Page 39 of Shades of Henry
Lance leaned forward and kissed his forehead. “We’ll get clear of this,” he promised, and Henry’s eyes burned.
“Why? I mean, what possible reason do I have for staying out of jail? What am I doing on God’s green earth that does anybody any fucking good?” The bitterness, erupting like that, should have been a surprise, and morbidly he thought of Martin Sampson’s liver. Was this why it was called venting your spleen?
But Lance was apparently a healer, through and through. He cupped Henry’s cheek, the touch making him suck in a breath. Oh, touch. Once upon a time, he’d been touched. Not a lot, not in public, but someone had wanted to touch him.
“You ride herd on a bunch of hormonally hyperactive models who need someone to remind them that the real world doesn’t revolve around their dicks.”
Henry smirked and used the end of his towel to wipe his eyes. “That’s important,” he said thickly.
“I can’t do it myself,” Lance said. He rubbed under Henry’s eye with his thumb, not saying anything when it came away wet. “Now I’m going to leave you to get dressed, and the guys and I will make you something good for dinner, okay? No cleanup duty for you. And someone else can get the trash tomorrow!”
“That’s awesome.” He grimaced. “But, uh, Lance?”
“Yeah?” Lance stood and started straightening his black bag.
“I, uh, didn’t bring in any clothes. My duffel’s in the corner of the living room.”
Lance laughed softly and closed the bag. “Brush teeth, comb hair—I’ll be back in a sec.” Then he washed his hands and exited, leaving Henry to brush his teeth and comb his hair and try to get his act together.
Two minutes later Lance appeared with a pair of soft shorts, tighties, and a tank. He set them on the back of the toilet, using his hand on Henry’s back to establish space, and then moved back. He paused for a moment, then caught Henry’s eyes in the mirror, and planted a soft kiss on the back of his neck.
He straightened and winked, leaving Henry alone and yearning.
The tighties he’d brought were Henry’s.
The shorts and the tank were Lance’s.
Henry put them on and didn’t say a word.
That night, after dinner and some television, the guys disappeared into the back. Zep and Fisher (who had not yet paid rent, as far as Henry could tell, but who did contribute to all the household chores) were going back to have really noisy sex. Curtis came out right before the “Oh God, yes!” started.
Lance was sitting behind Henry in the corner of the couch, Henry between his thighs.
One arm was wrapped around Henry’s chest, and had been since they’d sat down.
None of the guys had noticed—none of them had so much as looked at them funny—but as Curtis emerged from the hallway, rolling his eyes, the intimacy suddenly occurred to Henry, and he moved to get up.
Lance kept him where he sat.
“’Ssup?”
“Lance, can I, you know, use your bed? Randy’s in the, uh, threesome bed, Billy’s sleeping in my bed because he can sleep through fuckin’ anything. Cotton’s in Randy’s bed, and, you know, you and Henry have the couch and the air mattress. Is that okay?”
“Yeah, sure,” Lance said casually. His arm never moved from Henry’s chest, and Henry fell into it, bought into the pretend, that togetherness, comfort, was that easy.
“Thanks, man. I’ve got a summer-session class at 8:00 a.m. I appreciate the chance to sleep.”
“No worries,” Lance said. “What class?”
“Physics 5-C. It helps with kinesiology, and it really helps with the study of prosthetics.”
“Yikes!” Henry said. “Keep at it. It’s good to have a goal.”
“Yeah, well, I won’t always be this hot and DTF. Gotta find something I’ll want to do afterwards.”
“Yeah,” Lance said. “When you’re super fuckin’ old like me.”
Curtis cackled and then paused. “Uh, Lance—you’re still on the schedule six weeks from now. You, uh, still want that shit?”
