by Lisa Henry
“So we have to figure this out on our own?”
“I think we can manage.”
“Let me just get a closer look here.” He sank to his knees and placed his thumb and forefinger around the base of Mac’s cock. Wrapped his lips around the head and closed his eyes, sucking gently and trying not to smile when Mac’s breath caught and his hand went automatically to Henry’s hair. He teased Mac’s slit with his tongue, just enough to get Mac shifting on the balls of his feet, then slowly withdrew. “Yeah.” He blew lightly on the shaft. “It’s big.”
Mac tugged him up by the hair and pushed him toward the bed. He collapsed facedown over the edge of it, breathing in Mac’s dull blue comforter. Mac reached around him to undo his belt.
“I want to see you,” Mac said, and for a second, Henry tensed again, the words an eerie echo of his fear that Mac wanted to see him, the real him, and that he had nothing to show.
But Mac just meant he wanted to see him naked. That was fine.
He rolled onto his back, and they fumbled together with his fly. Mac tugged Henry’s pants down and immediately began rubbing his cock through his underwear. Henry grunted and arched his back, lifting his legs slightly. Mac’s touch was so good, so aggressive, that he had to urge himself to hold back. He’d waited long enough for this. Didn’t want it over in thirty seconds.
Mac had just slipped his fingers into the waistband of Henry’s underwear when Henry’s phone rang.
Mac paused.
Henry groaned and laughed. “Sorry.” He sat up. “I gotta answer.”
In case it was Stacy saying Remy had been found dead somewhere. In case it was Remy or Jo or Gerald saying they needed him.
He bent down and fished his phone from the pocket of his slacks. He didn’t recognize the number on the screen.
He answered and brought it up to his ear. “Hello?”
“Sebastian?”
He froze. That voice—soft, and still high-pitched, like a child’s. It blocked out every other sound, stole his ability to think, took him away from the room, away from Mac, and planted him somewhere else. Somewhere he wasn’t sure he wanted to be.
Viola.
“Sebby, can you come here? I need your help.” She sounded confused. Scared.
It was impossible that she was calling him. No, not impossible. Improbable, yes, but not impossible.
He stood, yanking up his pants. “Where are you?”
“On the street with the big flag. The flag with the bulldog.”
So still in Zionsville. He decided this wasn’t the time to ask why or how she was wandering the streets.
“I’m on my way. Don’t go anywhere, Vi. Stay under the flag. All right? Are you hurt?”
“No. I need help.”
“I’m coming. It’ll take me a little while. But I’ll be there.” He hung up. Looked at Mac as he hastily fastened his fly. “I have to go. I’m sorry.”
“What’s wrong?” Mac asked.
“Nothing. Um— I don’t— I’m sorry. I’ll be back, I promise. For the trial.”
“Henry. Don’t do this.”
“I said I have to go!”
“That’s fine. But don’t shut me out.”
“Don’t shut me— Listen to you. As if this is any of your business at all.”
“Who was that?”
“Shut up!” Henry put his hands to his head. “I just need to hear myself think for a minute.”
He knew where she was. The question was, would she stay there? Could she stay there, safely, until he arrived?
He turned back to Mac. Refused to see the look on his face—more puzzled and hurt than angry. “I’m sorry. Sorry I yelled. Sorry about this. Sorry I’m not—better.”
Mac started tugging on his pants.
Henry walked out of the room. Could hear Mac behind him and nearly ran the last few steps to the front door. Wrenched it open.
“Henry—”
He stepped out and closed the door behind him. Hurried toward the bus stop, trying to tuck his shirt in as he went.
He didn’t know if he’d be back. He might have just lied to Mac.
But hey, he hadn’t actually paid for that juice, and he knew exactly who Jimmy Rasnick was, and quinoa wasn’t all that great.
So what was one more lie?
Henry ran.
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Lisa Henry likes to tell stories, mostly with hot guys and happily ever afters. Lisa lives in tropical North Queensland, Australia. She doesn’t know why, because she hates the heat, but she suspects she’s too lazy to move. She spends half her time slaving away as a government minion, and the other half plotting her escape. She attended university at sixteen, not because she was a child prodigy or anything, but because of a mix-up between international school systems early in life. She studied history and English, neither of them very thoroughly. She shares her house with too many cats, a dog, a green tree frog that swims in the toilet, and as many possums as can break in every night. This is not how she imagined life as a grown-up.
Website: lisahenryonline.com
Blog: lisahenryonline.blogspot.com.au
Twitter: twitter.com/LisaHenryOnline
Facebook: facebook.com/lisa.henry.1441
J.A. Rock has worked as a dog groomer, knife seller, haunted house zombie, standardized patient, census taker, state fair quilt hanger, and, for one less-than-magical evening, a server—and would much rather be writing about those jobs than doing them. J.A. currently lives in Chicago but still sees West Virginia behind Illinois’s back.
Website: www.jarockauthor.com
Blog: jarockauthor.blogspot.com
Twitter: twitter.com/jarockauthor
Facebook: facebook.com/ja.rock.39
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