A Matter of When

by Eden Winters

  “Good. Have you thought about your future?”

  Henri pictured his counselor, back home in LA, with the noise, the traffic, the smog. Much better to stare out the window at the blue Colorado sky. “You know I’m gay, right?” Might as well lay the cards on the table.

  “Your sexuality is none of my concern, unless it affects your emotional well-being. Does it?”

  “I’m tired of living in the closet. In order to be me, I need to let the world in on who I am. Besides, I don’t like pretending a stranger my mom found is my date.” Henri imagined Dr. Worthington pecking away on her computer, filling in the pieces for the puzzle named Henri Lafontaine.

  “Are you saying you want to form a relationship with a man?”

  Was he? “I suppose I am. Maybe. Someday.”

  “There may be backlash if you come out, on you, on your family, and on your career.”

  Normally, “the family” comment would have pissed him off, but Dr. Worthington had proven time and again that Henri had her full consideration, not the family. She’d made Henri her primary concern—the reason Henri still called. “My parents don’t much care for me whether I’m gay or not, and I survived an overdose and years of just being me. My fans have stuck with me through stints in rehab, infighting with the band, picketing from right-wingers, and a scandal or five hundred. If they, and my family, can’t deal with who I really am, fuck ’em.” The only one who mattered was Jenni, and she’d want Henri to be happy. Besides, her favorite TV show starred a gay teen. She’d be cool.

  Now that wasn’t quite right. Seb mattered too.

  “Are you sure you’re doing what’s right for you?” Ah, the voice of reason. Why Henri paid the big bucks.

  “As sure as I’ve ever been about anything.”

  “Henri?”

  “Yes?”

  “For what it’s worth, I believe you’ve always known what you wanted, you just weren’t allowed to have it. Now, how about drugs? Alcohol?”

  Damn. Henri hadn’t even thought about drinking or smoking a joint in days. “I haven’t even been tempted. Aren’t you proud?”

  “The only one who needs to be proud of you is you.”

  The good doctor had no idea how wrong she was.

  “I’ll be coming back soon. Any leads on the guy at the party?” No way in hell did Henri want to return to LA and face the jackass who’d drugged him.

  Detective Shepard’s sigh wafted through the phone, as negative as any of Henri’s former songs. “Without much to go on, I’m afraid we’ve reached a dead end.”

  Oh shit. The nut job waited, rope, duct tape, and drugs in hand. Was it too much to hope that he’d picked up a new hobby? Maybe comic books? Or returned to New Jersey?

  “As we discussed before, I recommend heightened security. If you ever see him again, keep us informed.”

  Henri reined in the fury growing inside. Yelling at the detective wouldn’t solve anything. He had his hands too full of homicides and domestic violence to worry about one puny rocker.

  “Thanks, I will.” Was even being here putting Seb in danger? God, Henri hoped not.

  Ten

  “Where are we going?”

  “You’ll see.” Henri bypassed his Harley in favor of Seb’s car. The night would turn cool by the time they returned.

  Henri wore jeans and a T-shirt, all he’d brought with him, and had tried to tame his fluffy, cotton-candy hair into a somewhat neat braid down his back. He’d even shaved. On a Friday.

  Seb wore khakis and a button-down shirt. Based on evidence given, he didn’t even own jeans. He was a fiftysomething man living in a twentysomething body. Henri hoped to narrow the gap.

  The restaurant he’d chosen had started life as the dwelling of a wealthy family, and perched on the edge of a mountainside. Over the phone they’d stated their dress code. Money changed everything. A private dining room, free from prying eyes, offered the best view on the whole mountain, so the manager said. Good. In years to come, Henri wanted Sebastian to remember this night.

  “We’re not dressed for this,” Sebastian hissed when Henri pulled the car into the parking lot.

  “You worry too much.”

  Instead of entering through the main door, they were met by a young woman and escorted around back and up the stairs to a secluded balcony. “Good evening,” she said, “your server will be with you shortly.”

  “Wow!” Sebastian’s eyes widened as he took in the vista below. At the bottom of the valley a river snaked through the trees, while houses, made tiny by distance, lined the banks.

