Henry's End (13 page)

Shaking his head, “I knew he had something up his sleeve.” Henry’s smile was warm as he said it, knowing his friend had his best interests at heart.

“Come, grab a mat, we’ll sit.”

Facing Ivy, “So how much did he tell you?”

The petite brunette shook her head, her long braid swishing like a tail, “He didn’t tell me anything, just to clear my schedule. That he had a friend he wanted me to meet who he thought could really get a lot from the benefits of yoga.”

Smiling, Henry shrugged, palms in the air, “OK, sell me.”

Ivy laughed, a warm throaty sound that matched the warmth in her doe-like brown eyes, “Henry, I couldn’t sell hot soup to an Eskimo, so I’m not going to try to sell you on Yoga being the greatest healer on the planet. Although I think it is. But if you have stress issues, relaxation issues, focus issues, blood pressure issues, sleep issues, back pain, depression, PTSD – then I might be able to help you.”

“OK, you’ve got my attention.” Henry was already relaxing from the calm atmosphere and Ivy’s centered demeanor.

“What do you know about Yoga?”

“Very little,” he admitted. “I’m here to be enlightened.”

“Aren’t we all,” she volleyed back playfully.

The next forty-five minutes were spent introducing Henry to some simple stretches and poses, with Ivy explaining yoga’s connecting of the mind, body and breath.

Holding the poses was more challenging than Henry anticipated, even though his long, lean limbs were able to adapt to the positions fairly easily. He smiled inwardly thinking, stilling my mind is going to be what I’m going to have to work my ass off to achieve, but knew the benefits of that were probably worth more than his twice a week therapy sessions.

“So, what is the ultimate goal?” Henry felt invigorated, as if he’d opened up a new energy channel that was coursing through him, pulsing life back into cells that had been in hiding for over six months.

“That’s a great question. I don’t think there are any two answers that will be exactly the same. This is the personal snowflake for people. Unique goals based on your unique needs.” She paused, obviously still considering Henry’s question, “I think on a larger scale, as a discipline, the goal is to achieve Moksha.”

Unknowingly, the petite instructor had said the magic word. Moksha. Liberation. And Henry Clark knew in that moment that working toward mastering Yoga would become a life’s passion as important to his well-being as breathing.

I need to be liberated. I don’t want to be a slave anymore.

Strolling into Schooner’s office, his friend looked every inch ‘The Boss’. With a smug smile, Schooner looked up from his laptop as Henry took a seat across the desk.

“I knew you were setting me up, Moore. I just didn’t know what for.”

“So what do you think?” Schooner flipped the laptop shut.

“I think it’s interesting and I like that it integrates mind, body and spirit in a restorative way.”

Schooner remained silent and Henry continued.

“If it can help with the fear and anxiety and the nightmares,” he took a deep breath, “I want it to. I really do. I want to fight back, Schooner. What you said to me before about him stealing my power was really true. I want it back.”

Schooner’s handsome smile reached his clear blue eyes, “Good. Because that scumbag doesn’t deserve anything from you. Not your life. Not your thoughts. And certainly not another minute of your present or your future.” Sitting back in his chair, he looked very pleased with himself. “So, how many days a week can you commit to this?”

“Well, I have therapy twice a week.”

Schooner wasn’t waiting for an answer, “Great, so we’ll make you a standing three day per week client with Ivy. And since you’ll be here, you and I can do some working out, too. And maybe get on that SkyTrack and run through this.”

Henry just nodded. Words would have caused his eyes to well up.

“We’ll run through this, we will. You’re going to be ok.” Henry had promised his despondent friend as they ran the empty track behind the dorms.

“I don’t know that I’ll ever really be OK, H.” Schooner looked up at the stars shining down on them and pulled his black knit cap further down on his brow. “Not until I know why she left me.”

“You will be OK. We’ll run through this,” and Henry took off in a sprint knowing the competitive athlete in Schooner would have him following suit.

As if sharing the same moment in his mind’s eye, Schooner locked eyes with Henry and softly repeated, “We’ll run through this.”

Bang. Bang. Bang.

He sat up in bed, drenched in sweat. Reaching over to the nightstand, he grabbed the PalmPilot and started to scroll.

X. 206.

Placing the device back on the nightstand, Henry reached over his head, and with his right hand grabbed the neckline of his tank top and hauled it off in a quick, sweeping motion.

On his knees facing the end of the bed, he slowly slid forward with his arms outstretched until his forehead touched the cool sheets. Mindful that his bottom still held contact with the heels of his feet, Henry was satisfied that his form was good as he stretched into the Balasana, or the Child’s Pose.

Focusing on his breathing and stilling his mind, the stress relieving position was accomplishing exactly what it was designed to do, as Henry’s mind and body calmed.

On the nightstand stood two bottles, one filled with highly-addictive painkillers, the other with equally addictive anti-anxiety medicine.

