oh, crap! I’m gonna be late for my next appointment!” In a flurry of motion she disassembled her makeshift drums and shot out the door, enormous purse slamming against the bowls in her hands with every step.
Damn, but Henri needed to sleep now. She’d never have given him a joint, even if he’d won the bet, but she probably hadn’t doubted her abilities for a moment. Henri’d been her level of cocky once.
He added “Hear Tessa play drums” to his to-do list. Next time he’d bet for chocolate.
“Mr. Lafontaine?I’m Detective Shepard of the Los Angeles Police Department. I’d like to ask you a few questions.” A suit and tie couldn’t disguise one of LA’s finest. He screamed cop from the moment Henri entered the private sitting room designated for talking with guests. Couldn’t have the general public romping around in patients’ rooms. Not that Henri lived in a cell by any means. His suite rivaled a five-star hotel. It should, for what he paid.
“I didn’t do it.” Hee. The title to one of his songs, actually, about a man pleading innocent and being guilty as sin.
LA wiseasses being a dime a dozen, the cop didn’t comment on the lame attempt at humor. Maybe he wasn’t familiar with the song. “Your toxicology report shows your blood-alcohol level was well below the legal driving limit, and there was evidence of venlafaxine hydrochloride, in keeping with the prescription you provided. It checks out. However, we also found GHB in your system, as well as in the glass you left by the bed.”
“I was drugged?” He knew it! A chill ran up his spine.
