A Matter of When

by Eden Winters

They opened with “Nightmare,” a song designed to catch the feel of Henri’s former band. Halfhearted applause followed. Okay. That was awkward. He peered out into the poorly lit club. Was Seb out there? Rooting him on?

  They played through a few more songs, before launching into “Ice Inside.”

  The opening chords got the crowd to their feet. Finally! Signs of life.

  The moment of truth arrived. Henri sucked in a deep breath and… out came the elusive C. Hollers and squeals filled the air before the note died.

  A grin stretched Henri’s cheeks when his band joined the revelry. To no one in particular he whispered, “I’m back.”

  If only Seb were here to share the moment.

  Five nights of back-to-back shows. Five nights of lying awake at night worried about Sebastian. If Henri didn’t get some peace of mind soon, the coke rumors would start swirling again. He stumbled off the bus, shielding his eyes from the sun’s too-bright glare. Where were they, anyway? Anaheim? Again? Why the fuck did he always wind up in Anaheim?

  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.”

  “Lucas?” Henri sat in the back of the tour bus, away from the prying ears of his bandmates.

  “Yes.”

  God, how he hated admitting defeat, but out there lurked a foe he didn’t understand and couldn’t pin down. “Remember the cop I kissed?”

  “Yes.”

  “He could have sold me out, but he didn’t. And Detective Shepard spoke highly of him.” If he had to resort to a bodyguard, he’d find someone he trusted, who’d already witnessed him at his worst and hadn’t run screaming.

  “What do you have in mind?”

  “Find out how much he makes, offer him double. Tell him the job has shitty hours, he’ll be on the road a lot, and seedy bars come with the territory. As a perk, though, his sister gets free tickets to local concerts. Oh, and contact the security guard who called 911.”

  “What’s the job?”

  “I need security for me and the band. I laughed off the roses, but I’m—I’m scared. No telling what this guy might do.” Or what he’d intended the first time he’d had H
enri in his sights.

  Officer Arnulfo Reyes joined the band. Henri nearly kissed him. Again. The security guard couldn’t travel, due to school. Henri paid his tuition.

  In Des Moines they played a big enough hall to experiment with video. Now to see if Henri’s investment in hologram projectors paid off. Michael appeared onstage with them, though in actuality, he stood backstage, in headphones.

  A cry rang out from the audience. The fans up close pointed to the stage. There was Michael, fuzzing around the edges, disappearing and reappearing. Holy crap. Someone get the projector fixed now!

  Henri and the band played on. Damn. Their ruse was up. A few years ago a duo had gotten caught lip-synching, a scandal to end their careers. Michael hadn’t exactly done anything wrong, he simply… wasn’t actually there.

  The next morning the papers read “‘Starman’ Makes a Hit in Des Moines.” A full-color picture showed Michael’s fade out from the night before. Damn. That image might look good on an album cover.

  Okay, in the plus column, a Michael Lindley fan club started on the Internet for “Starman.” Also a plus: no sign of Batshit Stalker. In the negative column, Seb hadn’t returned Henri’s calls.

  Twenty

  Damn but the neighborhood hadn’t changed much. Shards of ice formed in Henri’s belly when he pulled his car into his parents’ driveway. He’d never thought of this stucco monster as home, with its professional landscaping and chilly stainless steel kitchen. Home had been a three-bedroom duplex in a rundown neighborhood, which Margo couldn’t leave fast enough once fortune started smiling on them, as she’d put it. No, not fortune, but Henri working his ass off.

  He needed drugs in the worst way. If he made it through today without help, he’d have set the bar pretty damned high. “Wait here. If I’m not back in a half hour, come in and get me.”

  “Sure you don’t want me to come in with you?” Arnulfo glanced at the house and back at Henri.

  Actually, Henri wouldn’t mind backup. But for a showdown of this magnitude, the gunslinger must go alone. Only, what role did Henri play? The good guy or the bad guy? But if things turned to shit, he didn’t want witnesses. “I’ll be fine.” Liar.

  Even dragging his heels he made it to the front door before he was ready, and took several deep breaths before pressing the doorbell. From inside the house the door chime played the opening strains of “A Matter of When.” How fucking depressing.

  Henri gazed back toward his car. If he ran, he could be safely inside and down the street before anyone noticed he was here. Arnulfo gave him a friendly wave. Oh, right. A witness.

  “Hen…. Henri?” Margo stepped back from the door, her face paler than Henri had seen it in a long time. The woman who’d said plenty during their last face-to-face didn’t seem prone to talking now.

  “Are you gonna let me in?” Say no. Give me an excuse to leave and never come back.

  “Um… oh!” The woman he’d once called “Mom” stared at him as though he’d suddenly materialized from thin air. She gestured down the hall.

  Henri spared a glance toward the car and his waiting escort. Margo peeked around the door, following his line of sight. “Tell your friend to come in.” For a moment, for one split second of a fraction of a heartbeat, she sounded like she had back when she’d been “Mom,” he’d been “Henry,” and he’d trudged through the front door to hugs, kisses, and questions about his day.

  The fame, the wealth—sometimes he’d give it all for a few moments back in those simpler days. But then he wouldn’t have met Sebastian. His chest tightened. He couldn’t think about Sebastian now. One step at a time, on the road back to where he belonged.

  Hey! That was pretty good! He needed to write those lyrics down. “He’s not a friend, he’s my security. He stays where he is.” Would Sebastian be proud of Henri for taking this first step toward peace with his family?

