by Tara Lain
“Shall I drop Artie off first?”
“No. He’s agreed to go with me when I speak to my mother.”
Joseph turned around sharply. “Uh, do you think that’s wise?”
“Yes. I do.” François’s stare never wavered.
Joseph raised his eyebrows, turned, and started the car.
It took about fifteen quiet minutes to get to François’s fancy neighborhood, the tension rising the entire time. Why did I say I’d do this? As they drove through the gates, François’s hand closed over Artie’s and never let go until the limo circled the drive and stopped in front of the big house.
When Joseph got out to hold the door, Artie spoke quickly. “You sure you don’t want to change your mind? She’s really not going to like me being there.”
For a second François stared at the floor, then sucked in a breath. “I don’t care. I want you to come with me—if you don’t mind.”
Oh, what the fuck. If she fires me, she fires me. “Sure. Why not?”
Joseph stood patiently holding the door. François climbed out and said to Joseph, “I’d appreciate it if you’d wait to take Artie home.”
“No problem.”
François stalked resolutely toward the door as Artie got out behind him. Joseph gave him a look but didn’t say anything, so Artie climbed the porch stairs to the front door where François waited. When Artie stood beside him, he opened the door with his key and stepped into the grand entry.
Like an equal and opposite reaction to François entering, his mother raced through the archway from the living room—fortunately fully dressed, not in her nightgown. “Oh my God, where have you been? I was so worried!”
François gave Artie a slightly uncomfortable look and, though it was hard to tell in the subdued light, his cheeks might have turned pink. “It’s not late, Mother, and I can go out to dinner when I choose.”
She seemed to see Artie and stopped her fussing. Her mouth got tight. “Of course, I’m sorry. I just know you’ve been—upset lately. I was—concerned.” She clasped her hands in front of her white blouse.
“I’d like to speak to you, please.”
Again, she glanced uneasily at Artie. “All right. When did you want to do that?”
“Now, please.”
“Do you want to say goodbye to your friend first?” She forced a smile.
“No. I asked Artie to stay.”
Suddenly the whole deal felt weird. Obviously Mrs. Desmarais thought so too. Artie cleared his throat. “Maybe I should go, François?”
He snapped his head toward Artie. “No!” He inhaled. “I’d appreciate it if you’d stay.”
Chapter Nine
WHAT WAS that idea I had? If she fires me, she fires me? What the hell was I thinking? Artie swallowed hard.
François didn’t wait for him to answer. Instead he walked into the living room, so Artie followed, and Mrs. Desmarais took up the rear—slowly. After François sat on the couch and Artie grabbed the chair perpendicular to him, his mom took a seat across from him, clearly trying not to look at Artie. “So what did you want to talk about?”
“I discovered quite by accident tonight that I appear to be booked at Sanderson Hall this coming weekend, a commitment I believed you had canceled. I wondered first why you didn’t cancel it, and second why you neglected to tell me that I’m expected to return to that place I disliked so much in only a few days?”
“Can’t we talk about this in private?”
“I wasn’t under the impression that it’s a private matter.”
She cleared her throat. “I told the organizers that, uh, you didn’t wish to return for the second engagement if they were going to demonstrate such lax security. They assured me that they would double their team.”
“And you agreed?”
She huffed. “François, you signed a contract. Backing out could be grounds for legal action, or at the very least, damage to your reputation.”
“No, Mother, you signed the contract, without my knowledge or agreement.”
“I’m your manager. I was under the impression we were a team.”
He stared at his hands. Artie frowned. Maybe he’s folding. He half wanted him to back down and the other, stronger half, wanted François to stand his ground.
François turned his head and looked squarely into Artie’s eyes, then snapped his head up and said, “If we really were a team, perhaps my dislike of performing would be taken more into consideration.”
She sighed like they’d had this argument a million times. “You know it’s a baseless fear. Performing forms the foundation of your popularity. Without it, people will quickly forget you and stop buying your music. It gives you credibility.”
François ran both hands through his shaggy hair, and it looked like he might pull some of it out. “I don’t care, I don’t care, I don’t care.”
“I’m quite sure you will care when your income dries up and you’re living hand-to-mouth. You don’t have an idea what it’s like to do without, François.”
Artie had to force himself not to roll his eyes. There was a lot of middle ground between François’s elegant existence and “doing without.”
François took a big breath. “I’ll do the concert under two conditions.”
“Oh. What are those?” Mrs. Desmarais crossed her arms. The woman was scary.
“First, when I’ve completed the performance, I want to take a vacation—by myself. And I don’t want to do any more concerts until the bookings in the fall. I want the rest of the summer to concentrate on my composing.”
“Very well. I agree to both terms.”
“That’s only one.”
“You mentioned two.”
“Two parts of number one.”
“Very well, François. What else do you want?”
Whew. It took serious balls to keep talking after that snarky comment.
“I want Artie to go to the concert with me.”
“What?” Artie gaped at François like he was nuts, but his expression didn’t equal the surprise of François’s mother, who couldn’t seem to get her mouth closed.
She gasped, “Dear God, whatever for?”
