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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.
