by Kelly Jensen
“Hmm, worst date.” Marc consulted the clock in his head before dredging up a seven-year-old memory. “Kate Merton. That was New Year’s Eve too. I made the mistake of going home for the holidays, and my parents told me I was taking Kate to the party at the country club.”
“Told you?”
“Mr. and Mrs. Winnamore request your presence….” Marc scoffed. “That’s an invitation to breakfast.”
“Chummy.”
“You have no idea.”
Henry’s ankles closed around his again and held this time.
“I already knew Kate,” Marc continued. “We grew up together in a way. I mean, I didn’t do a lot of growing up at home. I was shipped off to prep school as soon I was old enough.”
“How did you get from prep school to BU?”
“My one act of rebellion.” With a quick smile, he returned Henry’s ankle hug. “Or my first, I guess. Staying in Boston and choosing my own career does not sit well with Mr. and Mrs. Winnamore.”
Henry snorted softly.
“So, Kate. We saw each other some summers. She’s…. If I had to get married, she’d be a good choice. Even my parents agree on that one.”
“If you had to get married.”
Marc shrugged.
“The date?” Henry prompted.
“I was pissed at my parents, so I got drunk. Sailed right past friendly to nasty. Or maybe friendly wasn’t an option that night. I was loud, abrasive. Rude.”
“You, rude?”
“Heh. Seriously, you have no idea what an ass I can be.”
Henry’s silence suggested he might.
“Worst part was that Kate tried really hard to enjoy herself. She made excuses for me and managed to pull me away before at least one fight erupted.”
“Wow. How drunk were you?”
“I tried to have sex with her on one of the pool lounges. In full display of the dining room windows.”
“I think you’re describing Kate’s worst date ever.”
“Probably.”
“How far did you get?”
“With what?”
“The sex. Did you moon the dining room?”
A laugh pushed out of Marc’s throat, surprising him. “You know, I don’t recall. Though I do sort of remember the feeling of a cool breeze on my ass. So it’s entirely possible I did. But with the inside being lit and the pool deck dark, it was probably a pretty private affair.”
His parents had certainly never mentioned it. Thank Christ.
Another silence from Henry, this one weighted with questions. Marc nudged his foot.
“Did you know, then, that you might be gay?” Henry asked.
Marc shook his head. “No. I mean… no. It wasn’t that I was in denial. I didn’t secretly watch gay porn or anything. Not then.” That habit had started after Henry arrived at Beck and Meyer. “I was just angry. I wanted to like Kate. I did like her. I’ve liked a lot of the women I’ve dated. But none of them….” Marc paused again as a blush crawled up to his cheeks. None of the women he’d been out with, or slept with, excited him the way Henry did. He’d never obsessed over the physical characteristics of any of the women he’d dated, and the act of sex had always felt mechanical.
“Can you hear voices?” Henry had his head tilted toward the door.
Marc couldn’t hear anything but the thrum of his own pulse. Still, he tipped his head to a like angle—as if both of them leaning toward the door would focus the sound—and listened. Faintly, through thick masonry and fireproof steel, he heard something.
Pushing to his feet, he pounded on the door. “Hey!”
His voice echoed back at him, loud and flat in the enclosed space. The sound of his fists against the door seemed equally one-dimensional. The locking mechanism rattled, but only on their side. The door remained solid. Immovable. He was sure that from the lobby, his cries for rescue would be muted.
Henry joined him, banging and yelling, and for a second, Marc felt like grinning. They’d look ridiculous if someone opened the door. Hands raised, mouths opened. Gratitude would make them sillier.
No one opened the door. Marc stopped pounding and yelling, then reached over to grab Henry’s arm, indicating he should do the same. He pressed his ear to the cold steel and listened. Nothing. “Dammit.”
“Someone else will come.”
Henry was an optimist. He’d been sure they’d be rescued by a snowplow too. And he’d known how to survive the cold until then. Did he have a plan for this situation? “Anything in that survival book of yours about being locked in the basement?”
