Twenty-Five
Holy shit!What the fuck happened to his head? A bump slammed Henri against a hard surface. Damn! He rocked violently from side to side, an engine’s vibrations reverberating against his back. A trunk. He was in a trunk, riding over some god-awful rough road.Where the fuck was he?
His shoulders ached from having his hands secured behind him. Trussed up like a Christmas turkey. And cold! What the hell happened? He’d headed to the dressing room, the lights were off. He groaned, the pain in his head making itself known. Another bump jolted his shoulder. Whoever did this would have hell to pay. He wriggled his fingers toward his pocket for his phone. Damn, he’d been onstage. He never took his phone onstage. Not that he’d get the tape off his mouth to talk.
Rolling to the left didn’t help—he’d been packed in pretty tight, with little wiggle room. The emergency trunk latch remained out of reach, taunting him. So close and yet so far away. Gasoline fumes burned his nose.
Where the hell was he and where the hell were they going? And please, please, please, let Arnulfo be hot on their tail.
The car slowed, jostling over rugged terrain, and finally stopped. From outside came an off-key version of Hookers and Cocaine’s number one song, “A Matter of When”:
“Got a date with a bullet, got a date with a gun….”
Jeez, the guy couldn’t sing. He clunked around the car, opening and closing doors, stomped a few feet away, and dropped something on the ground. Would Henri be next? Should he try to scream or pretend to be out cold?
Finally the trunk lid popped open. “Oh, you’re awake. I hope I didn’t hurt you too bad.” Holy fuck. He’d recognize the bastard’s voice anywhere, even after all these months.
Henri couldn’t make out the man’s face with a flashlight shining in his eyes, but he jerked away from the fingers probing his injury. Damn, there had to be a fist-sized goose egg on the back of his head.
“Aww… don’t be like that. You made me do it. If you’d gone with me last time, I wouldn’t have had to come back.”
Sure, blame the victim.
Blame the victim, make him pay….
Fuck, not now! I am not writing a song called “Blame the Victim.” Not, not, not.
The fingers inspecting his bump trailed down his cheek. “I know what you need, probably better than you do.”
My bodyguard with a gun in his hand?
“I have every one of your songs, and I’ve listened, really listened to what you were saying.”
I was in a band called Hookers and Cocaine. Nobody should’ve listened to me.
“You tore my heart out with ‘Lonely.’ But don’t worry, I’m here now. You’ll never be lonely again.” The guy stepped back, and a bit of illumination cast him in silhouette at the same moment woodsmoke assaulted Henri’s nostrils.
The guy wouldn’t shut up. “And then you came out with ‘A Matter of When.’”
Actually, “A Matter of When” had come first, but now wasn’t the time to argue with the crazy person, not that Henri stood a chance with his mouth taped shut.
“I wanted to help you but didn’t know how.” Crazy Psycho Fan from Hell rambled on, reaching around Henri to pull out various unidentifiable items. He paused long enough to lean in, nose inches from Henri’s. “After you wrote ‘Walk Through Fire’ I figured it out.”
He grabbed Henri’s arms and hauled him from the trunk. Crackling, dead grass broke his fall. Henri “oomph!” and “owwww”ed behind his tape gag as he bounced over rocks and sticks toward a bonfire, the guy dragging him by the legs. Ow! His shirt caught on something. He left a chunk of fabric behind. Flames cast gold shadows on a ring of twisty shapes. Trees. Tall ones. A breeze blew smoke right at him and he coughed, perhaps more violently than necessary, hoping to win sympathy points.
His abductor knelt down beside him. “I love you. The tabloids tried to say you were with women, but I know better. I know it’s a man you were singing about. And I’ve figured out a way to get you away from him forever, the one you wanted to escape in ‘A Matter of When.’”
“A Matter of When” referred to escaping my controlling mother—I know that now—not an abusive lover, you shithead!
“I wouldn’t hurt you. I’d treat you better.”
Then how about untying me and letting me go?
