Chapter Four
The house was quiet, too quiet. Lucky leaned on the deck railing, sipping coffee and watching Moose roam ’round and ’round the yard, nose to the grass. Why did dogs make such a big fuss about where to take a dump?
Moose finally located the right bush to pee on, then kept on hunting for a place to squat. Dogs.
Cat Lucky jumped up on the railing, as if to say, “I know, right?” and leaned into Lucky’s hand.
Pink lined the horizon over the treetops in the distance, and around him the neighborhood came to life as cars trundled down the street, temporarily silencing a barely-heard lawnmower from a few streets over.
Parts of the backyard privacy fence leaned at an odd angle, and the railing supporting his weight needed a coat of water seal.
No matter what he and Bo fixed, the property continuously needed more work.
The glass door behind him slid open, and a moment later arms encircled his waist. Bo planted a soft kiss on the back of Lucky’s neck. Thank God the boys weren’t in the living room so they could PDA to their hearts content.
“Good morning,” The comforting scent of Bo combined with soap, toothpaste, and cologne. No matter what else he added to the mix, Bo still smelled like Bo.
“It’s Monday, so the jury’s still out,” Lucky growled. Damn, but he hated mornings, and Monday morning worst of all.
“Well, if the day turns out bad, I’ll make it up to you later.”
At one time, the day got better with such a promise. Now… Now “later” meant finagling time alone.
“You woke Ty up, didn’t you?” Bo nuzzled Lucky’s jaw.
“Yup.” His nephew would probably laugh at the dark blue suit, if he decided to acknowledge Lucky’s existence at all today. Lucky pulled at the silken noose around his neck.
Bo stepped to the side and let out a low whistle. “Mr. Harrison, you do clean up nice.”
Lucky scowled. He might be in a business suit, and had even combed his hair, but underneath all the window dressing lay an ex-con, redneck, tobacco farmer’s son. Bo? Lucky stepped back and appraised Bo’s hella fine body made to wear a suit. That man looked nice in anything he wore.
Or nothing at all.
No! Wait. Assless chaps. Black leather cradling the firm mounds of Bo’s ass. Yeah. Like framing for a work of art.
Lucky shifted to give his growing cock more room and shot a glance toward the living room. Empty.
Moose finished his business and raced back to the deck, paws and belly wet with dew.
Bo jumped back. Lucky shouted, “No, Moose!”
Roughly one hundred and twenty pounds of white fur slammed into Lucky, sending his coffee cup flying. It hit the deck and shattered.
Damn it! Third one in a month!
Bo sighed, knelt, and scooped up the pieces. “That dog really needs some training. Did you get any on you?” He turned Lucky one way and then another. “No, looks like he didn’t get the suit.”
With coffee, anyway. Wet, grass-stained paw prints meant spot cleaning the jacket.
However, dirtying up his suit might be a good excuse for a casual Monday, even if Lucky’s day called for a meeting with a bunch of pharma executives.
Meetings with CEOs and court appearances—two occasions Walter insisted on Lucky at least pretending to look professional.
“C’mon,” Bo said, taking the broken cup into the house. “We need to move. Ty, c’mon. We gotta get going.”
Lucky let the pets back in, wiped the worst of Moose’s damage away with a damp cloth, and met Bo and Ty at the front door. Bo held out another cup of coffee—a steel cup this time—and smirked. “Try not to break this one.”
He bounded down the steps toward his Durango. Ty ran an assessing gaze over Lucky’s attire, smirked, and followed Bo without a word.
Moose sat on his furry haunches a few feet away, tail swishing back and forth.
Lucky lifted the mug. “Don’t even think about it.”
***
They sat in front of the school. No one said anything, though music played softly from the Durango’s stereo. Lucky turned his head as far as he dared and watched Ty from the corner of his eye.
Ty swallowed hard, staring out the window. Kids called out to each other, paired up or forming groups, and sauntered toward the front of the school.
They knew each other. Many had likely been together since first grade.
Ty was the new student, without even his brother’s support as he’d have had last year. Lucky never moved from his birthplace until he left home at eighteen. Never had to make new friends, learn his way around a new school.
“I’ll be here to pick you up,” Bo said, finally prodding Ty out the door.
“That’s okay. I’ll take the bus.”
“Ty—”
He’d slammed the door before Lucky thought of anything else to say.
