Page 36 of Shades of Henry
“Dexter!” Kane urged from the car, and Henry waved them on.
“Go,” he said. “I’ll tell you later.”
“Let us know when you’re brought in for questioning,” Davy told him, and he nodded, thinking that Ellery Cramer and Jackson Rivers—his lawyer and the PI who worked for him—had told him to talk to his lawyer first, family second. He sort of agreed with them. He didn’t want to burden Davy and Kane with anything more.
Not after what they’d done for him that evening.
He waved goodbye to them and then started up the stairs again, his plastic bag of dirty clothes swinging by his thighs as he let himself in.
Lance was already home, in his scrubs, which meant he’d worked a short shift that day, and Henry’s heart gave a gentle throb, just knowing he was there.
“Holy fucking gods,” Lance muttered. “What in the hell happened to you?”
“I don’t want to talk about it,” Henry told him, trying not to meet his eyes. He was still so raw. “Davy and Kane dropped me off. I told them… well, stuff.” The rest of the apartment was quiet. “Are you the first one home?”
Lance shook his head. “The guys are in their rooms, chilling. We were all worried about you. Go jump in the shower, and we’ll talk about it while I’m tending to that cut above your eye.”
“It’s got a butterfly on it,” Henry said defensively, then sighed, the weight of his fight with Jackson Rivers catching up with him. Davy had barely asked about that—maybe because there was so much other stuff to talk about. And maybe because he was merciful and knew that sometimes you aired the oldest hurts first. But now Henry was feeling his day, every hellishly long bit of it, and he shook out his wrist and grimaced. “That’s gonna need some ice, though.” He held up his battered knuckles and ducked from Lance’s killing look.
“What in the hell—”
“I don’t want to talk about it!” Henry muttered, wishing for Davy’s wise silence on the matter. “Here, I’m going to go jump in the shower, soI don’t have to talk about it!”
“How about you jump in the shower and plan about how we’re going totalk about it!” Lance snapped.
Henry stalked to the bathroom and stripped without thinking about bringing a change of clothes with him. He just jumped under the pounding water, not caring that it was cold at first.
Hereallydidn’t want to talk about it.
That talk with Davy had distracted him from the events of that morning. For a minute there, he’d actually been glad to see John and Galen. Galen had taken charge of the police inquiry, and John had begged a ride from Lance back to his house so he could get his own car. The last Henry had seen of Lance had been a rather troubled wave as Lance hopped into his CR-V in his hospital scrubs. And after that, Henry’s day had been something of a roller coaster.
The minute the cops had let him go, Galen had chivvied Henry into the car with barely enough time to have one of the guys (Cotton,still in his briefs!) run up and grab his wallet and cell phone. They’d driven then—do not pass go, don’t catch your breath—to a criminal defense attorney, while Galen nitpicked every last ounce of the story from Henry.
Sort of.
Because Henry wasnotgoing to tell Galen about sleeping with his brother’s ex-boyfriend. As far as he was concerned, nobody had to know about that but Lance.
Gah! And now Davy and Kane. And his lawyer, and that goddamned PI. The best laid plans….
“Henry, you can’t hide in there,” Lance said from the doorway.
“You wanna make a bet?” The water had grown hot and then cold again, and Henry’s bruises were starting to cramp up. Reluctantly, he turned the shower off and was taken aback when Lance presented him with Henry’s own towel—soft and fluffy from the laundry, a giant blue-striped beach towel that covered all the things—through the gap in the shower curtain.
“Thanks,” he mumbled, feeling stupid. He dried his face and his hair, and then toweled off enough to wrap the terrycloth around his ribs so it could drop to his knees. He peeked around the corner and found Lance there in his scrubs, his black bag clutched in one hand and the other hand on his hip.
“Are we going to come out and get checked over like a big boy?” Lance asked, lips pursed in disapproval.
Oh for fuck’s sake. “I’ve been looked over,” he said mutinously even as he took a step out of the shower.
“By whom?”
“By the forensic specialist in the morgue where they took the body?”
“Toe-Tag?” Lance said, gaping. “You met Toe-Tag?”
“Dr. Tagliare?” Henry had liked the guy—he’d been no-nonsense, kind, and informative. Unlike someotherpeople Henry could mention. “Little guy, with lots of ear-hair? A very zen sort of approach to the world? Yeah. That was him.”
Lance’s eyes raked over his body. “You are bruisedeverywhere! Now sit down and let me take care of the eyebrow and those knuckles. And for God’s sake, tell me what—”
