Henry’s End
Julie A. Richman
Julie A. Richman
Text copyright © 2015 Julie A. Richman
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
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This book is a work of fiction. All names, characters, locations and incidents are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, locales or events is entirely coincidental.
Henry’s End
Photograph: Scott Hoover/Scott Hoover Photography
Model: David Filipiak
Cover Design: Robin Harper/Wicked by Design
Henry Prologue
Chapter One Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Seth Chapter Twenty-one Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Author's Note
Acknowledgments
About The Author
Contact Julie
Julies's Bookshelf
For The Reader
Searching for Moore (Book 1)
Moore to Lose (Book 2)
Moore than Forever (Book 3)
Needing Moore Series Boxed Set
Bad Son Rising
For Oliver John,
Because Love is Love
And I have loved you forever
1976 –>
JAR
Now…
Running through the crowded terminal, weaving between the clusters of people, Henry Clark quickly glanced down at his watch, “Shit.” This was the closest he’d ever cut it to boarding a flight.
Silently, he cursed himself for not leaving Montauk earlier. He knew the ride back to JFK was a long one, and that like southern California, New York City traffic could be unpredictable. He’d just found it so hard to leave everyone, after one of the most amazing weekends of his life, that he’d delayed it to the last possible second, and now he was paying the price.
Clipping the arm of burly a tattooed guy in cargo shorts that were falling off his ass, he looked back over his shoulder and yelled, “Sorry, man,” without breaking his stride. Why did slow people always get in your path when you were rushing?
He could see his gate. Finally. And the door to the jetway was still open with two people waiting in line. Yes!
As he reached the gate, the attendant was scanning the boarding pass of the last passenger. Out of breath, he dug into his pocket and handed the pretty brunette his cellphone so that she could scan his barcode.
“You just made it, Mr. Clark.” She handed him back his phone, smiling.
Jogging down the jetway, he got to the door of the plane. There were two seats still empty in first class. His and the one next to him.
Thank you, Travel Gods.
Henry Clark did an internal high five with himself and breathed a sigh of relief as the flight attendant secured that useless looking little strap across the now closed cabin door and announced that all cellphones needed to be turned off.
No seatmate on his cross-country journey back to southern California was the best thing that had happened to him all day, well, besides not missing the flight. The worst thing that had happened was leaving everyone out in Montauk, and feeling so alone, and lonely, on the nearly three hour drive back to the airport.
The long weekend in New York had been one of the most memorable weekends of his life. It was fast and furious – every second packed with a memory that had his emotions in overdrive. Henry had not felt this connected in a very long time.
Reuniting with old friends, meeting new ones, and the wedding of two people who should have been celebrating their twenty-fifth anniversary and not their wedding day, made for an incredible weekend. And now that it was over, he was exhausted and could feel the blues starting to creep in.
Looking out the window, yet seeing nothing, Henry tried to process the events of the past few days, but his fatigue was preventing his logical left brain from functioning properly. His emotional right brain, which usually stayed put in its snug fitting box, was running rampant like an over-stimulated toddler, stirring feelings far out of his comfort range. What is it with all these feelings? He couldn’t quite put his finger on it.
Once airborne, the flight attendant placed a Gin & Tonic on the armrest between Henry and the empty seat and provided a steaming wet towel. Unfolding the white square, Henry pressed his face into the scratchy terrycloth and closed his eyes, wondering what it would feel like to be pressing his cheek into the hands of a lover, wanting to feel his face cradled by strong, adoring hands.
What do his hands feel like? he wondered.
Depositing the now cooled towel onto the armrest, Henry picked up his drink, almost immediately feeling the alcohol hit his bloodstream as it burned down the back of his throat.
As he reclined his seat, a snippet of a conversation from the weekend began to gnaw at him, poking him incessantly in the gut and not letting up. Henry finally realized that this was it. This was what was at the core of why he was feeling so out of sorts. It was this.
“I want to sit in a café on Sunday mornings in the West Village, reading the New York Times for hours, with my lover sitting across from me, spend hours planning vacations to places like Bali or the Seychelles, have Schooner and Mia over for a gourmet dinner that we’ve cooked for them.” Mia’s friend and business partner, Seth Shapiro, had been passionate in his delivery, speaking from deep in his heart to him, Henry Clark, a virtual stranger, “That’s what I want.”
He had so wanted to confess to Seth, this snarky New York fashion-queen, that he had just eloquently verbalized a dream that was buried deep within his own soul. That he, Henry Ethan Clark, in fact, wanted the exact same thing – although his fantasy probably resided in San Diego and not the West Village. But before he had a chance to articulate his feelings and make a full confession, Seth flitted away, leaving Henry with an ache he never expected to feel. Nah, it wasn’t even an ache. He was gutted. Surprisingly eviscerated.