“At the restaurant tonight—”
“Restaurant? I thought you were visiting friends.” She scowled back and forth between them.
“I’m a grown man—”
“François, you’re twenty, for heaven sake. That hardly makes you grown, especially with the sheltered life you’ve lived.”
Artie leaned forward. “Ma’am, excuse me, but the question on the table is why does François want me, of all people, to go to his concert?” He held up his hands. “Not that I wouldn’t be thrilled and honored to go, but I can’t imagine why you’d want me to.” He cocked his head at François.
François smiled for the first time since they walked into the house. “Easy. You protected me from those people at the restaurant.”
His mother practically shrieked, “What people?”
Artie glanced at her. “Some overenthusiastic fans came up to the table at the restaurant. They weren’t dangerous, just a bit pushy.”
François picked up the narrative. “And Artie intervened in the nicest way so that they were happy and he still kept them away from me. He was perfect. If he’d been there at the Sanderson last time, he could have gotten that woman off me without hurting her. I’ll bet you anything.”
Artie shook his head. “François, I’m not a bodyguard.” How the hell did he get in this situation?
“I don’t care. I’ll feel better if you’re there, and, if you don’t mind, I’d appreciate it if you’d come.”
“Uh, when is it?”
“This coming Saturday night.”
Artie looked at Mrs. Desmarais, whose frown hadn’t diminished, then at François, who stared at him with so much hope his heart thumped. Rock and hard place for sure. Hell. Lose/lose. “Okay, if you really think it will be useful, I’ll come.”
“Excellent.”
“No.”
“He doesn’t have to wear a damned tuxedo,” François snarled.
“He most emphatically does. I’ll not be embarrassed by your entourage.”
“Okay. I’ll get him whatever he needs.”
“For God’s sake, François.”
“Mother, that’s my condition.” He looked at Artie. “If you agree.”
Talk about mixed feelings. He’d do a lot to get to hear François play that amazing music again, but being François’s go-to protector gave him a nervous stomach. Wrecking his chances of doing more work for JT doubled down on his misgivings. But could he sit here and side with François’s mom? “As long as everyone understands that I’m not trained to protect anyone, so if you’re worried about your physical safety, I’m not your guy.”
Mrs. Desmarais raised her brows and looked down her slim nose. “François’s fears are entirely, shall we say, emotional, not actual.”
François shot her a vicious look. Artie didn’t blame him. Everyone was scared of something, and obviously Mrs. Desmarais didn’t have any respect for François’s panic attacks.
She softened her expression. “I mean, no one has threatened him or created a situation of danger. Your support”—the word might have been in a pornographic dictionary the way she said it—“will be more than adequate.”
François stood and smiled at Artie. “We’ll talk tomorrow about getting you suited up for the concert.”
Artie stood beside him while Mrs. Desmarais stayed seated. Here he was in the very spot he dreaded—pissed-off employer, the loss of trust that went with that, and the potential of spending time with a gay man as different from him as the sun from an asteroid with no possible future. He gazed into the wide blue-green eyes that actually looked more hopeful than stressed, despite the fact that François had to perform in front of thousands.
Chances of Artie refusing to go to the concert? Zero.
FRANÇOIS WALKED out of his rooms and straight into his mother.
“Oh.” She stepped back. “I was just coming to—”
“To be sure I didn’t chicken out, bail, run away from home?” He raised a brow.
“All of the above, I suppose. You look quite dashing.” Her eyes widened. “Did you get your hair trimmed?”
He raised a hand, then dropped it. “Yes. I went with Artie after we picked out his tuxedo. I figured I might as well try to get it under control.”
“It looks very nice.”
“Thank you.”
He gestured toward the entry, and she fell in beside him as he walked. “So you found an appropriate tuxedo for your”—she waved a hand—“friend.”
“Yes. It required a ton of tailoring because he’s got big shoulders and arms and a small waist.”
She gave him a sideways look. “A configuration I’m sure you appreciate.”
“Doesn’t matter. Artie’s not gay.” He opened the front door, and they stepped onto the porch as Joseph pulled the car around.
“Of course not. I doubt he’d still be in his profession. Aren’t those blue-collar types notorious for their antigay leanings?” They walked down the porch stairs, and François helped her into the car as Joseph held the door. François slid in beside her and waited for the door to close.
“There are gay people in every profession, Mother.”
“Um. I suppose. But why would a gay man put himself into the mouth of the lion, so to speak? I’m sure he could make a living in”—the hand wave again—“food service or personal training or something. I’m told many blue-collar people go into truck driving.”
“Oh, Mother, spare me. Artie’s a plumber. A skilled artisan.”
“I never said he wasn’t.”
He chewed the inside of his cheek to keep from snapping at her. Shut up. I got what I wanted. Leave it alone.
“Are you all prepared for the concert?”
“Of course.” He sighed softly. “When have I ever not been?”
“You’ve just been busier than usual, and I didn’t hear a lot of rehearsing. That’s all.”
“Mother, I can play Chopin in my sleep. Please.”
