by Lisa Henry
Henry woke with a start.
There was a man standing in the doorway, and just for a second Henry didn’t know where he was, or who it was. Until that second melted away, and he knew it wasn’t Jimmy Rasnick, because Jimmy had been sent to jail by the man standing in front of him.
“Mac,” he said, his voice more tentative than he’d intended.
Jimmy Rasnick couldn’t be here because he was dead.
Mac stepped into the room. “You okay?”
Henry stretched like a cat. Made sure his shirt rode up. Threw in a little purr as well. “Yeah. Missed you, Mac. Get on over here.”
Mac closed the door behind him.
Henry rolled onto his side and shifted over to make room for Mac on the narrow bed. When Mac lay down beside him, Henry straddled his hips. Leaned down and kissed him on his bald head, and then began to work his way lower.
“Suck some dick, bitch. It’s all you’re good for.”
Jimmy fucking Rasnick. Henry had sworn off thinking about Rasnick years before. But a few days ago he’d seen the news that Rasnick had died in prison, and guess fucking what? Now he couldn’t stop thinking about the guy.
He kissed Mac fiercely on the mouth. Bit Mac’s tongue until Mac gave a grunt of pain and tried to ease him back. Henry shoved Mac down onto the bed again. Kissed him so hard he left him no room to breathe.
Fuck Jimmy Rasnick.
Henry was never going to be the victim on one of those crime dramas, hunched and shivering as he recounted what had been done to him.
Nothing had been done to him. From the first time he’d sucked dick for cash, it had been his choice. And it was his choice now to fuck Mac. No need for regrets; it’d be his choice later, too, when he walked away. When he was done testifying and didn’t have any further obligation to Mac.
He undid Mac’s fly and yanked Mac’s pants down before Mac could even lift his hips. Mac gave a brief sigh and lifted his arms over his head, gripping his right wrist with his left hand, making his biceps bulge. Henry pushed Mac’s shirt up, satisfied to hear a button or two pop. He ran a hand over the hair on his chest, kissed him just below his navel and followed the trail of hair with his tongue until he reached the waistband of his boxers.
He pulled at the elastic with his teeth, keeping his hands on Mac’s chest and digging his nails in until Mac grunted and tried to shift away. He got the waistband over Mac’s cock. Paused to admire it. He’d seen it less than twenty-four hours ago, but it still looked new. Unexpected.
So fucking thick.
He remembered that. He just hadn’t remembered how thick. It was almost an aberration of nature—couldn’t be longer than five inches, but that girth was enough to send heat through him, inside and out.
And Mac was hard. Like straining, leaking hard.
He almost laughed. Mac wanted him. Mac wanted him so fucking bad, and Henry didn’t have to give him anything, so how was that for power? Henry could make that fat cock stand straight up, could make Mac lie there for him, waiting to be fucked.
He could tease Mac all night if he wanted, without ever making him come. No money was changing hands, so this was Henry’s show, had always been Henry’s show. Because Henry wasn’t some poor fallen orphan, forced to do Bad Things because he had no choice. He’d sought the world he lived in, and he didn’t give a shit if some bald guy in pressed pants thought there was something redeemable in him. Thought he was better than this. He wasn’t.
Condescending fuck.
Mac was just like millions of other guys with their pathetic boners they were so fucking proud of. Said he wanted to know Henry; meant he wanted to fuck him. He’d pant and strain and moan Henry’s name, and then once he’d shot his load, he’d roll over and fall asleep.
Not how it happened at his place.
Mac had driven him back to the hotel. Had told him they had time to figure things out. Henry cringed now when he thought of how he’d leaned against Mac. How he’d apologized for not being good enough.
As though he owed Mac an explanation.
As though he owed Mac anything.
He saved my life.
And fucking ruined it in the process.
He forced himself to smile as he gripped the base of Mac’s cock. “This all for me, big guy?”
In the beginning, he hadn’t known what to say to johns. He’d been young enough that clients had liked that he was nervous and trying to hide it.