***
The blonde receptionist looked up when Bo and Lucky strolled past her desk.
“Hi, Lisa,” Bo said, corners of his mouth turning upward.
Lucky grumbled something that might have been, “Mawnin’.”
“Hi, guys.” Lisa flashed a quick smile and returned to business mode. “Mr. Harrison? Mr. Smith would like to see you.”
No matter how many times people called him by his new name, Lucky still hesitated a moment before answering to Simon Harrison. In his own head he’d always be Richmond Lucklighter. One day he’d legally change his name back.
Whenever he found the time and the money pit he lived in stopped sucking all disposable income from his wallet.
Lucky passed Bo his computer bag. “Can you take this to my desk? Let me go see what the boss wants.”
He strode into Walter’s office without knocking. Walter expected him, right? Besides, in over a decade working here, he’d only knocked a handful of times.
A K-cup coffee dispenser sat gathering dust on a cabinet, while an overly large coffee cup sat on Walter’s desk, the plain kind found in the department’s break room. It’d take too many K-cups to get Walter’s morning going.
The same overflowing bookcases lined one wall, with the cheesy “It Takes Teamwork” poster hanging behind Walter’s desk. Windows to the right of the bookcases offered a view of the street and let some light into the room.
The furniture hadn’t changed in Lucky’s time with the bureau, a long way from new even on his first day on the job.
The oversized mahogany furnishings suited Walter, a man who cared more about work than appearances and chose function over statement. At six feet six, and with a linebacker’s body gone to seed, Mt. Walter made an imposing figure no matter who else entered the room, commanding attention with shrewd-eyed perception and a reputation for taking care of his own while making crime bosses shake in their shoes.
Fear or respect. You’d give the man one or the other. Sometimes both.
Nearly every inch of the desktop held papers, folders, the coffee cup, and assorted pens and paperclips. He’d carved out a small empty spot directly in front of him to rest his folded hands.
“Ah, Lucky. Good morning!” Walter’s not-quite-a-smile didn’t lift the folds of his jowls. He didn’t even make a crack about Lucky’s attire. He peered over the tops of his bifocals, a familiar gesture.
Lucky sank into the chair in front of Walter’s desk, unease building inside. He’d known the man too long not to recognize the somber mood.
For ten minutes Walter prattled on, more breakroom gossip than business. So unlike him. Normally he came right to the point. Small talk wasn’t his style.
Lucky waited him out.
Walter steepled his fingers, elbows on the desk. Uh-oh. Shit, meet fan. “Now, while I have you in here, there’s another matter I’d like to discuss with you.” The businesslike tone matched the boss’s neutral expression.
What had Lucky done now? Or what was he going to be asked to do that he wouldn’t like? He forced himself not to slouch and show the sudden twisting in his gut. Walter didn’t often take an overly stern tone with Lucky, normally saving the professional side of himself for reporters, pharmaceutical company directors and, well, others. Not Lucky.
“What’s up?” Lucky ventured. Oh, God. Had Walter volunteered him for something?
As practiced as he’d ever heard his boss speak, Walter said, “I’m not getting any younger.”
Lucky jerked. “What?” Oh shit. Surely not… “You’re not sick or nothing, are you?” His biological father still recovered from a near-fatal illness, courtesy of a chunk of Lucky’s liver. He couldn’t stand for anything to happen to the man who’d taken on the role during his family’s rejection.
Walter waved a meaty paw. “Other than high blood pressure, a touch of arthritis, and failing eyesight, which I’ve battled for years, no. However, a man in my position, whom others depend upon, in many cases during a life or death situation, should be at the top of his game. I’m long past.”
Lucky didn’t need to rely on the information he’d gotten from a body language class to pick up on the cues. Walter wouldn’t meet his eyes—a rare occurrence—and tapped his fingers on the desktop. He wasn’t happy.
“You’ve always been there for me. I’ve no complaints.” Pulling from the cocky guy act he defaulted to when in doubt, Lucky added, “And mine’s the only opinion that matters, right?” He forced a grin.
Walter laughed. “Still the same old Lucky. Please. Don’t change. This department needs you just as you are.”
What the fuck? “What are you talking about?”
The gale force winds of Walter’s sigh should’ve ruffled the endless piles of paper on his desk. “The powers that be have suggested that, perhaps it’s time to pass the torch.”