Damn you, Seth Shapiro. I didn’t even know I wanted those things anymore.
But seeing his old friends, Schooner and Mia, who’d been apart for twenty-four years, joined together, finally; watching them attain a dream that was born in their hearts when they were just teens made Henry realize that he wanted it, too. He wanted the dream. Where was his fairytale ending? He snickered at his pun.
And damn you, Seth. Just damn you for perfectly verbalizing my dream. That was my dream. How did you know it? You just freaking met me. How did you know my dream? How did you know a dream that even I didn’t know was there a
nymore? At least not until you said it. I thought it was gone long ago. And how did you know it down to the minutest of details? Bali? The Seychelles? How could you possibly know that?
And now I don’t know how I’m going to live without it.
Henry slowly let out a lungful of air and shook his head. At least he had the new job in which he could bury himself. There was still so much to learn. So much to come up to speed on – and fast. A month ago, his friend Schooner had handed him a lot of responsibility. Carte blanche. And he was going to sink his teeth in and make it work like a well-oiled machine. He’d make sure that his old buddy always felt confident that he was the right choice to head up the west coast operations of his fitness empire.
And the rest, well, he was just going to try to bury that. That should be easy enough. It wasn’t like he had never done it before.
But now that it was out there in the universe, he wondered if he really could bury it. How was he going to live without the dream?
And he had this odd, sneaking suspicion that he didn’t know how he was going to live without him.
Then…
Henry Clark liked men in uniform. He never spent too much time analyzing why, he just did. A good looking cop or firefighter was an open invitation to have to rearrange his twitching junk. Kick that up a notch to military, and it was an instant hard-on. If said military was brass, his cock literally wept. Strong, in charge, cocky men were always Henry’s weakness.
On more than one occasion, Henry actually sped up when he drove past a cop and it became a personal challenge to see how often he could “talk” his way out of a ticket. Well, he wasn’t quite talking, but he was using his mouth. His close rate, as he liked to refer to it, was in excess of forty-five percent.
Repping heart drugs to cardiologists for one of the big Pharma companies was his first job out of college. It didn’t take long to start enjoying the freedom of being on the road and being in different places, meeting new people, every day.
Tall, lean and ginger-haired with a strong, square jaw and eyes that appeared violet in the right light, the receptionists in the doctors’ offices loved Henry’s visits. His slow, sweet smile and laid back demeanor made him an instant favorite with office staffs and, in turn, a top performer for his company.
With his first commission checks deposited in his newly established savings account, Henry made his way to Nordstrom and was quickly schooled by an openly gay, and marginally hot, salesman on the fine art of dressing for success. He finished off his look with a few days of auburn stubble against his fair complexion, making the blue in his eyes pop, and that was the pièce de résistance that had both men and women alike turning their heads when Henry Clark entered a room. A jeans and tee-shirt guy at heart, he was not used to the attention, either from men or women, and it initially took him out of his comfort zone.
It wasn’t long before he discovered that a wink and a shoulder squeeze to the receptionist or office manager got him the closed door meeting he sought with even the most elusive of cardiac surgeons. Henry was quick to learn that hot doctors kind of did it for him, with their cocky confidence and overt God complexes. Surgical scrubs and white lab coats were quasi uniform-like, and he soon realized that arrogant cardiac surgeons were almost impossible to resist. And they weren’t used to being resisted. Their professions demanded they be the ultimate control freak, which provided the perfect top to Henry’s preferred bottom. Like military officers, cardiac surgeons invariably made Henry Clark’s cock literally moist with desire.
An outgoing child, he was only nine when his first sexual encounter occurred. His mother’s cousin, Iris, had come to live with them and babysat for Henry and his little sister, Emmy, while his mother, a single mom working two and often three jobs, was at work.
Cousin Iris was a sensual bottle-blonde with a perfect round ass and nipples that always stood at attention. Her weaknesses included tight, low-cut dresses, come-fuck-me heels in bright colors, bikers and cocaine. Bikers with cocaine were the ultimate catch.
Jimmy Blauvelt fit the bill. Big, burly, and tatted, he could disarm anyone with his blue-eyed gaze and surprisingly dimpled smile. Unlike the others, he stuck around for a few months and Iris was sure he was ‘the one’. What Henry’s older cousin wasn’t aware of was the nightly ritual that began when Jimmy volunteered to help Henry with his homework and put him to bed, while Iris tended to Emmy.
Book smarts was not Jimmy’s forte, but he was a fucking brain surgeon when it came to street smarts and survival. The only thing Jimmy was schooling young Henry in was the fine art of the blow job, both giving and getting, and eventually penetration.