Then he’d gotten good at hiding it; so good that there wasn’t anything to hide anymore. He wasn’t afraid of them. They were all the fucking same. He had to tweak the script a little for each one to maximize his profits, but they all wanted the same thing, and most were too pathetic or too arrogant to realize what clichés they were.
Cocky, flirty, fun. Wicked if they wanted him to be. Quiet if they wanted him to be. Quiet if they put a hand over his mouth—that had only happened once. Quiet if they rammed him so hard he wanted to shout with the pain. Some guys he could charm or guilt until they didn’t want to fuck him at all. They’d take a handjob, or they’d jack off looking at him, and then they’d go. But not guys who fucked like that. Guys who gripped Henry’s shoulder like it was the rigging on a rodeo bronc, who didn’t want to hear anything but their own shouts—he kept his mouth shut for them.
It hadn’t been horrible. Once he’d gotten used to it, the biggest danger was boredom, like any job.
Mac groaned and lifted his legs. Henry’s balls tightened at the sight of Mac’s dark hole. He shoved his own pants and underwear to his knees, then struggled out of them. Mac was trying to sit up.
“What is it?” he asked.
“Condom.”
“I’ve got one.” Henry pulled one out of the pocket of his jeans. Rankled a bit that Mac was so insistent about condoms. Which wasn’t fair—they had to be safe. But the implication seemed to be, I’m letting a whore fuck me. Gotta be extra careful.
He tugged Mac’s underwear the rest of the way down, and then, on an impulse, put the condom on him. “I thought . . .” Mac murmured. Henry pushed Mac’s legs down and straddled him.
“Shut up.” Henry spit in his hand and reached behind him to slick Mac’s cock. Took a deep breath, then tilted his hips and positioned himself. Tried to sit on Mac’s cock.
“Whoa!” Mac’s eyes flew open. Henry winced and panted, but forced himself to keep going, to let his own weight pull him down around Mac.
“Said . . . shut . . . up,” he ground out. He closed his eyes and hissed, and then Mac was inside him, stretching him, and it hurt so fucking bad, so much worse than he’d thought, but he didn’t care. His choice to hurt. His choice to fuck himself.
Over and over.
He almost laughed.
Story of his life.
Kept fucking himself.
Lifting up. Sliding down. Eyes screwed shut with the burn.
Never thought about Rasnick when he was fucking.
Never thought about any of them.
Kept his mind empty, unless it was to plan. What to say next. How to play the scene so he could get the fuck out of there as quickly as possible.
But not always. Sometimes he let himself enjoy it. Just because he was getting paid didn’t mean he couldn’t have a good time, couldn’t come and feel damn satisfied afterward.
Mac was trying to grab his wrists, but Henry kept pulling away. He moved his hips faster now that the edge was off the pain.
“Henry!”
He didn’t listen. Not his fucking name anyway.
Didn’t look at Mac. Didn’t want to see Mac’s mouth open, his eyes rolled back. Or maybe he did. Wanted to see Mac feeling good.
“Henry.” Mac pushed at Henry’s hips as Henry rode him. “That hurts.”
Not anymore it didn’t.
Just at first.
He had been scared, the first time, and Rasnick had acted like it was nothing. If he was so fucking desperate for cash, why didn’t he just suck cock? No big deal. But he’d been fucking terrified wi
th a stranger’s cock down his throat.
Mac’s hands closed on his wrists. “Just stop it,” Mac said. “Stop.”
It was good now. Whatever Mac was worried about, he didn’t have to worry, because Henry owned the fucking world, and they were both gonna come, and it’d be a thousand times hotter than last night. Mac wasn’t like every other guy. Mac was special. Henry would let him know that. He rocked back hard, clenching.
“Henry, I said no!”
Mac shoved him off, and Henry caught himself on the mattress. Mac pulled the condom off, his movements jerky.
Henry threw himself onto the bed and buried his face in the pillow.
His heart knocked against his insides until his whole body seemed to ring.
“Henry, I said no!”
People didn’t say no to Henry. People paid him for the privilege.
Mac had been hard for him. Mac had wanted him.
“No, no, no,” Henry murmured into the pillow.
He hadn’t hurt Mac.
Hadn’t . . .
His throat was so tight he couldn’t breathe. No power at all. No control.
