by Amy Lane
“His mother kicked him out of the house,” Lance said, and Henry grunted.
“Of course.”
“His first boyfriend was three years older than he was—he was seventeen at the time. She had the guy arrested. The charges didn’t stick, but the guy didn’t want anything to do with him after that. I guess he slept on people’s couches through high school, but eventually he ended up on the streets. He was hustling in front of one of the clubs our guys go to for promotions. He hit on Reg—”
“The promotions guy?”
“Yeah. Reg did scenes before that. But Cotton hit on Reg, and Reg let him sleep on his couch for a night before taking him to John. Reg would probably have let him move in period, but his sister was living with him at the time, and that sitch was no good. Anyway, John was going to have him do lights and sound, sort of like Kane, but Cotton had been street hustling for a month by then and was like, ‘Hey, I can whore my ass and earn my keep,’ so John gave him a shot. Turns out, he’s dynamite on film. It’s just, you know, off camera….”
“He’s looking for love,” Henry said with a sigh. “We… we need to talk to him. I mean, we’re not going to kick him out, but he’s… he’s going to fall apart.”
Lance made a hurt sound. “We can’t save all of them, Henry. I mean, yeah, we’ll help Cotton, but you gotta know that right now. This flophouse thing, it’s not permanent. I mean, porn isn’t permanent. Some people stay in it for a while—they get houses, they get cars, they treat it like a profession. Some of these kids started porn because they wanted a new tattoo. Either way, for most of the guys who go through the flophouse, it’s like you. Not meant to last.”
Henry ruminated. “Look, it’s like when I was on deployment. You see a civilian on the road in a war zone—you help get them out of the way. Yeah, it’s a war zone. You don’t know what’s going to happen to them tomorrow. But for today, you get to be the good guy. I’ll talk to him tonight. That kid needs a good guy.” He took a sip of his coffee and brooded, because he’d gotten proficient at that. “How often do you really get to be the good guy in life, you think?”
Lance’s voice was sort of hurt. “Well, you know. I try to do it every day.”
Henry felt a laugh burble up, and he was caught off guard so he let it out.
“What?” Lance asked, and as Henry watched, a warm red crept up his cheeks. “Why’s that funny?”
“I don’t know!” Henry’s own cheeks felt warm. “I mean, you’re a doctor. It’s like you’re going to school for an incredibly long time so you can be the good guy every day. I think that’s awesome, by the way. But I’m just a grunt. Closest thing I ever get to being a hero is moving some poor family out of the road.”
“Or making sure Cotton’s okay,” Lance finished softly.
Henry let out a sigh. “Yeah, well, there’s that.”
Maybe.
Lance dropped him off at John’s house, and Henry thought for the umpteenth time that if Davy’s business partner and boss was going to be a porn mogul, he should live in a bigger, better place.
The tiny one-bedroom, one-bath structure apparently boasted a pool in the backyard, and the flowers in the front were already blooming. It looked so… ordinary. As Henry knocked on the solid oak door, he caught a scent of jasmine from the backyard and wondered if he would ever get his head screwed on straight about these people.
Cotton the porn star was like a puppy left in the rain.
John the porn mogul was a nice guy, and his boyfriend was giving Henry a job.
Lance, the med student, was treating porn like any other profession—waiting tables, working retail—and Henry was starting to agree with him.
Henry’s brother was a businessman, a good parent, and he shot and edited porn for a living.
And Henry, who had lied to his family and to himself for the past ten years, was in the middle of all of this, pretending to be straight.
Aces.
“Henry. So good to see you on time.”
Henry smiled grimly at Galen.
Galen had probably been the prettiest man in any room, once upon a time. A brutal motorcycle accident—and a few years addicted to painkillers—had left him a little thinner, with a scar he tried to hide behind tousled hair and scruff on his chin. Henry privately admitted that the guy was still stunning—his brown eyes and lazy-eyed smile would have appealed very much to Henry once upon a time.
But Galen was a dry, sarcastic bastard who seemed to sense Henry’s general judgment of all matters porn, and he was really good at leaving little verbal slices just under Henry’s skin.
