Chapter 12 – “Stripped” — Depeche Mode
CHAPTER TWELVE
HENRY
“STRIPPED” — DEPECHE MODE
Sky is in town, licking his wounds from yet another cheating asshole.
I’ve lost track of how many that makes. He needed some Sterling time—and some honorary Sterling time—which is how I find myself standing in line at the bar, waiting for Spice Men: The Male Revue to start.
Only Julian would think the best way to cheer a brokenhearted gay man is to make him watch men strip.
Hopefully, Sky appreciates the effort. Or at least the copious amounts of tequila.
“It happened again,” Julian says from beside me. “Gorgeous, fit little bridesmaid. I threw my best at her, and all she had to say about it was that you and I are a cute couple.”
I hide my smile behind my drink while Wells and Killian practically fall on top of each other laughing in the corner.
Killian’s quiet but sneaky and hilarious.
It’s worse when Declan is around; practical jokes abound when the two of them are together.
Julian is smarter than average but still hasn’t made the connection that women only assume we’re together when one of those two tags along.
“Maybe she’s onto something,” I say with a decisive nod. “I’ve been single for a while now, and you’ve been in a committed relationship with yourself as long as I’ve known you. Maybe we should try each other on for size.”
“Neither of us are drunk enough for that, mate,” Julian says as he tosses back the last of his drink.
Saoirse snorts and turns to face us with our next round. “If you aren’t drunk enough yet, you will be shortly,” she says, handing out more shots than should be allowed by law.
Sky lifts one of his and says, “Don’t knock it till you’ve tried it.”
We all laugh, and since he’s still stitching his life back together, no one points out we could say the same thing about him and women with about as much success.
“Where’s Lachlan?” Saoirse asks.
“With Pete,” Sky says, gesturing to a far corner of the lobby. “I need a new drink, and at least one of you should feel obligated to pick up a round as an apology for bringing me here.”
Julian orders another round for the group, and the lights flicker, telling us it’s time to take our seats.
Even the ushers are scantily clad and oiled up.
Hopefully, I won’t need to hold on to any of them on the stairs.
I’d slide right off. Though that could have more to do with the extra extra shots than their oil. Spicy tipsy.
We flash our tickets, and they take us all the way down to the stage, front row and center. God help us all. Why do I let Julian be in charge of anything ever?
Hours later, I stagger up the four steps to my front door, Wells’ grip like iron as he manhandles me with his giant paw wrapped around my arm. Spicy dickish.
“Lock the door, Henry.” I close the door behind me and start to walk away, but he bangs on it for an eternity. “Henry. Henry! Henry? I’m leaving Sky here with you if you don’t lock the door. If you like cleaning up vomit, continue leaving this door unlocked.” Spicy ugh.
Wells keeps it up until I figure out how to lock my door.
I’m not sure why he’s going all big brother.
I’m not drunk; I’m spicy tipsy. Sky even said so after Julian claimed we were “delightfully pissed” and “banned from tequila shots forever” before disappearing into the night with some ladies angling for a private performance.
I’d go to bed, but I’ve got urgent matters to attend to.
Kait’s working late tonight. Sleep when I can talk to her?
Spicy stupid. For the last month or so, we talk more days a week than not.
I limit myself to one call every forty-eight hours, but it’s not easy.
My willpower is dwindling to nearly undetectable these days.
I must be more tired than I thought, as getting my shoes off is work. I’ve only dealt with one of them when I bump into my kitchen island and stub my toe on a chair, but it’s worth it when I locate my earbuds on my nightstand.
I drop my phone. Oops.
“Henry? Henry? Are you there? Henry?” It’s after midnight—that means it’s been three days. Self-restraint is overrated.
“Kaitybabes!” I don’t slur my words because I’m not intoxicated. Ouch. How did I stub my toe twice in one night? “Hello, hello, hello?”
Kait laughs. “Oh my. Are you dru—”
“Nope.” I pop the p. “I’m spicy tipsy.”
“Of course. Spicy tipsy. What was I thinking?” She’s giggling. Not sure why. “What, pray tell, have you been up to tonight?”
“Nothing much. It’s all Julian’s fault, really. Three extra Sterlings in town. We went to see Spice Men. Julian too. Spicy honorary Sterling. And Spicy Pete, accessory Sterling brother.” I’m sure I’ve mentioned Julian before, but clarity.
Now she’s outright laughing. “You went to see a male strip show?”
