Page 23 of Shades of Henry
The fact that he’d wanted to talk to Cotton and not yell at him already made Henry a better person than 70 percent of the parents Lance knew.
Maybe eighty or ninety. Bobby’s mother was the Johnnies’ receptionist, and she mommed as much as the boys would let her—she’d started to matter more on a basic math level. Shewasthat good 30 percent; Lance was sure of it.
But she hadn’t been the one holding Lance during the second half of the night. Sure, they’d started out with Henry resting his cheek on Lance’s chest, crying softly, until he’d fallen asleep like a child. But after Henry had gotten up to use the bathroom, he’d spent some time making Lance more comfortable, helping him undress, getting him a blanket, and then had crawled in next to him and held him tight, even though they had a perfectly good inflatable mattress, complete with sheets and blankets, made up next to them.
But Henry had chosen Lance instead.
Lance wasn’t sure what it meant, but there was a pleasant tingling in his stomach, a hope. It was stupid, of course. Henry still couldn’t talk about the guys filming scenes, or porn, or even about all the hookups that happened in the bedrooms while Henry slept in the front. Lance reallycouldsleep while Randy was going down on whoever got bored, but he wasn’t sure how Henry was taking it in his fortress of solitude on the couch. Sure, he’d laughed when Lance had talked about waving his gay penis around, but had he thought it was funny enough to date someone who was doing that?
Still, having those arms around his shoulders, the way being held by Henry had felt like he was holding an equal, someone who would shoulder Lance’s burdens and lay his own down for Lance to carry—that had been pretty damned intoxicating.
Lance was so lost in thought, he likely wouldn’t have caught the excitement going on downstairs if Zeppelin hadn’t stuck his head into the bathroom.
“There’s some guy downstairs screaming at Reg. And Henry’s gonna beat the shit out of him!”
The fuckinghell?
Lance got dressed so fast, he was halfway down the stairs before he wondered if he was wearing his own shoes. He got there just in time to catch the tableau—Johnnies guys lined up on the stairs, watching a cop thriller down by the dumpster.
Lance wasn’t sure what had been said before he got there—all he knew was that things had devolved into a total shitshow now.
Bobby—the sandy-haired Panzer tank Lance knew and loved—was standing in front of Reg, his face red with anger as he faced down a stringy, vaguely familiar-looking young man wearing a khaki duster.
“C’mon, Reg, ya fuckin’ retard—don’t tell me you don’t want some! Your sister’s a fucking basket case. I’d want to get away from that too!”
“Get the fuck away from him, Scott!” Bobby snarled. “I’ve got no beef with you—fuck!”
Because Henry hadn’t waited for Scott to back down. As Lance watched, he dragged the guy away from Reg and Bobby and frog-marched him to the dumpster, maybe thinking to pin him there while somebody called the cops.
“Martin Sampson, you hustling piece of shit. You should have just stolen my wallet when you had the chance!”
“So now I’m a hustling piece of shit?” Scott snapped, but he didn’t sound surprised or even angry. Just sad.
“What are you even doing here? Reg doesn’t want any fucking pills!”
Scott gave a sheepish smile. “Everybody likes candy, Henry.”
Lance had no idea who Martin Sampson was—he’d always known the guy as Scott. And even when he’d worked at Johnnies, Scott had been an asshole. John usually weeded out the guys who were violent or too self-centered to shoot good porn—often before the come had dried in their audition video. But Scott had hung around. He’d even dated Dex for a while, and then Dex had the good sense to break up with him, and Scott had moved on to Kelsey the receptionist, and from there, Lance had heard he’d gone to jail. He’d been well known as the local coke dealer, but judging from the little packets sliding from his pockets now, Scott had apparently moved on to pills.
“Get the fuck out of here,” Henry ordered, his hands fisting in Scott’s button-down shirt. “These boys don’t want what you’re selling!”
“Lookit you, Henry,” Scott murmured, and the sorrow on his face was shockingly sincere. “Being the hero and shit. Just like your brother.”
Henry’s fighting stance eased up a little, and he lowered his fists. “My brother?”
Scott gave him a sheepish grin, his eyes peeking out from under his lashes, and for a moment, Lance almost saw that he could be charming. “You know… your brother?”
Then he realized what that grin could mean.
“Henry!” Lance called, hustling down the steps. “Henry, no!”
“Fuck!” Henry swung and clocked Scott in the jaw before grabbing his duster again, lifting him bodily, and shoving him into the dumpster. It was pretty impressive as an act of strength, and absolutely horrifying as an act of violence. “These aremykids. Don’t youevercome back here selling your filth again!”
“Damn,” Zeppelin muttered, following Lance down. “I was hoping he’d have some P-Top with him. All this cooking at night is making me fat.”
“P-Top?” Henry asked, apparently hearing the most irrelevant detail in the midst of chaos.
“Diet pills,” Lance snapped. “And they fuck up your metabolism, Zep, so back off. Jesus, Henry, are you all right?”