“Lance gave me a ride,” he said, giving credit.
“Ah, Lancelot—even helping out the dragon.”
Henry smiled thinly. “Not all of us dragons have our own chariots,” he said, and Galen’s lazily lifted eyebrow should have warned him.
“What a good vocabulary word, Henry. A few more of those and you can go out and get your own job.”
“I could go now,” Henry said sweetly. “But then you’d have to take an Uber to the airport, and that would piss all sorts of people off.”
Including Davy, dammit. And Henry was trying so hard to do right by his brother.
“Galen….” John looked at Galen expectantly, and Galen glanced away, backing from the door and letting Henry in. John didn’t appear to be a force of nature. Five-foot-nine, maybe, with red hair and freckles, and perpetually ten pounds underweight with bony ankles and Opie ears, John was neither handsome nor powerful. But he seemed to have good ideas—and the kids in the flophouse talked about him like he was their favorite teacher.
Henry had to admit that they’d all been paid regularly and treated well as employees. He’d heard the boys talking—they got robes before and after scenes. They were tested often and counseled well on how to avoid disease and how to stay safe in general if they were going to do other gigs besides just porn. They were even given a chance to go to clubs and be celebrities, promoting their faces, their personalities, and their videos. It wasn’t a job Henry would have chosen, but he could tell that John was trying to run a respectable outfit and give his boys every chance possible.
And he seemed to owe Davy some sort of blood bond, because he was constantly reminding Galen not to be an asshole.
“I apologize, Henry,” Galen said, glaring at John through slitted eyes. “If you can get my carry-on bag, we can proceed.”
“Travel safe,” John said, putting a casual hand on his lover’s hip. “Play nice with the other lawyers. Don’t eat anybody for breakfast.”
Galen bit his lip almost shyly and leaned in for a kiss, and Henry had to look away. Not because he was disgusted—although he remembered the body language, the quiet huff, the rolled eyes—but because he was touched. There was a tenderness there. Galen could be a bastard with a dagger for a tongue, but he seemed to melt when this scrawny redheaded porn-pervert said nice things to him. And Henry wasn’t iron or stone. He was as susceptible to romance as the next guy—if the next guy had been yearning for his lover to be that kind, that open about his feelings for his entire life.
Henry grabbed the practical carry-on and the less practical garment bag, and passed the two of them, engaged in their goodbye kiss, on the way out the door that led from the kitchen to the garage. John had property in Florida, and Galen had old contacts he was trying to break away from, cleanly and legally. He’d made this trip twice before since Henry had shown up on Davy’s door, and this was supposed to be the last time for a while.
Henry situated the luggage in John’s newest acquisition, a Buick LeSabre, as old-fashioned as it was luxurious. He turned toward the connecting door to the kitchen and walked to the steps, ready and waiting to help Galen down. Galen took them by himself, eyes narrowed in concentration, cane wielded with sheer force of will. The accident that had scarred his face had nearly cleaved his foot in half, and while he could walk without the cane most of the time, when he was stiff or there were stairs involved, he seemed to really n
eed it.
Henry could respect a guy who tried to work past an injury, and he tried to be a gentleman.
Galen was just crap at accepting help was all.
Still, Henry waited by the car door and made sure Galen was belted in before closing it and opening the garage door to the bright spring day beyond. The dismal rain hadn’t lasted long. They were in the first week of May and it was almost hot, and Henry was wondering what the summer would hold. As Henry made his way down the tree-lined streets of what he privately admitted was a very pretty city, he couldn’t stop himself from commenting on the weather.
“It’s gorgeous today. When do you think the rain will come back?”
The soft snort behind him wasn’t reassuring. “October if we’re lucky.”
Henry took in the green lawns and the leafy canopy overhead. “No, seriously.”
“No, seriously. This part of the country is in the tail-end of a drought, Henry. John won’t even flush the toilet after a piss—none of the locals will.”
Henry blinked as several moments from the past month in the flophouse came into focus. “Oh my God! I thought those assholes had been born in a barn!”