Instead, the most unstable fan on the planet turned his back and tossed a branch on the already blazing fire. At least Henri wasn’t cold anymore.
“Lonely”described the ache and longing of needing someone to love. Though at the time he’d written the lyrics life had been good, there had been something missing, noticeable only with the entrance of Sebastian into his life. “A Matter of When” spoke of getting out of a bad situation at any cost. But what did “Walk Through Fire” have to do with anything?
Oh shit. Life going up in flames, I’d walk through fire for love. Oh, holy hell, no.
His host disappeared and reappeared a few moments later, gas can in hand. “It may hurt a bit, but the pain won’t last long and you don’t have to be afraid. I’m going with you.”
No! No! No! No! No!Henri struggled, screaming against the tape over his mouth. Dear God, we haven’t talked much lately, but please don’t let me die tonight. Not like this.
I’ll be a better person. I’ll stop lying about who I am. But pleasedon’t take me away from Seb. He makes life worth living.
Sirens split the quiet night—too fucking far away. They’d never make it in time if they didn’t hurry, and as rough as the roads were, they’d have to drive slowly. And no telling if they were even coming for him, or if they just happened to be in the neighborhood, bound for somewhere else.
The fan hummed while he sprinkled more gas on the fire. I can’t die like this! Henri added, I’ll patch things up with my family to his plea bargain with the higher power.
The fame, the wealth, the trappings of his career—he’d trade all to return to Seb. They’d work things out, they’d find a way. Nothing mattered but being with Sebastian—everything else faded into details.
Sebastian, Sebastian, Sebastian. The world revolved around Sebastian. Oh, God. Jenni! Sebastian and Jenni. He couldn’t leave them.
With his captor’s back turned, Henri grunted, groaned, and managed to get his bound-together legs underneath him. Escape wasn’t an option. He’d stall until help arrived. The crackling fire covered his sounds and he hopped away, arms behind him. He fell face-first with a thud. Pain lanced through his cheek. He glanced toward the fire. Crazy Boy hadn’t heard. Henri scrambled back up, pins and needles jabbing through his legs. Shake it off. Run!
With running out of the question, he hopped, leaning against trees for support. Fire lanced through his chest from lack of air. Breathing through his nose didn’t help. The sirens came closer.
Crazy Boy turned around. “Henri?” He searched the surrounding brush. “There’s no need to run. I’ll take care of you!”
That’s what I’m afraid of. Henri stood still, braced against a sapling to keep from toppling over. His kidnapper stomped his way through knee-high dead grass. A flashlight beam swiveled from side to side. Fuck. Heading right for Henri. “I know you’re here.”
No shit. Where else would I be?
The flashlight’s beam slipped by, illuminating trees and… nothingness. A few yards away the land dropped off. A known devil pitted against a mystery ledge.
If I get out of this I’ll never, ever write depressing lyrics again. It’s sunshine and roses from here on out. Tessa will be happy. And she can wear her damned fairy costume to every fucking concert. Sorry, Lord, do I need to give up cussing too?
He froze. The beam flashed over him, stopped, and returned. Don’t see me, don’t see me!
“Oh, there you are.” Backlit by a now-raging fire, Henri’s worst nightmare appeared as evil incarnate, blackness against the light. Sirens no longer shrieked in the distance.
Henri stared at the fire. His funeral pyre. Certain death or the unknown? He took a deep breath. Sebastian Unger, wherever you are, I love you. He plunged through the trees and over the edge.
* * *
“Mr. Lafontaine?”
The voice came from a million miles away, from a shadowy shape swimming into Henri’s field of vision.
Hands lifted him onto something solid, jostling him more violently than the car trunk. Voices. Garbled words.
“I’m still alive,” he tried to say. A crackle and gurgle came out. Tape. Why was there tape over his mouth?
“Henri?” A familiar voice. Arnulfo.