Lucky shot to his feet. “They want you to retire?” How dare anyone suggest age made Walter a lesser man.
“Lucky, sit down. While I appreciate your outrage on my behalf, they do make a point. I haven’t met the requirements for field work in quite some time.” He patted his paunch. “New technology, new methods. The department needs to keep up with the times. I’m too old-school, apparently.”
Lucky ignored the order to sit. If he didn’t let off some anger by pacing, he’d slug something. “They’re forcing you out? Who?”
Even with being ousted hanging over his head, Walter remained a company man, through and through. “After careful consideration, and poring over the job requirements and qualifications, I’ve come to realize they’re right.”
“What? No!” The SNB without Walter? Hell, Walter was the fucking SNB. “I supposed they’re trying to promote some college-educated hot shot who doesn’t know his ass from a hole in the ground and call it improvement.”
Walter barked a laugh. “Despite how hard you are on yourself, you’re probably the most loyal agent, or man, for that matter, I’ve ever had the pleasure to know.”
Now Walter sounded like he was dying, not retiring. Of course, given his dedication to the job, there might be little difference in his mind.
“When?” Surely, they’d not force him out immediately.
“My replacement is currently being sought. Given the stringent requirements, I estimate six months.”
“Six months!” Lucky abandoned his back and forth tour of Walter’s office and dropped back down into his favorite chair. Six months? Only six months? “Any idea who?” While Lucky wouldn’t want Walter’s job—too many rules, too little wiggle room—he couldn’t imagine anyone else filling the boss’s formidable shoes.
Walter stared at his hands, shoulders slumped for the first time in recent memory. “There’s a short list of candidates.”
He probably didn’t want to know, but Lucky asked anyway. To even continue this conversation meant it might actually happen. Denial could be a wonderful thing. “Anyone you’d feel comfortable taking over?”
Walter’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “A few.”
“Who?”
“You’re a senior agent, and I’ve argued that, as such, you should be included in the selection process.” Furrows appeared across Walter’s forehead. “Jameson O’Donoghue seems to be the most likely candidate for my successor.”
What the ever-loving fuck? “O’Donoghue?”
The bastards. What could Lucky do? What could he say? Why couldn’t Bo be here, who’d know exactly how to handle such news?
Walter clucked his tongue and shook his head, lights catching on the gray in his formerly black hair. “I know you don’t like him, but he has a stellar reputation and a solid background.”
Would Lucky even have a future with that asshole running the show? Or anyone but Walter Smith?
Lucky sucked in a deep breath. Had he ever really confessed the truth to this man? “Although I might be difficult at times”—an understatement of epic proportions— “you’re one of the main reasons I’m still with the bureau.” Walter, Bo, and now Loretta Johnson.
“I know.” Walter’s normally booming voice scarcely rose above a whisper. “And you’re the main reason I haven’t retired already. Now, I wanted you to hear the news straight from me. I’d appreciate if you wouldn’t discuss this with anyone until I’m ready to make an official announcement.”
“I can do that.” Keeping the secret might kill him, but he could.
He staggered out the door in a daze. Walter leaving? The familiar hallways of the SNB offices no longer felt homey. The cubes he’d woven through for years suddenly became barriers, the corridors alien.
A building. Take away Walter and the place became merely a building.
He barely stopped in time to avoid a collision. A royal pain in Lucky’s backside stared down, all gym-buffed body with thick, blond hair, sky blue eyes and chiseled jawline. On anyone else the striking features might have made them hotter than hell. Not this jerkoff. Funny how Lucky and the boss just spoke of Jameson O’Donoghue, and who should appear but O’Donoghue’s chief brown-noser, Owen Fucking Landry.
Phillip Eustace followed Landry like a bad smell. What a miserable excuse for a human being. How could Rett willingly see the guy naked?
Landry leaned to the side, resting an elbow against the wall, blocking Lucky’s path. Phillip might not be the sharpest tool in the shed, but he knew enough to keep his distance.
Lucky glared. “Out of my way, asshole.”
The idiot grinned. “Oh, I think you’ll be finding me in your way a lot in the near future. Changes, they are a coming.”
A rookie rounded the corner and Landry straightened, narrowing his gaze and lowering his voice to a snake’s hiss. “Mark my words. Your days are numbered.”
Walter leaving. The final eight years of Lucky’s debt to society paid in service to the SNB. Going out every day not knowing if he’d return home.