“Just stop,” he whispered to himself.
All shadows. Viola, falling in the dark. Rasnick’s voice. This old house, dark knots in the wood of the walls. Where would he go next? Remy had said no one at the Court trusted him anymore. Not since he’d gotten friendly with Mac. Would Stacy still want him?
He rolled to stare at the ceiling. Forced himself to take three deep breaths.
Fuck. He should go now. Take Vi and run.
Too tired.
The panic ebbed slowly. He felt hollow and foolish. And scared because he didn’t know what he’d done. If Mac would think he was pathetic or dangerous or what. If he’d hurt Mac, scared him, or just pissed him off.
The bed creaked as Mac sat again. Mac’s breath heated his cheek for a second. A gentle kiss, as light as a whisper.
He forced his eyes open.
Mac had his boxers back on. He ran his fingers through Henry’s bangs, pushing them off to the side. Then he kissed his forehead.
“Don’t,” Henry warned shakily.
“No more bullshit,” Mac murmured. “No more of these head games. I need to know: are we in this together or aren’t we?”
Henry swallowed. Couldn’t believe Mac still wanted to be in this together. But hell, he’d take it. Otherwise he had no one.
He nodded.
“Then you have to trust me.”
He opened his mouth, and closed it again. He wanted to hate Mac for doing this, for demanding more than he could give. But he wanted Mac to be right too. He wanted to be something different, something better. But just because Mac saw it didn’t make it real.
Mac climbed up beside him on the bed again. Henry held himself rigid until Mac kissed his shoulder and put his arms around him. After a few minutes, it became too much effort to stay that tense, and he let himself sink into the mattress a little.
He knew he was the one who was supposed to speak. Supposed to explain.
But he wasn’t sure what Mac needed to hear.
“Never used to say I was sorry,” he murmured.
Except to Vi. Every fucking day.
“Shhh.”
“I wasn’t trying to hurt you, Mac.”
“I know that.”
Henry didn’t answer.
“I’m not gonna keep asking, Henry. You can either talk to me, and maybe we’ll get somewhere. Or you can let this go.”
He didn’t want to ask what “this” was. If it was lying in bed with Mac’s arms around him, then he ought to be able to do just fine without it. “If I promise to play nice, can we finish fucking?” he asked, figuring that would either piss Mac off or push them toward make-up sex that Henry most certainly wouldn’t screw up this time.
Mac sighed.
“Am I letting this go?” His voice was barely audible.
Mac didn’t respond. Henry was sorry he’d asked.
“Do you want to?” Mac said finally.
He shook his head. Stared at the wall.
“Me either.” Mac yawned. Tightened his hold on him. “Think about that.”
Henry rolled to face him, blood lashing through him, a sudden collision of hope and fear leaving him trembling. He didn’t know if Mac could possibly understand the wildness of this feeling. “Okay,” he said breathlessly.
Mac stared at him. “Okay what?”
“Okay, I don’t want to lose this. Okay, tell me what you want from me. Tell me how to keep this.” His thoughts moved fast, a runaway carousel of blurred fears and ideas, confusion and guilt. And leading the charge, a fool’s hope, merry and cruel as a mad king.
O! Let me not be mad, not mad, sweet heaven
Keep me in temper; I would not be mad!
“I want to know, Mac.”
“Listen . . .” Mac trailed off. “I’m only asking one thing. No more lies. Okay? All you have to do to keep what we have is be honest with me.”
Honesty. Why the hell did Mac have to ask for that? If he’d been smart, he should have asked for a fantasy instead. Nothing good ever came out of honesty. Henry had skirted by the truth often enough to feel the sharp sting of getting too close.
Though I am not naturally honest, I am sometimes so by chance.
He shifted restlessly. “Do I have to . . . I mean, do I have to tell you every fucking thing you want to know right now?”
“No. Just try. From now on, when I ask you something, try to answer me honestly. Try and trust me.”
“What if I lie to you again?” His heart was still beating ferociously. “Are you out?”
Mac stroked his hip. “Just try. Okay?”