“No.”
“Maybe we should check out the other rooms again. Those other doors. Maybe there’s an internal phone or call button or something in the laundry or the trash room.” An exit behind the compactor?
“I dunno. What if someone opens the door while we’re gone?”
“Do you want to stay up here?”
Henry’s frown wasn’t visible. Marc’s eyes had adjusted to the low light, but his read on Henry mostly came from his silences. Thinking about it, he realized he’d been doing that for a while—even before they’d gotten together. Henry was so often quiet at the office that Marc measured him more by what he didn’t say.
Henry turned, and the light from the stairwell caught his face. He was frowning.
“What’s up?” Marc asked.
“I’m thinking.”
“What’s to think about? Two of us, two avenues of discovery. Divide and conquer.”
“There you go with the glib sayings.”
“What?”
“Nothing, I just….” Henry raised his hands. “I’ll wait here.”
“Okay.” Marc moved away from the door, uncertain he should leave at all. Henry’s sudden change of mood was weird. Should he ask? Were they that far into their relationship? Though this was their first date, they’d technically been together for a week. He’d already met Henry’s family. They’d spent a holiday together. Sort of. And they’d had sex—or what Henry described as sex. What with being stuck in Albany for nearly two days with no privacy and limited time together since their return to Boston, they hadn’t gotten the chance to use condoms yet, so Marc’s jury was still out. Not that he didn’t like what they did together. The feel of Henry’s hand, mouth—
“Are you going?” Henry wrapped his arms around himself again.
“We’ll get out of here. I promise.”
Because no one died in the basements of buildings in Boston. Not in this neighborhood, anyway. At worst, someone would come to do their laundry tomorrow. Or the next day. The clock in Marc’s head flickered, racing forward through two days of time. His breath quickened, and his pulse skipped all over the place.
He gripped Henry’s arm. “I’m going to find a way out, even if it’s just so I can kiss you in front of everyone at midnight.”
Henry smiled and nodded. Marc released his shoulder and continued down the hall.
THE COMPACTOR room was a bust. There was a door behind a stack of boxes, but even without the chunky chain and padlock barring access, Marc figured the thick paint surrounding the edges had had enough time to harden into concrete. They’d need a chisel to get the door open. Still, he picked at the paint—just to test his theory—and ended up with a stupidly sharp sliver beneath his nail.
Twenty years and bloody nails might see them free.
Sucking on the injured finger, he checked the two locked doors again. Just in case. Both rattled in their frames, but neither gave him the feeling something more than a room lurked beyond. Marc couldn’t explain the sensation. He didn’t think of himself as a particularly metaphysical person. But Henry had changed some of his perceptions.
Muttering to himself, he ducked into the laundry room and flipped on the light. A neat row of washers, three large dryers set into the wall, a folding table, a TV mounted high up on a stand, and two folding chairs tucked into a corner beside a laundry tub. No other door—though, if his mental map was right, the wall of dry
ers should face the back of the building.
He looked up.
Set into the ceiling over the row of washers was a large vent. Huge. Big enough for a guy to squeeze through—if he were so inclined. They’d have to pull the cover off, put a chair on top of the machines to climb up, and if the vent went straight up, well, that’d be as far as they got.
Marc leaned out of the door. “Henry?”
No answer.
He tried again from the bottom of the stairs. “Auttenberg!”
Footsteps, then a dark head poked around the corner. “What?”
“Get your ass down here. I want to try something.”
Henry descended the stairs at a cautious pace. “Now’s not really the time—”
“Not that.” His grin was automatic. “Not right this minute.”
“What makes you think I’m going to bottom for you, anyway?”
Marc shifted in place, caught between the urge to clench and thrust while standing still. He was face-to-face with Henry, meeting him eye to eye, because they were pretty much the same height and not that different physically. The idea of Henry under him appealed greatly. Being the one on the bottom, though…. He’d thought about it. Of course he had.