Henri raised his hand to have it clasped into a welcome grip. “Henri, you’re hurt. We’re getting you out of here.” More jostling. Someone forced his eyelids wide to shine a light inside. Arnulfo let go of his hand. Henri waved his fingers. Don’t let me go! Stay with me!
Yelling in the distance. A stinging in his upper arm. A gunshot. Quiet. Blackness.
* * *
Sunlight streamedin through the window, filtering through a veritable garden of flowers. A riot of color lined the windowsill: carnations, gladiolas, varied displays that must have cost a fortune… and a single red rose. He didn’t need to read the card to figure out who’d sent the gift. Sebastian. While everyone else’s displays spoke of money, Sebastian’s spoke from the heart.
His head ached, as did one arm, and his left cheek stung.
“Oh good, you’re awake.”
His blood ran cold. Margo. He turned his eyes toward the woman who’d given him life, perched in a chair by the bed. Instead of perfectly styled hair, she’d pulled her tresses back into a simple ponytail. No cosmetics hid the effects of her years. It’d been a long time since she’d looked like a mother. Now her resemblance to the woman who’d once sat up with him all night when he was sick made his heart ache.
“Where….”
“Oh, Ree….” She hadn’t called him Ree since he was seven years old, nor had she enfolded him into such a heartfelt embrace, jarring his painful arm. He bit down on his lip to keep from shouting. What was a little pain against a heartfelt hug? Margo… Mom… jumped back. “I’m sorry! I forgot how badly you were hurt.”
Maybe he hadn’t been as quiet as he’d hoped. “No, it’s okay.” They stared at each other. So much needed to be said to close the gulf between them. The hell with it—he’d made promises he intended to keep. “Hi, Mom.” He offered the words as a truce.
She responded, “Hi, son.” And then she smiled. One day they’d have a long talk—right now they were family again. “I sent your sister home to take a bath and get some rest. And your dad’s not been on his job long enough to take much time off, but he dropped by earlier.”
“Dad got a job?” Whatever drugs they’d given him must be good. She couldn’t have actually said Dad got a job.
His mother gave him a sheepish smile. “Part time, but we’re hoping for full time soon, after he’s proven himself. It’s not easy to find work without an established history.”
“And you’ve been sitting with me? How long?”
“You were brought in the night before last. We’d wondered where you went after the concert. The police wanted to talk with you as soon as you woke up, but I won’t tell them if you don’t want me to.”
She fussed with his pillow, voice emerging a bit shaky. “How are you feeling? You gave us quite a scare.”
Running, or rather, hopping. Falling. Agony. “Details are fuzzy. What happened?” He licked his dry lips and his mother raised a plastic cup, complete with bendy straw, for him to suck down the sweetest water he’d ever tasted. Who was this woman and what had she done with Margo?
“From anyone’s best guess, you were conked on the head, hauled out of a window, thrown into a car, and taken to the woods. You jumped into a ravine to get away. You’ve got a broken arm, scrapes, bruises, and a possible concussion. We were worried.” She sat the cup down on a table by the bed. Tessa could play that cup. And the table. It’d be a good backup to the ringing in his ears.
“What about the guy?”
Margo—no, Mom—searched Henri’s eyes. “He shot himself.”
“Dead?”
Her gaze fell on the fingers twisted together in her lap. “I’m afraid so. The officers might tell you more, but that’s all I know.”
Safe. Henri was safe. But a human life was too great a price to pay. While in rehab Henri had met many people who were out of their minds, most on a temporary basis. He shuddered. What made a man plan to burn someone, and himself, alive?
“You’ve got a lot of people wanting to talk to you, but until you woke up, the doctor only allowed one at a time, and family.”
Time to find out how much she meant her change of heart. “Where’s Sebastian?”
“He’s in the waiting room—refuses to leave. You meant it when you told us you were in love with a man.” A statement, not a question.
“Yes.”
“Is Sebastian the one you told us about?”
“Yes.”
