Page 41 of Devil and the Deep Blue Fish

“You know what you did,” Alex said darkly and then took his elbow again like he hadn’t almost incapacitated Jackson to begin with. “You end up pissing off the bad people because you defend the innocent people. We all know Henry—he’s the same way. If Lance can’t handle that about Henry, he needs to get out now, because it’s not fair. It’s like me breaking up with Dave because he can’t dance—”

“You lie,” Jackson said, laughing. Dave moved with fluidity and grace. Jackson couldn’t imagine him not being able to dance.

“Ballet? Yes,” Alex told him sourly. “But get that man on a hip-hop floor and all the other gay men are telling me to get him offthe floor because he’s making our people look bad.”

“Now I know,” Jackson said, feeling bemused—but also much better. “Thanks,” he told Alex seriously.

“Just doing my small part to keep your well-oiled justice machine running smoothly,” Alex told him. They’d arrived at the ID station, and Alex waved his ID in front of the reader, and the hydraulic door opened. Alex pulled him in, still keeping that cheery, grounding contact until they came to Henry’s room.

Dex and Lance weren’t there, but Dex’s husband, Kane, a handsome man with dark hair, enormous brown eyes, and a chest and shoulders as wide as a Volkswagen, had folded himself into one of the chairs next to the bed, his tiny seven-year-old niece tucked under his arm.

“Unca Kane,” she whispered, “is he up yet?”

“No, bunny,” Kane said patiently. “We told you, Uncle Henry’s not feeling good. We don’t know when he’s waking up.”

“But he needs to wake up so he knows we love him,” Frances whispered.

Kane glanced toward the door and caught Jackson’s gaze before rolling his eyes. “He knows,” he replied. “Bunny, we’ve been over this. Uncle Dex knows you love him. Uncle Henry knows you love him. I know you love me.”

“Does Uncle Lance know I love him?” Frances asked.

“Yes, he does,” Kane replied.

“Does Jackson?” Frances asked, and she slipped Jackson a sly glance that let him know he wasn’t invisible hovering at the door.

“No,” Jackson told her, grinning into sparkling brown eyes and returning the irrepressible smile. “I have no idea. Tell me.”

“I love you, Jackson!” Frances sang, and Jackson moved from the door to sit in the hellishly uncomfortable chrome-and-vinyl-cushion thing next to Kane’s respectable green office chair.

“I love you too, Frances bunny,” Jackson told her gravely. “How’s Lizard the cat?”

“She loves me!” Frances said happily. “She likes to give me kisses by rubbing her nose up against my nose, and her breath smells like fishes, and her naked skin is all prickly, and she’s wonderful.”

At the doorway Jackson heard Alex chuckle, and he glanced up in time to see Alex give a brief salute. “His chart says he’s getting his vitals checked in half an hour,” Alex said. “If he’s not up by then, they’ll wake him up, but you’ll have to wait a bit before you can talk. Sorry about that, Jackson. I know you need to talk.”

“It’s good to see him,” Jackson lied, and Alex rolled his eyes before he left. Jackson had no choice but to take his courage in both hands andlookat Henry as he lay, still and pale, on the bed, surrounded by rails, with tubes and wires connected and the senser showing his vitals bumping silently along.

He was shirtless, probably because his shoulder and torso were both heavily bandaged, and for the moment the dressing had to be changed often enough to make even a johnny a pain in the ass.

Jackson couldn’t remember if he’d worn one in his early days either.

But worse than shirtless, and worse than the bandages, was the stillness.

Henry was like Jackson—he was always in motion. Always on his way to somewhere to do something for somebody. Even when he’d been sort of an asshole, he’d taken on the job as Galen’s driver and had adapted to it easily, learning when to offer help when Galen was suffering and how to give back Galen’s acid humor as good as he got, because Galen was brilliant, and being bored was almost as painful for him as being injured.

But Henry wasn’t moving now. Even his breathing and heartbeat were slowed as his body took its time to heal. Hissquare, handsome face appeared older—grimmer. It was easy to think of Henry as “sparky” or “kid” when he was sassing back, but now, as even in sleep he fought a grimace of pain, Jackson could see the very adult lines that years of active deployment—and toxic relationship entrapment—had left on his face.

If he was “sparky” or “kid,” it was because he used all his energy to have joy and enthusiasm and excitement about life, and Jackson needed to remember that.

“He’ll be fine,” Frances said softly, and Jackson managed to summon a smile for her.

“I know,” he lied. He didn’t know. Not really.

“Then stop looking at me like I’m dead,” Henry muttered.

Jackson scowled at him. “You’re supposed to be asleep,” he accused. “Here I was getting ready for a wasted trip because you couldn’t be assed to wake up, and you pull that shit on me?”

“You told Frances you loved her, but you didn’t give me the tearful soliloquy,” Henry said, his eyes still barely open. “I feel slighted.”

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