  It shouldn’t have been possible, but her face paled further and she slammed the door shut the moment Henri stepped through.

  Murmuring voices pointed him toward the family room. Good. The rest of the family was home. This show is one night only, folks. His father and sister shut up the moment he set foot in the room. So much for a hero’s open-armed welcome. Well, he’d come here to make some changes, might as well clear the air in the process.

  Jenni gave him startled eyes and jumped up. A cutting glance from Margo returned her to her seat on the couch.

  His dad lounged in the recliner, as he’d done throughout most of Henri’s childhood—the illusion of the breadwinner relaxing after a hard day at work. Only,

  Henri’s dad hadn’t often held a steady job and had never in Henri’s life been the breadwinner. Not even close. He almost felt sorry for his mom. Almost, but not quite. Yes, she’d done what she’d had to to get her kids raised. Yes, she’d worked her ass off and managed to make ends meet. No, she didn’t have to let her heart shrivel into a dried-up prune in the process. And she didn’t have to start treating her kids as a means to an end.

  But why did Henri have to be the spitting image of his dad? Jenni looked like Mom, with dark blonde hair and light brown eyes, even if her tresses did defy gravity and fluff out like Henri’s had until recently. She’d also been blessed with honey-gold skin, several shades lighter than Henri’s but still exotic, and a few extra inches in height. Yeah, he could understand why she’d be in demand by fashion designers. Jenni hugged a throw pillow to her chest, darting glances from Henri to Margo, and then to Dad.

  Henri’s blood boiled. They controlled her much as they controlled him. She’d be eighteen in a few months. Then he’d see to it she made her own decisions.

  “No, no, don’t get up.” He glared at his father. “It’s just the prodigal returned home.” And bringing vengeance. “I’m not here because you deserve an exclusive. You, the ones who should have been there for me, deserted me when I needed you the most.”

  “But…,” Margo began.

  Henri cut her off. “Start talking—” If looks could kill, Henri would now be the relative of two melted piles of goo. “—and I’ll walk out the door and never look back.” Damn, how he hated having to blackmail them for a few minutes of their undivided attention. But if threats got them to listen, so be it.

  The only sound came from the big-screen TV. Henri grabbed the remote and clicked it off. “First off, my ‘episode’ as you put it in the media, was not me strung out on drugs.

  “Yes, I’d taken my pills that night, like I did before every show, and another for the party.” Margo slid down on the couch next to Jenni. Henri paced, ignoring the burning in his throat. Dammit! They should have been there for him. It’d be easy to leave. Sebastian appeared in his mind. “I’d love to have a family. Any family.” Henri stayed.

  “And I foolishly accepted the drink a fan kept forcing on me, mostly to get him to shut up and leave me alone. When the drink hit me he tried to take me to my room, acting concerned. I went up with a member of the security team instead. He’s the one who spotted trouble and called an ambulance.” They didn’t need to know how Henri begged the man to hold him. How in that moment, he hadn’t cared if he lived or died. He hadn’t attempted suicide, but he hadn’t wanted to live much either.

  His parents sat motionless as statues. Shock? Or did they truly not give a shit if Henri lived or died? “When the cops searched my room they found a video camera, rope, and duct tape. Whatever the asshole at the party had planned for me, it wasn’t going to be pretty.” Normally, he wouldn’t talk harshly in front of his sister, but he’d never lie to her. And if she was slated to live her life in the public eye, she needed to know the types she’d be up against. The good, the bad, and the hopelessly insane psychopaths.

  “Are you—?” Margo blurted.

  “Not another word. I’ve got the floor. After I say what I have to, you can have your turn.”

  She nodded, emitting a tiny squeak.

  “He hasn’t been caught yet. I left town to get away, regroup, and write som
e music without having to look over my shoulder every five minutes. I’m back now, and batshit crazy stalker or no, I’m taking my life back.

  “Jenni.” His sister went wide-eyed again, seeking out their mother. Mom wasn’t going to interfere now. This was Henri’s finest hour. “I got the impression you’d wanted to be a doctor. I don’t mind being wrong, and I’ll support you in whatever career you decide.” He glared at Margo. “It’s got to be your decision. But don’t be in such a hurry to grow up, and don’t put your faith in beauty and fame. When those go, there’ll be nothing left.”

  “Henri, I’m—”

  Henri wasn’t done yet. “You’re young, and for the time being you have to live here and follow their rules.” He hiked a thumb toward their parents. “I’ll admit I haven’t been the best role model for you, and I’m sorry. But I’m getting my act together. Finish school. Graduate. Then if you want to, you can come stay with me while you go to college or figure out what you want to do with your life. Just… don’t let anyone else decide for you.”

  “I…. I won’t.” She sat up a bit straighter.

  He fixed his dad with a glare. Words twenty years in the making bubbled out of his mouth. “For years, you’ve let your wife and son support you, and haven’t lifted a finger to help.”

  “But—”

  Henri held up a staying hand. “My turn to talk, remember? You have a bad back. Yeah, you’ve told me often enough over the years. Guess what? You’re going to a specialist. I’ve made arrangements. But you’ll either support yourself, or get Mom to. I’m done.” Damn, but Henri should have delivered this speech years ago.

  “Last but not least.” Henri turned to face the woman who’d guided his career, and much else of his life. “I guess I should thank you. If you hadn’t turned your back on me, I’d never have picked myself up and started making my own decisions. I’m writing new songs now, better ones. Where once I might have been good, now I’m heading toward. great. And I owe it all to you.”