Page 44 of Shades of Henry
As the door closed and Lance tried to contain his worry, hereallyhoped they’d move forward further.
HENRY CAMEback that night exhausted and exhilarated. He took his turn cooking dinner, and then told the guys all about his adventures—the being questioned, the two different forged tapes, the fact that the super was in the hospital and by the way they should never, ever,ever, blow someone for rent without checking with the rest of the guys in the house first.
“But what did you do this afternoon?” Zeppelin asked, wide-eyed. “’Cause we got home and Lance said you’d come and gone!”
Henry grinned, looking at Lance with glee. “Well, me and the PI—”
“That Rivers guy who got stabbed,” Fisher said, sitting practically on Zeppelin’s lap. “That guy?”
“Yeah. Together we went to Scott’s dad’s practice, wearing scrubs. We pretended to be transport orderlies and went snooping around his office to see if there was something to indicate he was a douchenozzle.”
“Was he?” Curtis had spent most of the afternoon seething in his bedroom, but hearing Henry back and working in the kitchen had drawn him out for dinner.
“Oh my God,” Henry said. “Such a douchenozzle. Like big-time. He’s been double-dealing drugs out of the hospital, and it’s ugly. I don’t know what we’re going to do tomorrow, but I’ll bet it’s going to be looking around the hospital to see if we can find a distribution center.”
“Did Rivers say that?” Lance asked.
Henry looked sheepish. “No. It’s just… I mean, it’s what I would do if I was in charge.”
“Which you’re not,” Lance reminded him.
Henry shrugged. “Nope. Barely in charge of going to the bathroom. But I gotta admit it’s fun to run around and play detective.”
“Oh, hey,” Curtis said, nose wrinkled. “Has someone been yakking in the bathroom? The pipes are starting to act funny, and it smells in there.”
They were eating egg casserole—one of Henry’s specialties—and the whole table groaned. “God, Curtis!” “Curtis, could you not?” “Seriously, at dinner?”
Henry stared at Billy. “Yakking?”
Billy’s ears went red, and very carefully he avoided looking at Lance. God, it was a year ago—was that how long, a year and a half ago?—when Bobby had realized Lance and Billy were both bulimic as hell?
He’d been so disappointed—and so hurt. Bobby had grown up knowing what it was like not having enough to eat. The idea that they would voluntarily purge their bodies of calories, because theyfeltugly—it had blown his mind.
For a few months, Billy and Lance had filled out calorie diaries, talked each other down from purging, stayed away from the laxative aisle in the store. Then Lance’s residency had started and Billy had broken up with his girlfriendagain,and Lance had gotten that really stupid online reviewer who liked to poke at his baby fat, and Billy had sprained his ankle and had been unable to run for a couple of weeks, and….
And suddenly they were avoiding each other’s eyes when they were coming out of the bathroom again.
But in that time, they’d lost a whack of roommates and replaced them again with the current crop, and they were the only ones who knew.
Unless Henry tried to fix the damned plumbing.
“I can call Bobby,” Billy said casually. “You’ve got enough on your plate this week.”
Henry rolled his eyes. “I can check it out tomorrow night, after dinner with my brother.” He looked hopefully at Lance. “Were you going to come with me?”
Oh crap.“I’m sorry. I took an early half-day today. I promised my buddy I’d make it up tomorrow. I’m sorry, Henry.”
Henry shrugged, and he looked disappointed but not hurt. “I was really glad you were here today,” he said. Then he looked back at Billy. “No, seriously, I can do it. Just make sure you guys have cleared out of the bathroom by the time I get back from Davy’s.”
There was a general consensus, and Lance could only thank God he’d be gone. It was easier to not look guilty when you weren’t there.
“So tell us how your buddy chased the bad guy with the knife,” Randy begged, and Lance wanted to groan. No. No hero worship of Jackson Rivers. Lance had met the guy—he was lost and damaged—and he hated that Henry and the others thought he was some sort of god.
Chasing someone into a rat’s nest of apartment buildings after he’d just stabbed you sounded like pure suicide to Lance. The fact that it sounded like fun to Henry sent Lance into random sweats periodically, and that wasn’t hyperbole, and it didn’t get any better as Henry recounted the story. Lance would have thought he was exaggerating much of Jackson Rivers’s stoic “I got this,” but Lance hadbeenthere as he’d blown off his boyfriend while getting his back stitched up, and he knew it was true.
Dammit. He didnotneed to worry any more about Henry Worrall.
But that night, Lance nodded at Cotton this time, letting him know he could use Lance’s bed, and crawled onto the air mattress while Henry—showered and wearing his boxers and a T-shirt again—turned off the lights and then went toward the couch in the dark.
