Page 13 of Shades of Henry
Henry tried to sit up, pushing his arms behind him, and suddenly Cotton’s mouth, his briny, wet, sobbing mouth, was on his neck, and it was all Henry could do not to tilt his head back and yield.
God, he’d been here for a month, and it felt like a year, and his body was whining that it had beenso long.
“Cotton!” he barked. “No!”
Cotton pulled back, the hurt etched clearly on his face. “But you want it,” he said, hiccupping and palming Henry’s aching erection without shame.
Henry caught his hand. “Even if I did, you don’t. Not really. Man, let me get Lance, okay? You’re a mess.”
Cotton’s lower lip started to wobble again, and Henry let out a groan of frustration. “You can hug me,” he muttered, needing that face with the eyes and the chin and all the sad things to stop. “But no sex.”
“O…o…okaaaaaayyy….”
And then they were back to square one, except Henry was leaning uncomfortably against the shambles of the coffee table while Cotton lost his shit.
Eventually he fell asleep on Henry’s chest, and Henry managed to get him situated on the air mattress again. He was picking up the coffee table groggily, wishing for actual coffee, when Lance wandered in, dressed for rounds.
“What happened?” he asked, frowning.
Henry squinted at him. God, he looked good, his tawny skin aglow, black hair water-combed, full lips quirking up. Did he know how beautiful he was? Well, he apparently bared that beautiful body to the camera every so often, let people stroke it and invade it and kiss it for money—so maybe he did. But he was so pretty. Even at gawdawful a.m.
“There was crying,” Henry mumbled. “There was crying, and then there was groping, and then there was ‘no, Cotton,’ and then there was crying.” He closed his eyes and opened them again and shoved his hands through his hair. “I never got to the why there was crying. But there was crying.”
Lance quirked his mouth in sympathy. “You can sleep in my bed if you want. Randy’s alone for once, thank God, and I think Zep and Fisher are finally quiet.”
Henry shook his head. “No. I need to get Galen to the airport in an hour. Need to get up and coffee and bus.”
Davy had made good on helping him find work, and part of that promise led to Henry driving for Galen. Galen was John’s boyfriend—John being the owner of Johnnies—and he’d been injured badly in a motorcycle accident a few years back. Hecoulddrive, but it hurt, and he’d confided to Henry in a rare moment of vulnerability that he lived in fear of his legs going out when he was behind the wheel. Since Galen was mostly a sarcastic asshole whose every word dripped with disdain, it had been a rare moment indeed.
“I can drive you,” Lance said easily. “Go shower. What are you doing after airport duty?”
“Mm… since I have John’s car, I think I’m on for taking Frances to school. It’s a little late for before-school day care and apparently her second-grade teacher is a real bear about tardies. Kane was writing a paper last night, and Davy said he was leaving early so he could go talk to his professor.” Kane apparently had learning difficulties, and part of Henry—the part that was like his father—wanted to sneer at him for being a big dumb gorilla. But the part that watched Kane play with his niece or work until the small hours of the morning trying to read and write way above his education level, thought that maybe he should have a little fucking compassion.
God. Learning. Henry certainly needed more of it.
“You mind nanny bus duty?” Lance asked with a smirk.
Henry shrugged, embarrassed. “I like kids,” he mumbled. “My brother Travis’s kids are sort of fun, and Mal—” He swallowed. This had never been so hard to say before. “Mal and Debbie’s baby was super cute.”
Lance tilted his head. “I keep forgetting—was Mal your brother?”
Henry shook his head vehemently. “No. He’s my sister’s husband. Me and him were in the service together.” God, he wanted to clap his hand over his mouth. He wasn’t going to talk about that—no matter what Davy said about them needing that conversation.
Lance must have sensed something was up. He straightened his shoulders and frowned. “There’s a story th—” At that moment, the coffee maker started hissing, and Henry backed away.
“I’ve got to get ready. I don’t want to make you late. Back in a few.”
“Hey, Henry—”
He ignored Lance’s softly called entreaty and hustled for his duffel bag of clean clothes and the bathroom. He thought rather wistfully that he wished he had something besides jeans, a T-shirt, and a hooded sweatshirt and denim jacket, but as he soaped his hair with Lance’s shampoo—because the guy had offered, dammit, and not because he loved the scent—he couldn’t imagine what else he’d wear. He’d seen the guys go out clubbing in slickly cut trousers and button-downs, tight cashmere sweaters and low-waisted jeans, but he’d never actually stopped to think about what he’d wear outside the military when he’d been in it.
He and Mal had never dressed to impress each other, just in case people noticed who they were trying to impress. Hell, everybody had given Henry shit for being Mal’s babysitter, keeping him on the straight and narrow. Having a club shirt would have blown Henry’s cover.
But now, as he got ready for his day of running errands and trying to pick up a shift waiting tables at a local restaurant, the idea was a low-key rumble in his gut.
WhowasHenry Matthew Worrall without Malachi Daniels and the U.S. Armed Forces behind him?
Well, apparently, he was a guy who’d hug a stressed-out kid in his sleep and not take advantage of the poor kid even when he offered him a sobbing hand job. At least, that was a place to start.