For once Galen’s dry laugh was not aimed at him. “No, sir—that was a concerted community effort to not flush away a precious resource. You’re welcome.”
“It’s hard, getting used to a different place,” Henry confessed. The Army was the Army, barracks were barracks, and everywhere else felt like traveling. But to live somewhere, let it thrum through your blood—Sacramento wasn’t the rest of the world.
“It is that,” Galen agreed softly. “Do you have any idea what you want to do yet?”
“Besides strain my brother’s good graces and be at your beck and call? Not a clue. God, I wish I did.”
“Have you looked into online classes?” Galen asked, and when his voice was gentle like that, Henry could see the charm that apparently had John wrapped around his little finger.
“Yessir,” Henry replied crisply. Traffic was starting to pick up, but he made the right turn onto the freeway with relatively few obstacles. “I have. I’ve even applied. I just don’t know what I want to take. I was thinking computers but then, that’s what everybody says.”
“Mm.” Galen appeared to be thinking about this sincerely. “Maybe don’t decide at first. Maybe simply survey classes to start with. Most young people make the mistake of thinking they have to know exactly what they want the minute they hit the boards. School was originally a time to explore so you could figure out what you wanted. Maybe approach it that way.”
Henry let out a breath. “That’s a really nice idea,” he said, almost surprised. “Thank you, Galen. I’ll keep that in mind.” His father’s voice said, “Computers are practical!” and he didn’t want to go that direction, but it was nice to have Galen in his head, for once not being an asshole.
“Well, Henry, you are punctual, you are efficient, and you are, within certain boundaries, as courteous as you can be. These qualities can get you far if you apply them right. You need not be a chauffeur forever.”
It was Henry’s turn to snort. As courteous as you can be? What the hell did that even mean? “But Galen! My life would be empty if I couldn’t lick your loafers.”
Galen tilted his head back and emitted a soft laugh. “And there’s the little asshole I’ve come to expect. Forget everything I just said. I’ve heard fast food is hiring—perhaps you’ll find your vocation there.”
“I’d be sure to deliver the extras to your door,” Henry replied sweetly, “but I understand you people aren’t fond of carbs.” There was no mistaking the “you people” snideness in his tone, but then Henry had done it on purpose. The bitchfest was on.
As nasty as they got to each other—and Henry didn’t flatter himself; he gave as good as he got—he still got out of the car to assist Galen to his feet and set his luggage up for easy transport. Galen watched him impassively until Henry handed him the roll-aboard and his briefcase, the garment bag secured firmly on top of the suitcase.
“Thank you, Henry.”
“You’re welcome, Galen.”
Galen took a deep breath and shook his head. “Henry, I can be a vicious bastard—and you are no sacrificial lamb. But do take my advice about looking into exploring the world. I know you think you’ve seen a lot with the military, but very often, when you’re traveling as a soldier, you only see the world as a bullet. Do you take my meaning?”
Henry grimaced. “I do. Thank you.” He had to admit this, or he really would be as ugly on the inside as the entire car ride would show him to be. “It’s kind of you to take an interest.”
Galen’s mouth twisted, and he winked. “Well, for better or for worse, you are one of the few people who can bitch right back in my face. John’s the other one. We assholes have to stick together.” And with that, Galen seized his luggage and hung his cane from the handle, using the works to balance his way into the arrivals wing so he could check in.
Henry swung back into the car and left for Sacramento, so he could help his brother with child care, and the very odd world he found himself in now.
A WORLD that felt no less odd that night as he pulled Cotton aside to talk after dinner.
“Take my bed,” Lance offered under the murmur of roommates eating spaghetti and sausage. Henry had instituted an “everybody cooks for one night a week” rule, complete with a chart on the refrigerator. And while that meant they ate chicken on whole wheat with sprouts when Zeppelin cooked, and tofu lettuce wraps when Lance cooked, the result was everybody got at least one home-cooked meal a day. And even when the guys were fasting for a scene, they had company as they nibbled celery and drank seltzer water.
