Page 33 of Shades of Henry
Lance snorted. “We barely scratched the surface.”
Henry gave him a hard look, and Lance did some fast backtracking.
“Okay—nothing hard. Just, I’m having trouble with the timeline. You and Mal were in eighth grade during the great cow-tipping incident. Were you… you know. Fooling around?”
“No!” Henry shook his head. “Jesus, we didn’t get like that until after he started dating my sister, about two years later. We didn’t start fooling around until our junior year.”
“So, uh, can I ask?”
Henry didn’t look at him. “He was dating my sister, they’d started fooling around, but it wasn’t doing much for him. One day I was at his house and….” Henry moved his shoulders, like it was no big deal. “He was all over me. And I’d been faking it with girls—all those gross objectifying posters in my room, whacking off every night. I said all the appropriate redneck shit about boobs and ass and pussy and putting out.”
“But…?” Lance knew the answer to this—but it was hard, watching Henry trying to find words. He moved to sit on the couch, and to his surprise, Henry kicked off the covers and sat next to him. Not across from—next to. It was like an invitation.
“But,” Henry said slowly, “I dreamed about Malachi every night. He was all over me, and I barely put up a ‘This isn’t right for Debbie’ struggle, and he said….” That shrug—that hunch of shoulders, the way he wouldn’t look at Lance when he said it—it hurt more every time. “He said it was just us, fooling around. But it felt like more.”
“Yeah,” Lance said softly. “I’ll bet.”
Deliberately, Lance scooted an inch or two over, so their thighs were brushing. Henry cast him one of those sideways glances. “Just fooling around?”
Lance swallowed. “I walked out on a job today because of you,” he said softly. “I don’t know if I told you that.”
“Why’d you do that?” Henry’s voice sounded rusty, like he was having trouble getting air through his throat.
And God, Lance had to be honest. “There’s something about your eyes. I didn’t want to look at you and think ‘I just had sex for money.’ So, whatever it is I’m doing here, it’s not just fooling around.”
“Talking,” Henry said gruffly. “Talking with a friend.” And Lance’s heart might have fallen, dropped right to his knees through his stomach, but Henry leaned a little, up against him.
Then he put a tentative hand on Lance’s knee.
Lance put his hand over Henry’s and squeezed, and then held his breath when Henry leaned his head on Lance’s shoulder.
They sat like that for quiet moments, and Lance watched as Henry’s breaths grew slower, evened out.
“Night, Henry,” Lance murmured, nuzzling the top of his head. Henry startled and Lance stood. They both had to be up early, and it was already later than was comfortable for either of them.
That was okay—they’d made progress. There’d been talking. There’d been honesty.
And a lean. There was definitely a lean, and a squeezed hand.
Couldn’t forget the squeezed hand.
Because that was what Lance went to sleep dreaming of—Henry’s hand on his, those bright Montana farm-boy eyes looking at him softly, and that sweet curve of his lips that meant a smile was coming.
He dreamed of hope for a kiss.
HE WOKEup to Zeppelin, wide-eyed and panicked.
“Dude! Lance! My man! You gotta join us here!”
Lance frowned. “My shift doesn’t start until ten,” he moaned, turning toward the wall. He’d been in the middle of a dream—lots and lots of dreams about Henry. Lots offeverishdreams about Henry.
“Yeah, but man, there’s bad shit going down. Henry found abodyin the trash, man! And we know the guy!”
Lance shot upright at the wordbody. “We know the guy? Holy fucknuggets, Zep. Who’s dead!”
“Dex’s ex, man! Scott’s dead in the dumpster, with his head smashed in!”
Oh shit. Oh hell.There would be cops—cops who’d think Henry was a prime suspect!