  “You like?” Henri breathed out a sigh of relief. Never had he wanted to please someone so badly. Maybe Sebastian’s gentle nature brought out his protective instincts. Then again, maybe wanting to share something special won out over caution. Either way, tonight had to be perfect.

  A bouquet of gladiolas graced the table. Seb raised a brow when Henri pulled out his chair for him, but sat quietly. The brow rose again, joined by its twin, when Henri reached out to squeeze Seb’s hand.

  Seb cleared his throat. “I love gladiolas.”

  Henri smiled. “I sorta figured, with about a zillion of them growing in front of the house.”

  “My grandmother tended the gardens when she was alive.” A faraway look momentarily appeared in Seb’s eyes. “They were her favorite flower too. I’m afraid I can’t match her green thumb, but I try.”

  “My gran grew roses.” Henri pulled down the top of his T-shirt to show the long-stemmed red rose bud over his left nipple.

  Henri expected a laugh—Seb didn’t disappoint. “Isn’t a rose a bit soft for a hardassed rocker?”

  Sebastian had stepped right into his trap. Henri stood and pulled his T-shirt up to reveal the rose stem, sharpened to a dagger point, piercing a life-sized human heart inked into the skin over Henri’s own heart. A drop of blood clung to the point.

  “I take that back. It’s not soft in the least.”

  Henri smoothed his shirt down and rejoined Sebastian at the table.

  “Do you mind me asking about your tattoos? Some are kinda… scary.”

  “Which ones?”

  Sebastian wrinkled his face and pursed his lips a moment, finally deciding on, “All of them.”

  Henri held out his arm. “Most people call this a demon. It’s not. It’s a gargoyle. You know what a gargoyle is, don’t you?”

  “Of course I do. Many opera houses and cathedrals have them. They’re supposed to ward off evil spirits. What about the rose through the heart?” Understanding crossed Sebastian’s face. “‘Rose Through the Heart’ is one of your songs.”

  “Yes, and here….” Henri showed his other arm, bearing the image of a .38 Special and bullets. “This symbolizes ‘A Matter of When.’ It’s from the cover.”

  “You’ve inked your career into your skin. Tell me, what happens when you run out of skin?”

  How many more albums would it take for Henri to run out of space? “I guess I’ll have to recycle concepts.”

  “I have one more question.”

  “Ask away.”

  “Why are you doing this?”

  “Why am I doing what?”

  Sebastian swept his hand out to indicate the table.

  A smartassed answer wouldn’t get Henri off the hook this time. Best to stick to the truth. “Because I want to.” Here came the part where Sebastian jumped up and stormed back to the car, wanting no part of anything with Henri besides a working relationship. Maybe.

  Sebastian surprised him. “Would it be selfish of me to throw out all arguments about right and wrong and enjoy a nice evening with you?”

  Turning dinner into an actual date couldn’t be that easy, could it? “Not in the least.”

  A waiter stepped through the door, bottle in hand. “Good evening, gentlemen.” He didn’t ask, he merely filled their wine glasses from the vintage Henri had ordered earlier and sat the remainder of the bottle in ice. He didn’t take their orders either.

  A mo
ment later two women joined him, one with a tray of assorted breads, the other with a bowl of mixed greens salad. One quietly filled their salad bowls while the other placed her burden on the table. When they retreated, Henri said, “I hope you don’t mind, but I took the liberty of ordering for us. I believe you like trout?”

  “Love it.”

  Good. It seemed easier to simply preorder and minimize talking with the staff. He’d made sure each dish steered clear of dairy, in keeping with Sebastian’s diet. Several times the man and women reappeared, bringing out their meal, clearing plates, refilling Seb’s wine glass—Henri merely toyed with his, sipping water instead. His doctor would be so proud. Each time the attendants made an appearance, Henri stopped talking until they departed, leaving no stray words to be swept up and reused. He’d learned his lesson long ago—if people wanted dirt, they’d dig it up. He wouldn’t supply the shovel.

  “What will you do when you get back to LA?” Seb asked between bites.

  “Lucas has some musicians lined up for me to talk to. I’ll be choosing a new band. I also have a few ideas of my own.” Inspiration struck. “Any suggestions?”

