by Ella Frank
As he crossed the living room, Henri spotted the bottle of whiskey he’d been tempted to dive headfirst into earlier, and was thankful that he’d resisted the urge. He had a feeling that things would’ve turned out very differently had he turned up at Bailey’s house drunk. But luckily for him, things had turned out fucking perfect.
Midnight. It seemed an eternity away, but when his stomach growled, Henri decided one way he could pass some time was to make himself something to eat. He headed to the kitchen and was just about to rummage through the fridge when his phone rang.
As he pulled it out of his back pocket, his first thought was: Please don’t let Bailey have come to his senses. But then he remembered that final look his cop had given him, and Henri knew whoever was calling would not be Bailey.
He looked down at the name and number on the screen; it was one he knew in an instant. It was his buddy Diaz, from back in New Orleans, whom he’d stayed in contact with over the years. He hadn’t heard from him in a few months now, and Henri figured what the hell, this was a good way to pass time, catching up with an old friend and shooting the shit.
“Hey, what’s up, asshole? Haven’t heard your name round here since your girlfriend shouted it out last week in my bed by mistake.” The standard ribbing—part and parcel of their friendship over the years—was nothing new, and as Henri waited for Diaz to laugh and tell him to go suck a dick, since that was what he preferred, he was shocked when all that greeted him was silence.
“Diaz?”
“Hey, Henri. Glad I caught you. Can you talk for a minute?”
Diaz’s grave tone had Henri shutting the fridge and leaning against his counter. It was unlike his friend to be so serious, and it was making the hair on the back of Henri’s neck rise.
“Yeah, I got some time. What’s going on? You sound off. Those ball-sweating summers finally sizzle out your sense of humor?”
“Nah, man. I…” Diaz paused, and Henri waited. “I’m calling about Victor.”
At the mention of his father’s name, Henri straightened. He hadn’t seen Victor in nearly a decade, just before he’d made up his mind to move to L.A. But when that hadn’t panned out, and he’d headed back to New Orleans, Henri had made sure to vanish.
He’d disappeared from his old life, including Victor’s, and never bothered to tell his father he was back in town again. So what Diaz could be calling about, Henri had no idea.
“Look,” Henri said. “I don’t want to see him or talk to him, okay? So if he’s worked out where I am, I’ll disappear. He can go fuck himself.”
“That’s not it. I’m calling because, well, he was found dead this afternoon in his cell. Beaten by another inmate, apparently.”
Henri let the words Diaz had just said sink in, and when they finally penetrated the shock that had just enveloped him, Henri said, “Dead? Victor’s dead?”
“Yeah. I know there’s no love lost there; just figured you’d wanna know.”
Henri nodded, but when he realized Diaz couldn’t see him, he made himself speak. “Yeah, uh, thanks, man. I appreciate it.”
“No problem. Keep in touch, yeah?”
“Will do.”
“See ya round, Henri.”
“Yeah, see ya,” Henri said as though he were on autopilot, and several minutes after Diaz had hung up, Henri realized he still held the phone to his ear.
Dead. Victor was…dead.
Fuck. That was weird. Henri waited for some kind of emotion to flood him—anger, sadness, guilt—but nothing came. Instead, he felt numb. He looked out to his living room, spotted the bottle of whiskey on the table, made his way over to it, grabbed it up, and unscrewed the top.
Drinking or fucking: they were the two things that always managed to make him feel something when his body shut down on him like this, and when he looked at the clock and saw how many hours he had left until midnight, Henri knew he only had one option.
He brought the bottle up to his lips, took a nice, long swig, and enjoyed the burn the liquor made down his throat, as he waited for some kind of feeling to find him again…
THE CLUNKING RATTLE of the iron bars that slid home behind Henri at Louisiana State Penitentiary—or as it was locally known, Angola—was nothing new. But it sure was a sound he was eager to leave behind, after his final face-to-face with his father.