Henry hadn’t touched either since he began working with Ivy.

Getting back to work was
the next major stride Henry made, realizing that having a schedule in his life was exactly what he needed to keep progressing in his recovery and keep his mind from wandering off. The first day was difficult as he looked at his navy suit laid out on the bed, thinking I can’t do this. I can’t have them all see me.

Forcing himself to put on the pale blue shirt, then his slacks, he stood before the full-length mirror to knot his favorite tie. And then he just stood there, staring at his reflection.
I look whole,
he thought. Grabbing his suit jacket, he slipped into it and walked back to the mirror. He could see the difference in his face and wondered would others notice it. It was subtle and the shock of ginger hair setting off his violet-blue eyes would probably distract people from the distinct changes to his bone structure. There was only one telltale giveaway and that was the scar.

Coworkers and clients alike greeted him warmly, showing genuine concern. Even his straight male colleagues were welcoming. By lunch the first day, being surrounded by people he had known for so many years, felt comforting, not stress inducing.
I should have done this sooner,
he thought, but knew he had not been ready and that things were falling into place again as they should.

The one thing he hadn’t quite gotten back to yet was his bicycle deliveries for the Fold and Fluff. At Edwin’s insistence, Henry was back helping out, but his mode of delivery had changed to his car, where he could lock the doors, giving him a feeling of safety on his drop-off route. Looking over his shoulder was something he hadn’t let go of yet and wasn’t sure he ever would.

So much had changed since he’d first gotten to San Diego, and he knew he’d never be the same person he was when he’d arrived. The innocence of those first months felt as if he were watching a video recording of another person. A very naïve, trusting person. Those early days living in Hillcrest felt wild and innocent, as the world lay before him, begging to be licked, tasted and savored. And he had been all too happy to be the glutton. Gone now, were the carefree free-wheeling days, replaced by structure needed as a scaffold he could tightly grasp onto to keep moving forward.
Just keep moving forward
, he kept telling himself.

The discipline of three days a week at L9, and its clear results, provided a level of confidence Henry was shocked he was seeing so soon as he reclaimed the different facets of his molested world.

Ivy was pushing him, as she always did, forcing him to do just a little more and to do it a little better. Today was no different. As he counted breaths in the Peacock Position, two, three, four, five, his mind was still and focused.

“Into a Low Push-Up for a count of five breaths next and then take that into a Cobra and hold before we call it a day.”

As they walked out of the studio together, Ivy asked, “So have you had any more nightmare free nights?”

After they had been working together for several weeks, the trust had been built enough for Henry to share an abbreviated version of the attack and tell Ivy of his recurring nightmare. Smiling, he nodded, “Yes, quite a few.”

“That is excellent. This has worked so well for you. I am really pleased.”

“You and me both,” Henry laughed.

Entering the main building, he immediately noticed Schooner over at the free weights with three seriously built guys.

I haven’t seen them before,
Henry mused.
I wouldn’t have forgotten that trio.

As he got closer to the group, the men appeared even better looking than he originally thought.
These guys could be a calendar,
he mused and what struck him hardest was that he had noticed, he had actually noticed. And it had piqued his interest.

As if sensing his arrival, Schooner turned, “H, great timing. These guys need a fourth. Are you available?”

Henry knew the look on Schooner’s face. Knew it well. Mr. Moore was proud of himself. Quite proud.

“Guys, this is my friend, Henry,” he began.

The three looked over as Henry approached. He was greeted by the warm smile of a Denzel Washington look-a-like and a nod from a handsome Hispanic guy with one of the tightest builds he had ever seen. It was the third guy whose reaction made him tense, yet caused a stir in a place he never thought would stir again. As Henry approached, the dark haired man’s pale blue eyes took a walk all over him.

“Henry, this is Derek, Willie and Quinn.”

As he shook hands with each, the eye contact confirmed what he had hoped. This was a trio of gorgeous gay men.
Well done, Schooner.

“Quinn Callahan.” The man had a powerful shake. “Spot for me?” he asked, quickly staking his claim.

“Yeah, sure.” Henry followed him toward a bench, impressed by his tight ass and muscular calves. With thick hair, a near black, Henry thought his mother would have described Quinn as “Black Irish”.

“Are you all friends?”

“Yeah,” his smile revealed even white teeth, “and we work together, too.” Loading the bumper plates onto the barbell, Quinn sealed them on with the muscle clamp collars and took his place on the bench.

Watching the man’s muscles as he pumped the heavy iron, Henry couldn’t help but admire his sculptured arms as the planes and shadows began to glisten. He didn’t realize at first that he was licking his lips as he watched Quinn’s muscles work. There was some kind of primal call in the man’s grunts, Henry thought, something so distinctly masculine, yet beautiful.
I could watch him do this for days.

Quinn finished his reps and Henry secured the bar.

“Are you lifting today?” Quinn was ready to return the favor.