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Henri shook his head. “I’m not sure he can understand. He’s a cop, Julien.”
“He’s a man first,” Julien said, and then scooted forward to the edge of the couch. “Does he love you?”
Henri remembered the look in Bailey’s eyes as he’d said under the sun, out on that swing, how he felt, and then later that night when they’d been naked and wrapped up in each other. “Yes.”
“Then he’ll understand. Give him time. That’s what he asked for.”
Henri let out a deep breath. “And until then? What do I do?”
Julien reached for the bottle. “You drink with friends, and wait.”
As Julien poured another glass, Henri was struck by the thought that Robbie was right: Julien really was good to talk to.
But no matter how many pep talks Julien Thornton gave, it would take a whole lot more than a bottle of whiskey for Henri to admit that he and the gorgeous Frenchman were friends. And even if the alcohol had numbed his heartbreak long enough to let him fall asleep twenty minutes later on the Priestley-Thorntons’ couch—that still didn’t mean they were friends.
Chapter Twenty-Three
CONFESSION
Sometimes a week can fly.
Sometimes it lasts forfuckingever.
One Week Later…
“YOU READY TO do this?”
Henri looked across the SUV to where Detective Dick sat behind the wheel. It was Friday night, and as promised, Ricky G had come through with a time and place to meet up with the big bossman.
If Henri were honest, this was the last fucking place on the planet he wanted to be, and with the last person, but he had a deal with Dick and wasn’t going to get paid if he bailed now. Not to mention that he didn’t have anything else to do with his time right now other than sit around and think about how fucking miserable he was.
He hadn’t heard from Bailey since last week, and the silence was close to killing him. Time, Bailey had asked for. But how much time were they talking? And would Bailey at least tell Henri if he was going to report him or just show up with the police? Knowing Henri’s luck, Dick over there would be leading the march.
Henri took in the jeans and hoodie the detective had worn tonight instead of his usual suits, and when he caught Henri sizing him up, Dick said, “You keep looking at me like that, Boudreaux, I’m gonna have to tell my baby brother you’ve got a wandering eye.”
Henri’s spine stiffened, but he made sure to school his features. The last thing he needed was Dick catching wind that there was trouble there, or he’d never hear the fucking end of it.
“Don’t flatter yourself,” Henri said, and then looked back out the windshield and across the street to the high-rise that sat on the corner of Baker and Third.
The area was pretty run-down, the city not really caring to keep up with this particular neighborhood, and as occupants of the building and other locals milled about, Henri sat and observed the comings and goings.
“What, that’s it?” Dick said. “No other smartass comment on the tip of your tongue?”
Henri glanced Dick’s way, a bored expression on his face. “I thought I was here to get you confirmation on this rAz guy, not entertain you.”
“Fucking hell. What crawled up your ass tonight?”
“I’m just trying to concentrate, since I’m the one going in there and risking my ass. That okay with you?”
“Well, excuse me,” Dick said as he went back to looking out the windshield. “Would you like me to give you a special code name to make you feel better?”
Henri aimed a withering stare in Dick’s direction. “Fuck you.”
“Oh, there you are. I almost thought Bailey’s good nature had rubbed off on you, and I don’t need that tonight.”
Again, the mention of Bailey’s name made Henri’s body react. His palms began to sweat and his stomach knotted, as he thought about the last time he’d seen Bailey and the look in his cop’s eyes as he’d walked away.
Henri ignored Dick and went back to looking out the window, and as he studied the people hanging around the front entrance and not really moving on, he said, “See the guy sitting over there on the bottom step leading into the building?”
Dick nodded. “That our runner?”
“I’d bet money on it.” Henri scanned the others loitering and noticed two guys chatting with one another. One looked nervous as all fuck, and the other had his hands jammed in the pockets of his green bomber jacket as he leaned in to talk to his twitchy friend. “And the steerer…that’s gotta be Mr. Bomber Jacket.”
As if the guy in the jacket had heard Henri, he nodded to Twitchy and headed toward his friend sitting on the stairs. The two of them had a quick powwow, and not a second later, their runner headed inside.