Today was the day Henri was finally going to tell Victor he was done. He was done with this life, done with this family, and done with this no-good fucking place, where all that waited for him was his own room somewhere here in this prison.
For far too long now, he’d been caught up in a vicious cycle, and after years of thinking he had no other options, no means of escaping Victor’s grasp, Henri had finally found something worth fighting for: Joel Donovan.
Henri still couldn’t believe that the two of them had reconnected the way they had. It was like a dream. A really fucking hot one that he never wanted to wake up from, one that he wanted to continue for the rest of his life.
Ever since he was a boy, he’d loved the one with the auburn hair, but when he tracked Joel down three years ago and they’d reignited their friendship with some…added benefits, that love had only gotten stronger.
Joel had always been meant for him, of that Henri was sure now, and after seeing what kind of life he could have out there in L.A., Henri knew the only way that was going to happen was if he left this life behind for good.
When he reached the sign-in desk, an officer thrust a clipboard in his direction, and Henri did a quick scratch and scrawl as he handed over his ID. Once he was cleared, he made his way to booth thirteen, the one farthest from the guards, and took a seat as Victor was ushered into the room behind the soundproof barrier, and then shoved down into the seat opposite him.
He looked like shit—not that Henri expected much else, considering this was one of the most violent prisons in America—but the last time he’d been there, around six months ago, when Victor had sent for him, he hadn’t been sporting the scar above his eye, and he’d looked a lot heavier.
Right now, Victor looked like he could do with a meal or three. His head was shaved, his cheeks were sunken, and his eyes looked flat and pale. Nothing like the intimidating enforcer of Big Jimmy that Henri remembered as a boy.
As the guard walked off, leaving them alone, Henri reached for the handset, and Victor did the same. “What the fuck are you doin’ here?”
Yeah, that seemed about right. No greeting. No acknowledgment of any type. Just straight to the point, so Henri thought, What the fuck, and did the same. “Just thought I’d come tell you face to face—well, face to Plexiglas—that I’m done. I want out.”
Victor stared at him through the grimy barrier but said nothing, so Henri continued, not about to be intimidated by a sickly old man who couldn’t do shit to him anymore.
“I’m done with you, and all the other fuckers out here who you seem to think I need to deal with on your behalf. It’s over. It’s time for you to find a new dog to kick, you get me?”
Victor’s eyes narrowed as he looked Henri up and down. His expression made Henri’s skin crawl. He’d seen and heard the atrocities the man sitting across from him had committed, and for years had been told to do as Victor said or he’d wind up dead. But as Henri stared at the frail fucker on the other side of the security barrier, he wondered why it had taken him so long to wise up.
Victor and Jimmy were locked up, had been sentenced to life so many times over that there was no way on God’s green earth they would ever see the light of day again. So why was Henri still letting them control him? Why was he letting them manipulate him? He was smart, he was resourceful, and even if it meant he had to disappear off the fucking grid, he would do it to be with Joel.
“I get you,” Victor all but spat into the handset. “But why now?”
“What?”
“Why you want out now? Has to be a reason.”
“Other than I don’t want to wind up in the cell next to you?”
Henri ground his back teeth as he shoved his chair away from the table and got to his feet. “I’m a disappointment? What the fuck do you think you are?”
Victor said nothing, just stared, and Henri wished he had the ability to be that cool. The ability to have no emotional response. Maybe then he wouldn’t have given in and felt the need to do the things he’d done over the years to not wind up on this motherfucker’s bad side.
“You found him, didn’t you?” Victor said, the sneer to his lip just making him uglier. “That little fucker you pined away for all these years.”
Of all the things Victor could’ve said, that was the one that drew Henri up short. It was so unexpected and terrifying that his father knew that piece of information, and Henri froze in place as though ice had just formed in his veins.