Leaning forward, he spoke near Henry’s ear. “Someone’s gotta show me what to do.”
Henry’s breath caught, held, and rushed back out. “Nothing like learning from doing.”
And there it was again, the hidden something that made Henry so fascinating. The way he refused to be cowed. The way he returned every poke with equal force.
Capturing Henry’s ear between his teeth, Marc nipped, then kissed. Henry’s skin tasted good. He didn’t use flowery soap or cologne, and the scent of his shampoo was oddly familiar. Not the same as Marc used, but something like it. Henry’s cheek moved past his, smooth and freshly shaven. Their lips met, mouths opening instantly. A moan built quickly in Marc’s throat. Again. Couldn’t he kiss Henry without voicing need?
No, he couldn’t.
Tongues tangling, the taste of Henry claiming him. The feel of Henry’s hands sliding beneath his coat. Marc forgot they were standing in a hall. Forgot the numbers ticking over in his head, counting down to midnight. Forgot whether he wanted to thrust or clench. Did both. Backed Henry into a wall and kissed him with a fevered intensity. Henry’s breath cooled his lips as their mouths moved and realigned, and quick pants echoed between soft moans and groans.
A gentle rock forward brought their hips together—groins connecting. Hardness to hardness. Marc reached down to trace the ridge beneath Henry’s fly. Henry caught his lip and bit it—gently. All of Marc’s breath left him in a rush.
Henry let go and stepped back. “The door….”
Marc nipped at Henry’s kiss-swollen lips. “Huh?”
“The door. We’re not watching the door.”
Whoops. Marc looked up and listened. For a second or two, he heard nothing but the pounding of his own heart and the swish of blood behind his ears. Leaning forward, he nosed Henry’s cheek. “I think that kiss was worth being trapped a little longer.”
Henry’s cheek moved. He was smiling. “Maybe.” Quietly, he cleared his throat. “So why did you call me down here?”
“Oh.” Marc straightened and stepped back. “There’s a vent in the ceiling of the laundry room. I thought we could check it out.”
“Hmm.”
“What does that mean? Hmm?”
“I’m trying to decide if crawling through a building’s ventilation system would be better or worse than spending New Year’s Eve sitting by a fire door.”
“It could be an old laundry chute.”
“Is that supposed to be a compelling argument?”
Marc chuckled. “I was just thinking out loud.”
“All right, let’s check it out.”
Once inside the laundry room, Henry repeated his hmm. Looking up, he squinted at the vent cover and dug something out from under his coat. It looked like a pair of pliers folded in half.
“What is that, like a Swiss Army Knife?” Marc asked.
“Leatherman. Fewer tools, but stronger.”
“And you carry it because….”
Henry glanced at him, his expression blank. “It’s useful?”
“Is this something you got from that book?”
“Why are you so hung up on the fact I read a survival book?”
“Because you live in Boston, not Syria.”
“It helped us out in the blizzard.”
Snorting, Marc pointed upward. “Okay, Gadget Man. See if you can loosen that vent.”
Henry climbed on top of the washing machine. “You know, waiting for someone to open the door is probably easier.”
“If someone opens the door.”
“We did.”
“We also tried to drive through a blizzard.”
“That was all you, Marc. All you.”
Henry poked at a corner of the vent, then chose the appropriate tool. He’d just put it to a screw when a faint peal of laugher rolled down the hallway outside, followed by a quiet boom that echoed through the walls and floor.
Marc looked up just as Henry looked down. Their gazes met. They spoke at the same time.
“Dammit.”
“The door.”
Chapter Three
MARC ABANDONED Henry on top of the washing machine and ran into the hall. “Wait!” he called, knowing it was too late.