“Not taking your talent for granted is one of our secret weapons now, isn’t it?”
There was no “our” to it. He rehearsed more than most professional musicians and she knew it. He’d actually practiced today while she’d been getting her hair done, but he didn’t want to give her the satisfaction of saying so.
Fortunately, Joseph pulled into the driveway that pointed directly at Artie’s apartment. Before Joseph got the ignition turned off, François opened the door and hopped out. “Be right back.”
Damn, it was hard to describe how excited he was about having Artie with him. He actually felt a little giddy, which was in stark contrast to his usual paralyzing fear in the face of a concert.
He strode across the driveway and climbed the stairs. He knocked.
Nothing.
Once more. After a second, he heard footsteps inside and the door flew open.
First, he saw Artie’s wild eyes. Second, he took in all the rest, which was, in a word, yummy. The tailor had outdone himself, and the black tuxedo fit Artie’s narrow hips, powerful thighs, and broad shoulders like he’d been born in the black silk suit. François came back to the wide, frenzied eyes. “What’s wrong?”
He flipped the tie hanging at his throat like overcooked pasta. “This. What the fuck do you do with this?”
François laughed and pushed Artie back into his living room, then slapped his hands away from his neck. “Let me.” He carefully took the silken ends and formed them into a crisp bow, enjoying every accidental touch of neck, throat, and jaw he managed to fake. Funny what his mother had said, that he must appreciate Artie’s body. He did. A lot.
Who’d ever have thought that Artie would be his type? Not that he’d ever really been allowed to discover what his type was. His mother had fixed him up on most of his dates, the specter of her expectations hanging in the air throughout every evening and good night kiss. Besides, François’s fear of crowds made having fun an assload of trouble. Occasionally he’d broken out and found a guy willing to have a quick hookup in the back seat of a car, but since François didn’t want to force Joseph into being his accomplice and François couldn’t drive, the whole effort wasn’t worth the trouble.
François patted Artie’s perfectly tailored chest. “You clean up real nice.”
Artie grinned and blushed. “Total waste to spend this kind of money on me.” But he still looked pleased.
François leaned down and gave the fish a wave, then smiled at Artie. “Come on. Let’s go face the music.” He had to laugh at his own joke.
ARTIE CHUCKLED at François’s cute joke, but he still felt like an idiot. What was he doing prancing around like some Orange County socialite when he didn’t even pay for the damned tuxedo himself? Truthfully, when he’d seen the price tag, he’d stopped protesting François’s insistence on paying. Fuck, if he was going to spend that much money, it’d be to fix up his truck or put a new roof on his parents’ house. Not on some dudish outfit. His lips turned up a little. Had to admit, though, now that the thing was on, he did look mighty fine. Hell, he’d probably never looked better. His new haircut seemed to show off something on his face that didn’t usually get uncovered, and the tuxedo? Shit, man, how did anything make plain old Artie Haynes come off like a fucking fashion model? Even François had eyed him with what looked like admiration.
Yeah, but now he had to face Madame.
Joseph waited at the giant car, holding the door. When he looked up and spied Artie, his eyes widened. “Well, good evening.”
Artie rolled his eyes. “I know. Silk purse. Sow’s ear.”
“Quite the contrary, sir.”
François gave Artie a glance and spoke to Joseph.
“He looks great, doesn’t he?”
“Yes, he does.”
François bent down and stepped into the car. Artie took a breath and followed him.
Madame Desmarais sat on the big back seat. François had moved to the facing seat and left the space beside his mother open. Oh, thanks a lot. Of course, that might be better than staring at her. Artie sat, and the door closed after him.
Madame looked at him coolly. “You look quite nice.”
“Thank you, ma’am.”
They rode in silence. No music played, but that seemed to be on purpose, since François’s fingers moved unconsciously as he stared into the near distance. Must be practicing in his mind. Artie could feel his rising tension as they got closer to the Sanderson, which was also in Costa Mesa, just a nicer part. How about some chitchat? “Hey, did anyone watch The Voice this season?”
“We don’t watch television.” Madame’s cool glance turned icy.
François looked up and focused on Artie. “I hear it’s good. Do you like it?”
He looked interested, so Artie said, “Yes. They have really good singers and they do all kinds of music. The judges are funny, but they know what they’re doing. Do you like singing or only piano?” He was babbling, but François’s stress level seemed to dial back a little.
“I like all kinds of music. Even country.” He laughed and his mother gave a soft snort, but he ignored her. “Have you heard that woman who does Mauritanian funk and plays this weird harp?”
Artie wanted to laugh. Naturally, in one short conversation about music, François had raced so far ahead of him he’d never catch up. What am I doing here? But the discussion had made François’s eyes light up, so Artie said, “No, but it sounds amazing.”
“She’s still really obscure, but honestly, I’d love to meet her and write some music for her. You know, Nocturne for Piano and Mauritanian Harp.” He chortled again and seemed to have forgotten his fears.
That changed, of course, the minute they stopped at the back door of the Sanderson. François turned gray and clutched his hands together. The door opened, and François stared out like it was the gate to hell.