Victor leaned back in his chair as though he were sitting in a board meeting instead of a jailhouse, and as his eyes darkened with a sick kind of joy, Henri felt a shudder race up his spine. “Did you think we wouldn’t know? That Jimmy wasn’t already keeping tabs on him?”
Henri said nothing, refused to give anything away just in case Victor was bluffing.
“We have eyes and ears everywhere. You think you can just get out? Think again. Run away if it makes you feel better. But you better become a motherfucking ghost if you do, because that’s the only way you’re going to be done with me, Henri.”
Henri swallowed, understanding the threat for what it was, and as Victor got to his feet, he lunged at the clear divider and slammed the phone into it, shouting, “Run!”
HENRI STARTLED AND jackknifed up on the couch, his fingers tight around the neck of the whiskey bottle. Shit. He hadn’t thought about that day in years, and as he tried to get his breathing under control, it occurred to him that he was finally…free.
As that word—free—rattled around in his mind, a morbid sense of happiness filled him close to bursting, and then he started to laugh. Sweet mother of fucking God. I’m free! Henri thought, and wanted to climb on the rooftop and scream at the top of his lungs.
He’d spent his entire life looking over his shoulder, and with both Jimmy and Victor now dead, there was no one left to terrorize him. No one left to keep him contained to the shadows. He was a free man.
Well, except from his own demons, but those battles could wait another day. For now, he planned to fucking celebrate.
NEVER HAD TIME moved so slow—of that, Bailey was certain. But as the big hand on his kitchen clock finally landed on top of the small one planted firmly on twelve, his nerves were beginning to set in.
He couldn’t work out if he was more anxious or excited to see Henri again, but when his stomach began to flip-flop at the thought, Bailey had his answer—excited.
Dinner had dragged by at an excruciatingly slow pace, and after they’d finally finished up and he’d gotten rid of his brothers, Bailey was positive Xander had been lingering on purpose in the hopes that Henri would show up early. He didn’t.
In fact, he was now running late. Granted, it was only by a minute or two, but as the second hand ticked around the clock, Bailey told himself not to think the worst.
He chased me down, he reminded himself as he got to his feet and began to pace. He all but stalked me, for God’s sake. But when that little reminder wasn’t enough to quell the doubt creeping in, he walked through to his living room and stared at his front door. The same door he’d shoved Henri up against eight nights ago.
Bailey checked his watch. Ten past twelve.
Maybe he fell asleep waiting? But Bailey quickly shoved that idea aside, because it had taken an act of major restraint to pull them apart earlier. So for Henri not to be here now… Maybe something had happened to him.
Bailey took his phone from his pocket and checked his messages. No missed calls, no texts, and as he stood in his hallway debating whether he should call, his doorbell chimed loudly throughout his silent house, scaring the absolute shit out of him.
Breathe, he told himself as he dropped his phone onto the entrance table and wiped his hands along his jeans. Take a damn breath and calm yourself down.
Bailey stood there for a couple seconds more, and when he finally reached for the handle, he saw that his hand was shaking. Damn. Henri had him as nervous as a teenager going to prom. But when he finally pulled the door open, he found something much more sinful on his doorstep than a high school boy.
Dressed in the same dark jeans and Henley from earlier, plus a leather jacket to ward off the cold, Henri had one shoulder leaning up against the doorjamb, his ankles crossed, and a hand shoved inside the pocket of his jeans.
His hair was ruffled as though he’d been running his fingers through it, and he flashed a smile in Bailey’s direction that was full of one thing and one thing only—sex.
As Henri shoved off the doorjamb, Bailey lost his ability to form words. He let go of the door handle, stepped out of the way, and waited for Henri to walk inside. But instead of entering the house, Henri stopped opposite him, fingered the zipper of his hoodie, and slowly dragged it down an inch. “Shut the door, Bailey.”
Henri’s intoxicating scent surrounded Bailey, but mixed in with it was the distinct smell of whiskey—and a lot of it—and before Bailey could tell his cop brain to shut up, he said, “Have you been drinking?”