He nodded and willed himself to relax. He faced the wall again. “Okay. I am gonna try. You’re the person I trust most.” He paused. “I mean that.”
Mac breathed against the back of his neck.
He blinked at the wall. “Hey?”
“Yeah?”
“I’m gonna—I’m gonna tell you a thing now, and it isn’t a lie, I just didn’t want to say it before, and please don’t look at me. Will you close your eyes?”
Mac exhaled.
“Are they closed?”
“Yes.”
Henry closed his too. Couldn’t stare at the walls of Mac’s childhood bedroom any longer. Some secrets were better whispered in the dark. “You asked me if I knew Jimmy Rasnick. I did. He was the guy.”
“The guy?”
“My mom’s boyfriend.” He was having a heart attack or something. Secrets buried this far down, they didn’t want to come out. It hurt to prize them free. And who knew what he’d dislodge in the attempt? Blood and bile could come gushing out of the wound he ripped open. “The guy fucking me. The guy who hit Vi. It was Jimmy Rasnick.”
Mac thought if he let Henry go, he’d lose his grip on everything. On this moment, on these past few weeks, and on his entire fucking life. That fucking asshole Jimmy Rasnick. He thought he’d hated the guy before, but that was nothing. Henry’s words settled like ice inside him.
He opened his eyes. “How old were you?”
“Does it matter?”
He thought about that for a moment. Maybe it didn’t. But maybe he wanted to melt the ice with the burst of hot fucking rage he knew Henry could provide. He wanted to be angry and disgusted and mad as hell. “How old?”
“Fifteen when it started.” Henry’s voice was wooden. “Sixteen when Vi tried to stop him.”
It wasn’t rage that flared up and consumed Mac though. It was something more like despair. It settled over him like dirty water, soaking into his pores. He held Henry tighter and pressed his mouth to the back of his neck. “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry that happened to you.”
“Long time ago.”
Maybe. But he bet Henry could still feel invisible scars every time he moved, tugging across his skin.
“If I thought it had anything to do with Lonny, with this OPR stuff, I would have told you soone
r. But I don’t know anything much about Rasnick except that he was the guy who . . .” He paused. “We called him J.J.” Another pause. “Sorry.”
“What are you sorry for?”
“Oh, I don’t know.” Henry’s laugh was nervous. “I’m just saying shit. I’d love it if you stopped me.” His voice cracked. “Please?”
“Can I look at you now?” Mac asked, keeping his voice soft. “And will you look at me?”
“I . . . don’t know.”
“Let’s give it a try.” He gently pulled Henry over to face him. Henry wouldn’t meet his gaze. He blinked rapidly as he stared at Mac’s throat.
“Wish I had some information you could actually use,” Henry murmured. “Remy helped him with a job, and J.J.—Rasnick—paid him in heroin. I didn’t know that until after I met Remy.” He tried to laugh. “Small fucking world.”
“Jesus. I’m sorry.”
“It’s fine, Mac. It’s really fucking fine. I don’t know what this is—me, here, you know. I never used to break before you. Ever. Okay? I really fucking knew how to hold it together. And in the last few weeks, I just keep . . . I don’t know.”
He stroked Henry’s hair.
“I can’t be that kid anymore.” Henry raised his gaze, then dropped it quickly. “That kid crying in the dark.”
“Sebastian,” Mac said. “You mean you can’t be Sebastian.”
Henry didn’t answer. He closed his eyes again.
He put his hand on the side of Henry’s face. Swiped his thumb under his eye, collecting the moisture there. “You keep locking him away, he’s gonna break. And he’s gonna take Henry Page with him.”
“Where’d you get your degree in psychology? The back of a cereal box?”
“Freud Loops,” Mac suggested.
Henry snorted and opened his eyes again. “Idiot.”
“Yeah.” He slid his hand under Henry’s chin. Tilted it forward, glad Henry didn’t resist. He kissed him gently, savoring the light pressure. He slid his tongue along the seam of Henry’s lips, coaxing them open. Henry’s breath jerked.
“Wait.” Henry pulled back. “Don’t be that guy, Mac.”
“What guy?”
“Oh, the one who thinks he can save me.”
“Am I that guy?”