“I thought it might have been a phase, a kid experimenting, or you drugged up and not caring who you slept with back when you’d sometimes sneak a man into your room while on tour.” A touch of bitterness crept into her tone, gone the next minute. “You know what this’ll do to your career?”
“I don’t care.” At least she hadn’t said, “What this will do to the family?”
“I didn’t think so. I’d be lying if I said this is what I’d wish for you—” Henri started to object, but his mother continued. “—because it won’t be easy. There will be haters, those who’ll try to drag you through the mud.”
He snorted. Ow! His head hurt. “I’ve got haters now.”
She didn’t deny the truth.
“What’s your opinion?” Her thoughts shouldn’t matter after all they’d been through, but they did.
She glanced up from her hands, eyes so much like Henri’s own staring back at him. No contacts marred their similarity. “I’ve had a lot of time to think over the past few weeks, especially while sitting in this chair, wondering if you’d ever wake up, and what I’d say to you when you did. At some point along the way I stopped being your mother, didn’t I?”
No need lying about the obvious. “Yes.”
“Then I’ve lost my right to a say in the matter. Though I hope, in time, I can win back some maternal points. I miss my boy.” His arm tingled where she placed her hand. “You’re not coming back to the band, are you?”
“No.”
“Probably for the best. I’m not cut out to be both your mom and manager.”
“You got me my start.” Might as well give credit where due.
“And pushed you even when you didn’t want me to. I’m glad you’re making your own way in life. I suppose the doctor needs to check you out now that you’re awake, and your man is dying to see you.” Lines formed around her eyes when she smiled. “I heard you two singing. He’s got an incredible voice, and you sounded so good together.”
Damn, but he’d gotten some good drugs, to hear his mother say such things. “I think so.”
“And if his worry is anything to go by, he loves you deeply.”
Really? “I hope so.”
“Can I be a selfish manager bitch one more time?”
“Just once.” And not a single time more.
“Is it true about you planning a rock-and-roll remake of Phantom of the Opera?”
“That’s the plan.”
“Is there a role your sister could have? She needs the exposure.”
Oh, this might be fun. “Speaking of ‘exposure,’ can I cast her as a nun, in a habit that goes all the way up to her chin?”
Margo sighed. “If you must.”
* * *
Detective Shepardentered after Margo left. Not Sebastian, damn the luck. “I won’t take much of your time.” He handed over a photograph. A smiling young man in cap and gown, clutching a diploma, stared back at Henri. His heart clenched. The guy appeared a wide-eyed innocent, unlike what Henri assumed a lunatic should look like.
“That’s him.” Henri handed the photo back. No need to drag the horror out a minute longer than necessary.
“His name was Roger England, a loner and IT specialist who worked mostly from home and didn’t go out much, according to his landlady. The proverbial ‘such a quiet young man.’ He’d moved from New Jersey just before his first encounter with you. His apartment was filled with concert memorabilia, posters, magazines. Turns out he was a big fan. He’d also been treated for depression and schizophrenia. We found several unfilled prescriptions in his apartment.”
Wrinkles formed on Shepard’s forehead. “We recovered four full and one empty gas can from the site, as well as rope and duct tape, the same inventory we’d found in your hotel room. He also left a note at his apartment, confirming what you believed he’d planned. It seems Mr. England had been in the hotel a few days earlier, working on the door locks. Apparently, he’d programmed himself a master key and bribed his way into the party after your show.”
“And he’s gone now.” He’d never really be gone. Henri saw the man’s face every time he closed his eyes.
“Yes, he’s gone.”
“Can I ask you something?”
“Sure.”
“Did he have a family? Anyone to miss him?”
“None that we’ve identified.”
“Lonely.”
“Huh?”
“He said he began to identify with me after I released the song ‘Lonely.’” If that’s what lonely did to a man, Henri never want to be alone again. “His inspiration for our being together forever was ‘Walk Through Fire.’ I suppose I’d better be careful what I write from now on.” Henri held out his hand for the detective. “I appreciate what you’ve done.”