He tripped on the bottom step and spilled forward, catching himself with the heels of his palms. The gritty concrete dug into his flesh before he pushed away and continued up the stairs. Running was futile. The boom had been the door closing, but he couldn’t make himself slow or stop until he reached the end of the hall, the dark mass of the fire door, and the echoing quiet. He breathed into the pause, listening for voices on the other side. He heard only Henry running up behind him.
“Bang on the door,” Henry huffed.
“They’re gone.”
“Try anyway!” Henry pushed up beside him and attacked the door with balled fists. He even kicked it a few times. “Why aren’t you helping? We can make more noise together.”
Crossing his arms, Marc leaned back against the wall. “Because it’s too late. They were gone before I even got out of the laundry.”
Henry continued to flail at the door, as if he were experiencing a fit. Marc wondered if he should interrupt or let whatever it was run its course. This was a Henry he hadn’t seen before.
When Henry showed no sign of calming, Marc put a hand on his arm. “Henry.”
Shaking off Marc’s hand, Henry backed away and leaned against the opposite wall. Marc’s eyes hadn’t fully adjusted to the darkness again, so he couldn’t read the expression on his face, but the sudden quiet snapped with tension.
What should he say? If Henry were female, Marc would try a gentle comment. Even as he thought of it, though, he wondered if such a thing would be wrong in any situation. If Henry’s gender should or should not dictate how Marc interacted with him. This was a part of being gay he hadn’t considered. With both of them being guys, would that mean they didn’t talk about feelings and stuff? They’d been pretty open in the car Christmas Eve. It had taken a while, and they hadn’t suddenly started sharing their most intimate secrets, but they’d talked.
“How come you weren’t as upset when we were trapped in the car?” Marc asked.
“I’m not upset.”
“Henry—”
“This is my fault.”
“What?”
Henry gestured toward the closed door. “This. If I hadn’t pushed you in here to kiss you, the door wouldn’t have shut.”
“I’m not blaming you.” Marc stepped forward. “And even if we did decide your actions were responsible, it’s over and done with. The door is shut. We can’t open it. Assigning blame isn’t going to change our situation.”
Henry’s only answer was a sharp sigh.
“What is this really about?” Marc asked.
“I don’t like being locked up.”
“I think we’ve established that.”
Henry’s breathing slowed to a normal pace, but anxiety still rolled from him. Marc had never seen him this tense—and he had no idea what to do about it.
“I was locked in a basement when I was a kid,” Henry finally said, his voice quiet. “I haven’t thought about it in years. I didn’t really figure I had an issue with basements.” He shrugged in the dark. “I guess I do.”
“What happened?”
“I don’t think I want to talk about it.”
“Is it because you don’t like to talk about it or because I’m your date?”
Henry looked up sharply. “What kind of question is that?”
“I was just thinking about how different it is to be with a guy, like in ways I hadn’t expected. Like, should I open doors for you, or should you open them for me, or is that just weird?”
He could feel Henry staring at him in the dark.
“Or, like right now. You’re upset and I’d like to comfort you. But I’m not sure how. If you were a woman, I’d, well, I’d probably pat your shoulder, or maybe hug you or tell you a joke, or offer to listen.”
Henry didn’t answer, and Marc let the silence grow between them, unsure what his next step should be. Slowly, his eyes grew accustomed to the dark, and he could see Henry was staring at the floor, forehead creased.
He looked up. “It was my uncle. I used to visit his farm for a couple of weeks every summer when I was younger. The year I turned thirteen, he caught me kissing a boy down by the pond and shut me in the basement as punishment. Left me in there overnight but didn’t leave me alone. He read the Bible through the door to me for hours on end, passages interspersed with his own sermons on the evils of sodomy. He ate dinner there, describing everything he was eating, what I was missing out on.”
Marc could feel his lower jaw unhinging. You read about shit like this, but the stories were just that, weren’t they?
Grow up, Winnamore. You know full well this sort of abuse happens. Small incidents, larger ones. And this wasn’t the only episode Henry had shared with him. There’d also been the guy who’d nearly broken Henry’s jaw.