“I think we have something in common,” he’d made Henry feel like he was taking him into his confidence. “I like boys and I think you do, too.”
Years later Henry admitted, for the first time, to his college friends Schooner, Mia and Rosie, what had occurred. While his friends were devastated hearing of the molestation, Henry tried to make them understand that it was OK. That he’d actually liked it.
He loved when men more powerful than he took control of his body. Men using him for their pleasure was actually a turn-on for Henry Clark. He knew that not everyone would understand that, but that was just how he was wired.
When Jimmy finally left Iris, a depressed Henry spent months daydreaming that the biker would show up late one night, come through his bedroom window and take him – both physically and far away. He wanted Jimmy to tell him that he would be his forever and together they’d explore the country, meeting up with other bikers and he’d be Jimmy’s or whoever Jimmy wanted him to be with. The thought of doing whatever Jimmy wanted to make him happy was all young Henry could dream about.
Now, thirteen years later, and fresh out of college, Henry loved being pursued by powerful men. Or at least he did in the moment. Sex behind locked doors with men that could never be his was the ultimate aphrodisiac. It was hot, forbidden and furious. Feeling a surgeon come up behind him and stand too close, while nonchalantly asking Henry to come into his office, was the consummate thrill. It was always the same for Henry. He’d feel his breath shallow and his balls tighten at the thought of what was going to come next.
Each doctor was different. Henry’s favorite was in his late forties with a very reserved personality; multiple pictures of his perfect blonde wife and athletic children graced his bookshelves. Their encounters were always the same. He’d silently push Henry over his immaculate desk. He was there for the doctor’s pleasure and even as his bottom, Henry felt powerful.
It was a Tuesday morning when Henry was called into the regional Vice President’s office for an unscheduled, closed-door chat. The request made him curious, but not concerned.
Still a top producer after four years, Henry was loved by senior management and his female coworkers, but generally snubbed by his male counterparts. He was never quite sure if it was because he kicked their asses in sales, or if it was because he was gay, but ventured it was most likely a combination of the two.
Sitting down across the desk from Rick Powell, Henry couldn’t help but notice Rick’s affected air of success, right down to the Cole-Haan loafers. He looks like a mannequin, Henry mused. To the untrained eye, he looked really put together, but to the queer eye, his dress was akin to Garanimals, where you match up the numbers to create a complete coordinated outfit. Henry wanted to coach him on breaking up his head-to-toe uni-designer look with pieces that gave him personality, but that was assuming he actually had one. It was at that moment he realized he wanted to zuzh him up a bit and had to stifle a laugh at the thought of Rick actually allowing him to zuzh him. The guy was the definition of straight – pure vanilla straight.
“Another great month,” Rick was nodding at Henry.
“Not complaining.” Henry met his gaze.
“You’ve done an amazing job of building Orange County and maintaining it as a top five territory nationally,” Rick paused. “This isn’t common knowledge yet, but Monica’s told me th
at she’s not coming back after the baby’s born.”
“Really?” Henry was genuinely surprised. Monica had her territory rocking and was making a boatload of money.
“I was surprised, too.” Sitting back in his chair, Rick stretched, his hands going to the back of his head. “So, the decision I’m left with is do I replace her or not?”
“Would you carve up the San Diego territory if you don’t bring on someone new?” Henry was now sitting forward in his chair, a panther ready to spring.
“Well, if you don’t want the whole territory…” Rick’s voice trailed off as a sly smile appeared.
“No,” Henry was shaking his head, his strawberry blonde hair cascading down his forehead, “I want every last inch.” His smile was now as sly as Rick’s.
“I thought you might,” Rick was openly smirking. “It’s always been a great producing territory, but I have the feeling ‘We ain’t seen nothin’ yet’.”
“I’ll try working my magic.” Henry’s brain was already spinning off; Navy, Marines, Coast Guard, Camp Pendleton’s Naval Hospital, Naval Air Command, Point Loma. His semi was hardening with each military facility his mind clicked off. San Diego, for a gay man who loved men in uniform, was paradise by the sea.
“Although this is a very lucrative territory, I think you could increase revenues by at least sixty percent. We know the amount of time you’re going to have to invest to yield that growth, so the last thing we want to see is your time being eaten up commuting and sitting in traffic. So work with our relocation staff in HR to find a furnished apartment. I’ve gotten a budget of $750/month approved, and this way it will make splitting your time more productive.”
Henry nodded, “Sounds great, Rick. Thank you for this opportunity.” He hoped he didn’t seem less than enthusiastic, but the blood from his brain had long sojourned south and he was no longer sporting merely a semi.
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