  “Choose only those you trust. You don’t need a band, you need a team. Mutual respect is crucial.”

  Henri’d had enough suspicions and mistrust with his last band. “Really?”

  “Certainly. If I give my all during a performance and another player gives nothing, no one will say he or she ruined the show. They’ll say the show was awful, which reflects on everyone in the company.”

  Oh, yeah. Definitely no two-bit guitar slingers who’d sell Henri out to a tabloid. Still, there were no guarantees whoever he hired would be trustworthy. The best he could hope for was a crew of competent musicians who would coalesce into a working organism rather than a manufactured band. “What about you? What will you do?”

  A barely perceptible chill settled over the table. “My patron is vacationing in Europe with his family. He’ll visit me after he returns, checking up on his investment before I begin rehearsals.” A touch of bitterness tinged Seb’s words.

  “If you don’t like him, why not get a new patron?”

  Seb stared into his wineglass. “I can’t. He’s been generous with me. I should be grateful.”

  “And you’re not?”

  “Can we not talk about this? The things we want in life come with a cost.” Seb’s forced smile was as fake as Henri’s trumped up bio. “He’s a perfectionist, and demands perfection of me. Wanting perfection isn’t a bad thing, is it?”

  Henri didn’t push. If Seb wanted to say more, he would. Henri changed the subject. “I didn’t know what you might want for dessert and ordered one of each—or rather, everything without dairy. They make vegan cheesecake here.” The door opened and the servers reappeared, the man pushing a laden cart and the women fussing over the table, removing dirty dishes and resetting the plates.

  Over coffee, vegan cheesecake, and apple crumble, they watched the sun dip below the tree line. Seb surprised Henri by taking his hand. “I know what you’re doing, and I don’t need your pity, but thank you anyway for a lovely evening.”

  What the fuck? “Pity?”

  Seb smile lacked humor. “If you met me in LA, would you wine me, dine me, dance with me? Kiss me?”

  Henri hesitated.

  “Of course you wouldn’t. I’m the man of the moment, nothing more. In a week you’ll be back where you belong, and I’ll be here. Never again will our worlds meet.”

  What? Henri snatched his hand back. “I thought we were friends. You’re gonna write me off when I leave here?”

  “You mean… you mean you’d still talk to me after this?” Why did Sebastian appear so incredulous? Who had done a number on this man, to make him think he was “the man of the moment”?

  Was Henri wanting to hang on to their blossoming relationship so hard to believe? He reclaimed Sebastian’s hand. “I’ve come to trust you. You give advice, solid advice, without trying to manipulate me. I’ve got a lot of serious decisions ahead. I’d love your input.”

  “But how?”

  “I can e-mail you tracks, send demos of anyone I’m considering for the band. Sometimes I might want to talk about nothing. Or about the tuna sandwich I had for lunch that doesn’t come close to yours. Who else will put up with me prattling on about nonsense?” He shifted his chair closer and stared into Sebastian’s eyes. “Everyone out there wants a piece of Henri Lafontaine. They see the money, the fame, and they want their share of the pie. They don’t see me.” Actually, Henri wouldn’t mind Seb wanting more of him. Where had such a thought come from?

  The curtains ruffled on the window to their left. Henri nodded and the door opened. A lone violinist stepped out onto the balcony, now shadowed by dusk settling over the mountains. Henri stood and bowed to Sebastian. “May I have this dance?”

  For a moment Seb hesitated, and Henri feared being turned down. Then Sebastian shook his head, a rueful grin on his face. “You know me too well. I can’t resist dancing.”

  As before at the house, Sebastian took the lead, sweeping Henri a bit closer to his chest than he’d done in the music room. No matter how shy he appeared while dining, when singing or dancing he came into his own. Henri rested his head against Sebastian’s shoulder, swaying to something sultry and slow. Seb hummed along with the melody, his voice rumbling through his chest and into Henri’s ear.

  Keeping their bodies tightly together shielded their rising erections from the violinist, and tantalized Henri with the brush of his cock against Seb’s. Still Seb kept rhythm, never faltering as Henri did, and never abandoning the dance to hump Henri’s thigh like Henri wanted desperately for him to do.