Tonight had been Cotton’s night to cook, which meant everybody else did cleanup, and it was the perfect time to take the kid aside and mess with his head. Of course, that wasn’t what Henry meant to do, but he had no doubt he was going to fuck this up somehow.
But he couldn’t get over those broken sobs against his chest, and the way Cotton had morphed so seamlessly from despair to sex.
There had to be a different way to approach life, one that didn’t seem to break him quite so much.
“You want to come with?” Henry asked a little desperately, and Lance shook his head.
“Sometimes it’s Mom’s job, sometimes it’s Dad’s,” Lance said primly.
“My dad used a strap,” Henry muttered. “I think we need a better Dad.”
“You’re what we’ve got,” Lance told him, but not before Henry saw the little wrinkle between his eyes that spoke of pity. “Unless you want to turn the job over to Dex and John—”
“I’ve got it.” Galen’s pointed remarks had apparently left little puncture wounds in his psyche. He could pull his weight, dammit, he really could.
So after dinner, he shoulder-bumped Cotton and dragged him to Lance’s bed, grateful for the offer. Lance didn’t have sex outside of scenes—not that Henry could see, anyway. And he hadn’t filmed anything since Henry had arrived, which Henry found… comforting, for reasons he couldn’t name. It would have to happen eventually, he knew. Lance had said something about checking the schedule.
But Henry wasn’t worried about that right now. Right now, he was worried about the kid who was currently taking off his shirt and unbuttoning his jeans, right in front of Lance’s bed.
“Zzzzomigod!” Henry burst out. “What are you doing? Stop! No! Put your clothes back on! We’re not doing that here! That’s not what this is about!”
Cotton stopped and frowned. “Then what are we doing here?”
His chest was a thing of alabaster beauty. Pale skin, riding the muscle groups so tight, Henry could mark the places you’d shade the shadows in with a pencil. His shoulders were wide and his elbows had been moisturized, a curiously vain, vulnerable gesture that hit Henry more in the solar plexus than the groin. He had giant fucking Bambi eyes, luminous and brown and vulnerable—dammit, couldn’t this kid stay out of the goddamne
d rain?
“You are getting dressed first,” Henry said. “Then we’re sitting on opposite ends of the bed, and we’re going to talk like people.”
Cotton grabbed his T-shirt—a Johnnies promotional one, with the model on the front and everything—and curled up in the far corner of the bed, his back against the corner of the walls. He looked, if anything, more naked now.
Henry sat down on the end of the bed with a sigh. “Cotton, son—”
“I’m not your son.”
“No, but you’re too young to be my boyfriend, so we’re going to roll with that, okay?”
Cotton swallowed. “Too young?” he asked. “I’ve fucked guys way older than you—”
“And shame on them. I mean, I get—sort of—why the people you do on set may be older than you. That’s a professional relationship, and those cross age boundaries sometimes.”
“Most of them aren’t much older than you or Lance. You’re sort of, you know… old.”
At twenty-seven. Fantastic. Henry couldn’t control his glee. “Thank God,” he muttered, wishing for Galen’s dagger-like dryness. “Anyway, if I’m so old, why are you looking to hook up with me?”
Cotton started to pluck at Lance’s comforter, which looked like a homemade thing in vibrant magentas and blues. Henry wanted to touch it too. “I dunno,” Cotton muttered. “You were… warm. And safe. It feels good when it’s safe.”
Oh. “Well, yeah. It should feel good. It should be safe. But—and this isn’t for work, mind you—but maybe you should have some action… some agency, when you pick your warm and safe. You were going to sleep with me because I was there, Cotton. Maybe don’t sleep with guys because they’re there. Sleep with them because you want to.”
“But how will I get anybody to like me if I don’t put out?”
Henry’s swallow was audible.
Mal, can’t we just, I don’t know, hang out?
C’mon, Henry—I wouldn’t have asked you over to my folks’ house if I didn’t want to fool around.
A thousand years ago. That had been a thousand years ago. And Henry had bought that line and bought it until what he was doing wasn’t wrong because it was with Mal—it was wrong because Mal was married to his sister, and she’d had Mal’s baby.
