Shades of Henry (The Flophouse Book 1)

by Amy Lane

  Henry shook his head. “No, but Dad was. ’Cause I picked option B, and Dad bought it. I was not only laid up with the broken leg, I had no TV and no video games and Mal couldn’t come over for two months.”

  “Good,” Lance said viciously. “Fucker should have stayed away. But your dad actually bought it? That you tipped the cow on top of yourself?”

  “Yeah.” Henry chuckled a little. “Dad’s got lots of convictions, but Travis doesn’t think much of his smarts.”

  Lance grunted. “I don’t either.”

  Henry stood. “Time to get back,” he said, not meeting Lance’s eyes. “I told Davy I’d go in afterhours tonight and fix some cabinets in the back.” He wrinkled his nose, completely naturally, and completely Henry. “God, you think the apartment smells like jizz. I would really like to live someplace that potpourri doesn’t smell like cedar shavings on a spunk-puddle, you know what I mean?”

  Lance laughed. “Yeah, yeah I do.” They headed back to the car, the shade adding a layer of oppressiveness to the early June heat. Tomorrow was going to be a scorcher.

  “Why do you stay?” Henry asked, and Lance swallowed.

  “I don’t have anywhere else to be,” he said, voice remote.

  Henry let out a sigh. “That’s going around.”

  Lance let out a sigh, and it was time to go.

  They took off back toward the apartment, and while the conversation was quiet, Lance felt hope. He hadn’t understood why he’d walked off that porn set that morning, but he was starting to see why it was a fair move.

  That night, he and Henry and the guys stayed up playing board games that Henry had borrowed from Dex. It was a fun night, really, but not particularly intimate.

  That was okay. Lance had gotten a lunch and a frank conversation. There was hope for more—there must have been. Because Lance couldn’t help lingering, sitting on the arm of the couch after the others had gone to bed.

  “What?” Henry asked, sitting on the corner of the couch and hugging his knees. “Was there not enough soul baring at lunch?”

  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 WOKE up 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 of feverish dreams about Henry.

  “Yeah, but man, there’s bad shit going down. Henry found a body in the trash, man! And we know the guy!”

  Lance shot upright at the word body. “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!

  Lance went charging out the door, with the guys behind him, not thinking about what it would look like. When he got halfway down the stairs, he saw Henry, surrounded by policemen. Henry looked up and saw Lance and the guys—in their tighties, to a one, because fuck everything—and clapped his hand over his eyes.

  Fuck.

  Lance pulled to a screeching halt and turned around to Curtis, who was right behind him. “Okay, guys, someone go inside and call John and tell him we need Galen, stat.” Lance swallowed and looked out at the steaming pavement where Henry was being grilled like a trout. “Our boy’s gonna need some help.”

  Ye Gods and Battered Fishes

  HENRY COULD barely drag himself up the porch.

  God, what a day, and it wasn’t over yet. From hiring him a lawyer and a PI to help him with his case, to driving the PI all over the city looking into the facts, to seeing Martin Sampson’s body in the morgue—God, that moment sucked—to the fight he’d had with his private investigator because Henry was just that fucked-up and needy and he and Jackson Rivers, the PI, had started off on the wrong foot.

  All of it had sucked. And right now, every ache, every bruise, every cut, was secondary to his dread of telling his brother why he was suspect number one in a murder investigation—because Henry had slept with Davy’s ex.

  Henry knocked on their door after a day of holding back stupid, useless tears and feeling that awful helplessness that had been building since he’d shown up on David’s door. What was he supposed to do now? He had no purpose—except maybe to hang a murder rap on, because that was apparently what the universe wanted.

  He had to rub his chest against a burning desire to see Lance, to see his eyes crinkle at the corners and that kind, patient look he got when the kids—erm, other residents of the apartment—were being particularly young and hormone-driven.

  He wanted La
nce to put his hand on the back of Henry’s neck, to squeeze his shoulder, to lower his lips to Henry’s own and….

  Oh God. Oh hell. Not this now. Why would Lance even look at the guy who was about to be arrested for murder? Falsely arrested, yes. But Henry knew it was coming. His lawyers knew it was coming. And his lawyer’s private investigator would probably just as soon kick him in the balls as make sure he was proven innocent. Henry couldn’t say he blamed the guy.

  It was like all of the emotional bullshit Henry had been putting off since he’d gotten there had dropped on his head that morning when he’d looked into the dumpster and seen one of his most painful mistakes.

  And he had to talk to David now?

  He could catch an Uber home. He was supposed to drop off Galen’s car and get a ride when Davy and Kane went to pick up Frances, but screw this! Henry pulled his hand back from the door and went to do an about-face, but Davy got there first. He flung the door open and grabbed Henry’s shoulders to shake him like an anxious parent.

  “Are you okay?”

  Henry swallowed hard and shook his head. “I’m sorry,” he said rustily. “I’m so sorry.” Because he had to have heard, right?

  “Sorry about what?” Davy took a step back but kept a hand on his shoulder.

  “Martin Sampson. Your ex-boyfriend. Sleeping with your ex-boyfriend.”

  Davy’s eyes went wide, and then he shocked Henry by letting out a deep belly-laugh. “Really? You little rascal you. When did that happen?”

  Henry scowled. “My first night. I was stupid—”

  Davy sighed. “And scared and alone.” He stepped outside onto the porch, where the shade from the trees and the green of the lawn gave an illusion of coolness in what was really a miserable scorcher of a day. “Here,” he said, sitting down on the top porch step and patting the spot by his side. “Sit.”