A deep laugh slipped free. “Don’t worry, officer. I didn’t drive over here.” Henri’s words slurred slightly. “I took an Uuuber. I haven’t broken any laws, I promise.”
Henri winked and went to kiss him, and Bailey chuckled but put his hands on Henri’s chest to stop him.
“Wait a minute,” Bailey said as he guided Henri inside his house, and when he turned back, he couldn’t help but think how damn attractive Henri was, even plastered. “Are you drunk?”
Henri held his thumb and forefinger an inch apart. “I might be…a little bit. I was drinking while I was waiting for you tonight. That’s not a crime, is it?”
No, it wasn’t. In fact, this might be a good way for Bailey to relax and loosen up a little, instead of being so hopped up on nervous energy. Maybe he could track down that bottle of cognac Xander had given him for his birthday and catch up.
“So you had a few drinks?” Bailey asked, as he stepped around Henri and headed toward the kitchen.
“More like a…bottle?”
Bailey stopped and turned back to see Henri giving him a scorching once-over.
“You drank a whole bottle?” Bailey laughed and shook his head, surprised that Henri was still standing. “A whole bottle of what?”
“Hmm, whiskey,” Henri said, then licked his lips as though he could still taste it. As he started in Bailey’s direction, he swayed slightly on his feet and reached out for the wall to steady himself. “Officer? Your room is spinning.”
Bailey’s lips twitched as he walked back to Henri. “I’m sure it is. Let me help you over to the couch.”
Bailey held his hand out; Henri took it and drew him in, wound his other arm around his waist, nuzzled his nose into the crook of Bailey’s shoulder and said, “I really want to get naked with you again. It’s all I think about…this body and the way it moved under mine… Let me get you naked.”
Bailey couldn’t think of anything he’d rather do. But when Henri raised his head and blinked a couple times as though trying to focus, something niggled in the back of Bailey’s mind.
Why was Henri drunk? Was it something he did regularly, or had something happened during the last couple of hours to make him go home and polish off an entire bottle of whiskey?
“Henri?”
“Hmm,” Henri said as he started to play with the zipper of Bailey’s hoodie again.
“What were you drinking to tonight? Did something good happen?”
Henri lowered the zipper all the
way down, and as the material parted and Bailey’s bare skin came into view, Henri put his palms on his chest and groaned.
Not about to be sidetracked, Bailey halted one of Henri’s hands and asked again, “What happened tonight, Henri?”
Henri stepped away from him, walked over to the couch, and fell down into it. Then he craned his head back on the cushion behind him and eyed Bailey. “I decided to celebrate.”
Celebrate? Well, that sounds like fun, Bailey thought, and then walked around the couch to stand in front of Henri. “What are you celebrating?”
Henri took in a deep breath, closed his eyes, and let it out. “My father. He died tonight. And that’s something worth celebrating.”
Chapter Nineteen
CONFESSION
I don’t want to be bad…
Not anymore.
THE NEXT TIME Henri opened his eyes was painful. Not only because there was a loud pounding going on inside his head, but because of the bright light streaming through the massive windows on one side of the living room he was sitting in.
At least, I think it’s a living room, he thought, clutching the side of his head.
“I was wondering when you’d wake up.”
At the sound of the familiar voice, Henri turned, and his eyes landed on Bailey, who was sitting opposite him all bright-eyed and fresh-faced in a comfortable-looking recliner.
Oh fuck. As the night before came rushing back with blinding force, Henri winced. He remembered tracking his cop down, feeling him up outside, making plans to come back and see him, and then…the phone call, and the news about Victor.
After that, he didn’t remember a whole lot of anything. But somehow or another, he’d ended up here, at Bailey’s house.
Again, fuck.
“How’s your head feeling?” Bailey said as he got to his feet. As Henri followed the move, he swore his head might roll off his damn shoulders, but he tried for a smile, which probably looked more like a grimace.