“No. No we did not, Kait,” I say with authority. “It’s an all-male revue. Huge difference. These guys have spice names and spice thongs to match. Pumpkin Spice had an orange thong.” I kick my remaining shoe off, and it nearly goes through my bedroom window. Oopsie.
“When only spice will do, go to the Spice Men Revue,” I parrot from the poster we bought for the dancers to sign. “We went for Sky. Is that funny?”
“No, not funny at all, just spicy interesting.” She laughs louder.
“I wouldn’t have picked that for your evening entertainment, but I clearly haven’t asked pertinent questions about you, your brothers, or Julian.
My bad, I assumed you were straight, which is not cool.
To assume, I mean. Not being straight is, of course, totally cool. ”
“I’m not spicy straight. I’m heterosexual. Heteroromantic, too, but not much of one. I lack the relationship gene. I’m spicy celibate,” I say with a laugh. She’s quiet, and I hate it. I’ve said something wrong, but I don’t know what, so I can’t take it back.
She speaks before I can decide what to apologize for. Quiet, she asks, “What does that mean, Henry? Spicy celibate?” It’s a sincere question I feel obligated to answer.
Being tipsy makes me spicy honest. “I suck ass at love. Bad choices like Sky, but he picks douchebros, and I pick women who—Oh, no, when did inside voice become outside voice? It did, didn’t it?
Inside words are outside words. Stop talking, Henry.
Stop,” I say, unsure which words went out and which stayed in.
“I stopped dating. I’m spicy celibate, not an incel.
Women want me, I don’t want to be wanted, but I miss being touched so much.
Still, no, thank you.” I fall into blessed silence. Yikes.
“Oh, shit. Sorry about saying ass, Kait.” Spicy slurring makes spicy honest even worse. Spicy yikes. “Errrr, and for saying shit. Oops. Now I said it twice.”
“You can say ass and anything else to me, Henry. I’m a safe space. I’m your safe space. If you can’t tell me, who could you possibly tell?” She doesn’t ask hard questions, instead shifting to my brother. “Sky’s into men? He’s the younger twin, right?”
“Right. Yes. Killian’s like seven minutes older.
Sky had a very spicy breakup with his cheating fiancé—that’s why we went to see oily muscle hunks with names like Nut-meg and Cum-in, pun intended, I think, take off their clothes.
Julian said it would cheer Sky up. Pretty sure Julian wanted to mess with the rest of us—except my sister, Saoirse, she was really into it—knowing our suffering would cheer Sky up more than dancers. ”
I wander to the kitchen, where I guzzle a glass of water, then strike gold, grabbing a cold green bottle from the fridge and popping the cap.
“Henry, what did you open? Did you open a bottle?” Spicy concerned, she is. Thinking like Yoda, I am.
“Yup!” I’m popping my p’s all over the place tonight. “Yup. It’s spicy water. The good stuff.”
Kait groans. “What kind of spicy water? Is it beer? Tell me it’s not beer.”
“It has minerals, in a green glass bottle. It’s sparkling and natural, Kait. It’s from the Italian Alps. Spicy fancy.” She says “fancy” all the time, and now she has me saying it.
I stop drinking to stifle a burp. Kait’s laughing again.
Spicy rude. “Anyway, Julian bought front-row seats because he’s him, and I got Cinnamon sweat on me.
” Not the fun kind of sweat from other people.
I could’ve had the fun kind, but I wanted to talk to Kait.
She doesn’t need to know that I declined kind and generous offers this evening.
She might think I’m defective. “I’m not defective, I promise. ”
“Henry, you’re anything but defective.” She has no idea. “Did everyone have fun? Did Julian enjoy the havoc he wreaked?”
“Yes, but it’s okay. We ran out of cash, and they gave him back.”
“You got who back? Julian?” Kait asks.
“Julian Spice.”
“Ohhhh,” she purrs. “Tell me more, Henry.”
“We got Sky spicy tipsy. Cayenne and Poblano and Ancho were very nice, and Sky got his picture with each of them and then one where they had him lay across their laps. He was grouchy like Wells at first, but tequila and Julian Spice got onstage, and Sky laughed and said the pictures were going on his Facebook page because he’s still friends with his ex and Ginger—Spice Man, not Girl—heard him say that, and they were all like ‘ooooh, girl’ and ‘we’ll make that filthy byotch rue the day’ and took so many pics but only kept the ones where they said Sky looked fu—” I drink more water. “—F hot. You know, extra-spicy hot.”
“Fuck hot. I’m familiar with the term, thank you,” Kait says.