  Henry did, a little surprised, because inside the house was cool and comfortable—and it was the last place Henry wanted to be right now. It was like his big brother sensed this. He let the silence grow comfortable as they sat next to each other before Davy draped his arm over Henry’s shoulder.

  Kane stepped out at that moment. “Oh, I’ll be inside—”

  “Nope.” Davy looked over his shoulder, and what followed was this weird eyeball-conversation thing that Henry used to do with Malachi whenever they had a chance to have sex when they were on leave. Except this wasn’t about sex or deception. This read more like…

  Kane: Are you sure you want me?

  David: Yeah, he needs to know it’s both of us.

  Kane: But Dexter!

  David: He’s family, and we’re all he has.

  Kane: Fine, but he’s still an asshole.

  David: Yes, but he’s ours and I love him.

  When it was over, Kane let out a sigh like a big guard dog who wasn’t going to get to eat anybody today, and hopped off the porch without using the stairs. Then he flopped down, cross-legged on the lawn. “It’s fuckin’ hot,” he said to Henry. “I hope you appreciate this.”

  Henry stared at him for a moment, this hulking kid who the family blamed for stealing Davy away.

  This good man who had taken care of Henry’s brother when nobody had even seen who he was.

  “I do,” he said in a small voice. “I know you think I’m an asshole of the first order, and I am, but… but you’ll never fucking know.”

  “Know what?” Davy asked.

  “How much I appreciate this,” Henry said, a big lump in his throat. “Like… never. Like… like, you know why Dad kicked me out, went to town on my face—I know you gotta know.” Oh God, the fucking humiliation.

  “Sh….” Davy kissed his temple. “I know Mal told Debbie that you were caught having an affair with a junior officer. He never admitted it was him.”

  Henry’s chest was so tight. “But… but you know?”

  “God, Henry, Kane and I saw right through you when we went back that Christmas. It took us ten minutes.”

  “I tried to get out,” he mewled, feeling pathetic. “I tried. I took the test and got the promotion and told him we couldn’t… ’cause my sister had a baby….” Oh God, he couldn’t breathe. This was worse, somehow, than telling Lance. Lance was kind to everybody. Lance was kind to Randy, who was going to rip his dick off one of these days. But this was his family, and they didn’t forgive you, and you got what was fucking coming to you for fucking up the way Henry had.

  “What’d he say?” Davy asked softly, that arm, that big brother part of him, never going away.

  And Henry hadn’t been planning to say it. Lance knew. Wasn’t it enough that Lance knew? “He forced me,” Henry whispered. “And then I really was having sex with a junior officer.” He felt Davy stiffen next to him, and thought, Good. I know where the line is. That’s what it takes to lose my brother’s love.

  And then Davy wrapped his arms so tight around Henry that he shouldn’t have been able to breathe—but suddenly he could. And after a moment, Kane was all over both of them, in the heat of the afternoon, holding him while he lost his shit for maybe the second time in his adult life.

  They couldn’t stay like that. It was too damned hot. Davy pulled him up and told him they were walking to the corner to get a cold soda, and Kane trailed behind them while they talked briefly about the case, about Henry’s altercation with Martin Sampson at the end of May, and how he’d found the body that morning. It wasn’t even until they got back to the house that Kane asked the obvious question.

  “What in the hell happened to you, by the way?”

  Henry just laughed. He’d forgotten all about the dusty hospital scrubs he was wearing, and his regular clothes in the bag he’d left on the porch. He’d even forgotten about his knuckles and the stinging cut above his eye and his cheek and the fact that he looked like he’d been through a meat grinder.

  “That,” he said weakly, “is a long fucking story.”

  Kane actually looked unhappy about this. “I would seriously love to hear it, but….” He had one of those eyeball convos with Davy again.

  “You’re late!” Henry said, his sense of time suddenly coming back to him. “Oh my God! You’re late. We need to go so you can get Frances from day care. Oh Jesus, I’m so sorry!” He’d picked the little girl up from her after-school day care often enough to know what a big deal this was.

  “It’s okay,” Davy said with a shrug. “We called up Ethan and talked to her. We told her we were helping Uncle Henry today. She wants to see you sometime this week. She seems to think you need the attention.”

  Henry’s tears had finally dried, his eyes finally felt normal, but he couldn’t stop the lump in his throat.

  “Thanks,” he said gruffly. “If you guys can drop me off, you can go get her. Tell her I’ll see her soon.”

  They didn’t say much during the drive—Henry couldn’t have pinned a thought down with a lawn dart at that point anyway. When they dropped him off in front of the apartment, he was expecting Kane to pretty much drive off before his feet hit the ground, but that’s not what happened. Instead, Kane put the SUV in Park, and Davy got out for one last hug.

  “I’ll keep you posted,” Henry told him, because God, didn’t he owe David that much after all this?

  Davy nodded and kissed his forehead, like he had when Henry had been lying on the ground with a broken ankle because Malachi had dropped a cow on him.

  But now Henry knew how precious this was. “Thanks, Davy.”

  “Call us tomorrow—”

  “I might be brought in for questioning tomorrow,” Henry told him, swallowing painfully, because after talking to his lawyer and PI and Galen, he knew it was likely. “Those guys Galen found—”

  “Are those guys okay?” Davy asked quickly. “Reg and John seemed to think they were okay.”

  Henry grimaced. “They’re actually very good,” he said, but Davy’s eyebrow arched because Henry didn’t look like things were “very good.”

  “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, so I don’t have to talk about it!”

  “How about you jump in the shower and plan about how we’re going to talk about it!” Lance snapped.