  The song faded, and Henri pulled back. Seb stared down at him, eyes aglow and lips curled up the edges. If ever a moment cried out for kiss, this one did. If they were man and woman, nothing would stop them.

  Oh screw it. Henri reached up, placed his hand against Seb’s cheek, and brought their lips together.

  The violinist missed a note.

  Just one.

  “Where do you want these?” Henri carried the vase of gladiolas into the house.

  In true Sebastian Unger fashion, Seb grew humble. “I still can’t believe you bought me flowers.”

  “Don’t tell me you’ve never gotten flowers from a man before.”

  Seb’s face shaded to match the crimson of the blooms. “On some nights my dressing room is filled with bouquets from fans—some men, some women. These are special.”

  Henri sat the vase down on the entryway table and swept a humming Seb into his arms to whirl him around the foyer. He’d gotten much better at avoiding toes. Sebastian kept time as they stepped through the hall, turning lights on and off along the way. They reached the bottom of the stairs. “I guess this is good night.” Damn, but Henri wanted to dance, and more, until dawn.

  Sebastian studied the floor for a minute and slowly released a loud exhale. He lifted their joined hands and kissed Henri’s fingers. “It doesn’t have to be.”

  Henri’s heart hammered against his ribs. “Are you sure?”

  “How else will I get to see the rest of your body art?” Sebastian led the way to his room and closed the door behind them, keeping his eyes firmly fixed on the floor. What was he afraid of? After a moment he recovered, resuming his humming and their dance. He lost his awkwardness while dancing, or singing, his former confidence returning. For a man who made the masses swoon, Seb seemed a novice at romance.

  “I don’t do pity fucks,” Sebastian said.

  An answer rolled readily off of Henri’s tongue: “Neither do I.”

  Seb backed away, fumbling with the buttons on his shirt. Henri batted his hands away and took control, making short work of the closures. The shirt rustled to the floor. When Seb bent to pick up the garment, Henri stopped him. “Let it lie. We’ll worry about cleanup later.” Henri’s T joined Seb’s shirt on the floor, soon followed by khakis and jeans. Seb wore nothing under his pan
ts. And Henri hadn’t noticed? Damn, he’d lost his touch.

  Sebastian peeled the tie out of Henri’s hair, unraveling the braid until Henri’s hair brushed free over his shoulders.

  Henri kicked off the designer briefs he’d been paid to endorse before his meltdown. At last they stood naked, Henri self-conscious about his skinny frame, multicolored ink etched into his skin: dragons, demons, warrior princes, and, carefully hidden in the midst of flame, the image of a man, sword in hand. Henri had never before told anyone the meaning, hinted at in one of his earlier, lesser known songs: “Walk Through Fire.” He’d gotten the piece during one of his sappier moments, back when he’d still lived and breathed music and hadn’t yet become a commodity. He’d screamed out the words, “I’d walk through fire for love,” and young women had screamed them back at his concerts.

  Seb was beautiful without adornment. And solid. A thick coat of reddish-brown curls covered his chest, a lighter coating on his belly, arms and legs. His semi-hard cock matched the rest of him, tall and thick, rising from the only trimmed hair below Sebastian’s neckline.

  Henri rose up on his toes to enjoy one of Sebastian’s kisses and press his own hardening flesh against a furred thigh. For a man who professed to not having been kissed much, Sebastian learned fast.

  He caressed Henri’s tongue with his own, unhurried, arms held stiffly by his sides. When Henri ran his fingers up Sebastian’s spine to grip his shoulders, Sebastian responded, timidly at first, then more assured in his exploration of Henri’s back, never venturing below the waist until Henri did.

  The curls on Sebastian’s chest were interesting to touch, and most of the guys Henri had been with in the last few years trimmed or shaved their body hair. Henri’s patch of roughly three dozen chest hairs didn’t require much maintenance, though he did trim the dark pelt around his groin. Shaving wasn’t happening. A “hmmm” sneaked out.

  “What?” Sebastian craned his neck to peer down his chest to where Henri now slithered his fingers though silky swirls.

  “I like your fur. It’s sexy.”