“Will you be returning Officer Reyes to us now?” Shepard took Henri’s hand in his, giving a firm shake.
“Not unless he wants to go. It’s come to my attention that I need someone running security for me. Particularly if next year’s Grammys go the way I hope.” He tried for a grin, but stopped halfway. Ouch! “I promised only to kiss him on special occasions.”
For the first time in their acquaintance, the hard-nosed detective smiled. “I’m sure he finds that reassuring. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have murders to solve. It’s been a pleasure working with you. Perhaps we’ll meet up again someday, under better circumstances.”
“Maybe we will.” Henri made a mental note to send concert tickets to Shepard’s precinct. As long as Charles remained a threat, he’d keep Arnulfo around.
“One more thing,” Shepard said before he left. “We found video equipment at the site. He’d planned to film the whole thing. We’ve watched the site for accomplices assigned to retrieve the camera after… well, you know. So far we’ve turned up nothing. He appears to have acted alone, counting on someone to find the evidence eventually.”
Henri settled back onto the hospital bed, breathing deeply and releasing tension he only now noticed he’d held. He lost his sympathy for his abductor. The asshole had planned to burn Henri alive, and himself, live on camera. Sick fuck. He almost called for Shepherd to come back.
Soon Henri would have to face the press, his manager, his band, and the world. But first….
“Can I come in?” Sebastian peered through the partially opened door.
Henri smiled. “Get over here.” He held out his unbroken arm.
Seb sat in the chair by the bed and leaned into Henri’s hug. “I thought I’d lost you.”
“I’ll never let anything come between us again. I promise.” Sebastian didn’t need horrific details. He had enough problems to worry about.
They sat quietly, Sebastian running fingers and lips over Henri’s face, carefully avoiding cuts and scrapes. Finally he said, “If I said I might be falling for you, would you think it’s the worry talking?”
“Is it?”
“No. I’ve been pretty much smitten since the first time you returned after our month together. You came back. I didn’t think you would.”
“And kept coming back. I’ll always come back for you. Always.” Smitten. Not the same as “I love you,” but close enough.
“But….”
“No buts.”
“Yes, buts. What if the press finds out about us?”
“Sebastian, when I was lying tied up on the ground, preparing to meet my end, I made a promise that nothing would come between us ever again.”
“What about your career?”
“What about it?”
“What if you lose your fans?”
“I won’t lose them all. And I’ll gain new ones. But in the end, it doesn’t matter. I could lose my entire career. As long as you’re with me I won’t care.”
“You mean that?”
“I do. What about you? The opera world may not be as accepting as rock fans.”
Sebastian chucked. “Opera types are usually pretty open-minded. And if not, I’ll find a new job.”
“Doing what?”
“I can always apply as kitchen help.” He ran his lips along Henri’s. “I’m told I make a pretty good tuna fish sandwich.”
“That you do. But I’m thinking that real soon, neither one of us will have much to worry about, jobwise.”
* * *
Sebastian laycurled up in bed, his hair fanned out on the pillowcase. “Come to bed, Henri.”
“I will in a minute, after I check my e-mail.” Henri stared at the laptop’s screen.
Henri,
I’m now afraid of my future wife. Sharon’s “New York friends” are forces to be reckoned with. They gave Charles a choice: resign from the Met’s board or be booted and have every plaque or brick with his name pulled from every opera house he’s ever touched…. They remember “little Sebastian” hanging out in Annette’s dressing room and are out for blood. Oh, and did I mention they’re friends with Charles’s wife? Even opera can’t compete with the real-life drama currently playing out in New York.
The legal age for consent in Colorado is seventeen, and the opera traveled, which means federal law takes precedent over states’. The federal legal age of consent is eighteen. Charles will soon be answering a lot of questions.
I don’t know how you talked him into it, but I’m glad Sebastian pressed charges. He needs closure. Please take care of him.
Lucas
Henri would hold Seb’s hand every step of the way to giving Charles what he had coming.