“Sky told them about the books he makes better. McQuillington and the yum books, errr, mmm-mmm books he wants to make?”
“Mmm-mmm books? Do you mean Schuyler wants to make MM books, Henry?”
“That’s it, the MM books. The dancers said they should be called mmm-mmm good books; I guess they all read them on their tour bus.
Anyway, we didn’t get drunk. Drunk implies falling down and generalized sloppiness, and we only fell down once, but it was spicy funny because we squished the big bad FBI.
He screamed like a little girl. The CIA stood there and did nothing.
Well, that’s not true—he prayed for spicy strength to deliver him, but we had a driver.
The Uber guy said if we puked, we were cleaning it up, but we weren’t sick.
We tripped, and Killian and Julian wandered off with some bachelorettes—the wedding kind, not the game show—and barely even said goodbye. Spicy rude.”
I’m overdressed for bed. Belt off, pants off. Shirt off. Oopsie.
“I’m so confused,” she says. “Bridesmaids?”
I make a yes noise. It’s hard to talk and hop to get my socks off at the same time. “Henry, what on earth are you doing? Is Chicago experiencing earthquakes?”
“Stripping down like a Spice Man, but I’ve lost half of you. Now I’m on the floor, trying to find you. Kait? Kait, where are you? I should have unbuttoned it instead of pulling it over my head, oopsie.” I’m thirty years too old to kneel on hardwood.
“Maybe I’m in your shirt. Have you looked there? Unless you swung it around like a lasso and threw it across the room, Spice Man.” She seems confident. I crawl to my shirt and pat it until I find her inside and put my earbud back in.
“How did you know?” Wait. Shhhh. Inside voice. “That’s exactly what they did at the show, Kaitypoo. Swinging their shirts around.”
Kaitypoo feels funny on my tongue, so I try it out a few more times. “Kaitypoo, Kaity poodle. Kait E. Poo.”
“Henrypoo, boxer briefs and concert T-shirt as per usual?”
Henrypoo? How does she come up with this stuff? “Briefs. I can’t put a shirt on. I’ll lose you again.”
Another giggle. It’s mine. I still have no idea what’s so funny. Hah!
Kait’s usually upbeat, but she’s downright chipper tonight.
If sunshine had a sound, it would sound like her.
“Would you do me a giant favor, Henry? Drink your water?” When I forget to drink, she says, “Water, Henry? Maybe some Advil?” I finish it and stagger to the bathroom for some ibuprofen.
“Sleeping in tomorrow, or do you need an alarm?”
“Sleeping in! I’ve been sleeping so well.
” I blather on about how I sleep like a baby, singing the praises of her miracle sleep program and explaining in detail that she should patent it or turn it into an app.
“I could fall asleep right now, but I wanted to hear your voice. Isn’t that the most amazing thing ever?
Not the missing-you part—that’s quite logical.
The sleeping part, that’s amazing, isn’t it? ”
She’s silent for a long moment that stretches, tormenting me with a big gaping silence until she replies, “I missed you too, Henry.” Me? Really? It seems impolite to ask if we’re currently in the rectum of rectitude, so I keep it in until I figure out what to say.
Kait speaks first. “Knowing you’re sleeping well gives me warm fuzzies, and I’m over the moon that you still call.
I’d miss you if you didn’t. Hell, I miss you when you do call—there’s always a couple of days in between.
Your voice spicy brightens my day.” You can’t hear a smile, but I think she’s smiling.
I’m smiling, and I can’t hear it or see it, but I know it’s there.
I close my eyes, testing to see if the room spins around me.
It doesn’t because I’m spicy tipsy, not drunk, despite everything Grumpy Spice said.
“Pull the covers up, Henry. Let’s get you tucked in.”
She knows I haven’t pulled the covers up. Remarkable. I tug at my bedding.
“That’s better,” she says. “You’re doing so good, pulling the covers up like that.”
I groan. “Spicy good even.”
I am good for her. So good. The best of good. Spicy freaking good.
“Perfect even,” Kait whispers, sounding spicy sexy.
I groan again, but it’s quiet. The next sound she makes doesn’t have a name; it’s more of a feeling.
It’s a satisfied coo and amusement wrapped up in a satin bow so they’re nestled together, and I really, really like it.
Pleasing her makes me feel like a bowl brimming with liquid happiness, but it isn’t tequila.
It’s more like golden, sun-warmed agave syrup.
A coarse sigh escapes me. She doesn’t sound chipper anymore. It’s more like she’s had a few cigarettes or some Scotch when she says, “Sleep well, Henry.”