“They already are, motherfucker,” he muttered to Landry and Eustace’s retreating backs.
***
“Are you okay?” Johnson asked for maybe the thirtieth time, staring into the rearview mirror of her Jeep.
“I’m fine,” Lucky huffed from the back seat, wedged in beside a booster seat and a box of toys. Why couldn’t she leave him alone? He would be fine, if he could transfer some stress to Landry’s face via fist.
“He’s lying,” Bo said from the front passenger seat. “But he’s not going to tell us one damned thing until he’s good and ready.” He sipped from a cup of decaf green tea, the familiar scent, while not appetizing, still offered comfort.
Johnson braked at a stop sign and turned to Bo. “We can always beat it out of him.”
Her snide-assed comment didn’t deserve an answer.
Bo swung his arm back, grabbed Lucky’s hand, and squeezed. “I have better ways of getting him to talk.”
“I’ll bet you do.” Johnson took a right and slowed the vehicle to a stop at a chain link gate. After a few seconds the door swung open and let them in. The rather modest sign in front of a four-story brick building read, “Chastain Pharmaceuticals.”
“We’re here,” she sing-songed, pulling into a parking spot marked “Visitor.” Not waiting for Bo and Lucky, she hopped out and started across the parking lot to the front door, calling, “Last one out locks the door,” over her shoulder.
Lucky and Bo got out and stood by the Jeep.
Bo placed a hand on Lucky’s arm, keeping him from following Johnson. “I know you’ve heard this too damned much in the last half hour, but are you okay? Is there something you need to talk about? You seem down.”
Lucky stared into the deep brown eyes he’d often lost himself in. “I wish I could. I’ve been asked not to.” Keeping things from Bo caused his insides to lurch, but he’d made a promise.
The tightness around Bo’s mouth and eyes softened. “Will you tell me as soon as you can, and before that if it’s something hurting you?”
“You’ll be the first to know.” If they weren’t standing in the middle of a public parking lot, he’d take a kiss. If only he could talk to Bo, he’d feel better. No matter what kind of bad news Lucky delivered over the years, Bo always found a bright spot, or at least a less gloomy one.
“Hey, you guys coming?” Johnson yelled from the other side of the lot.
“Nope, not coming,” Lucky muttered under his breath. “I’m just breathing hard.”
Bo snorted. “You’re not too bad off if you can still snark.”
Actually, numb and blindsided summed up Lucky’s current feelings. Showtime meant he’d shunt everything else aside and get through the next few hours.
Get shook, get took. Not happening.
He yanked at his tie and followed his team into the squat, butt-ass ugly building he’d seen too much of lately—one of many companies he’d audited over the course of his career. Why did he have to dress up? Especially this early on a freaking Monday. Mondays sucked big time without the help of uncomfortable clothes. He’d started sweating under his suit jacket the moment he’d set foot outside in the Georgia summer heat.
These folks knew how he made his living, and it sure the hell wasn’t by wearing a damned noose around his neck. If anyone found their necks shoved into a noose, he’d do the shoving. Lucky let out a put-upon sigh.
Johnson turned and glared, so much like she did before scolding her son. “Are we boring you, Harrison?”
“Meetings bore me.” However, if Lucky misbehaved, she’d go all Mom on him. Might even drag him by the ear out to the woodshed if she could find one in the middle of Atlanta. She probably had the same hands-on parenting approach as Lucky’s folks, as in: my hand whooping your ass if you don’t act like you got some sense.
Polished in a dark gray suit of her own, minus a tie, Johnson towered over Lucky, heels increasing the inches she stood over him. She clip-clopped up the granite steps and through the door.
The overwhelming essence of cherry cough syrup permeated the place. Or maybe he’d grown accustomed to the way pharmaceutical plants smelled and picked up on a barely-there scent.
They stood in a dome-shaped lobby, glass panels tinted against the sun. Twin couches sat face to face, separated by a polished oak coffee table nearly hidden by an enormous vase of fake roses.
The marble floor made walking quietly impossible. Every inch of the place spoke of money and success.
Johnson stepped up to the reception desk.
Lucky might be senior agent, but he’d let his trainee handle niceties.
Lucky didn’t do niceties.
Much. Diplomacy fit Lucky about as well as his suit did.
Memories came to mind of this same scenario, but with Walter instead of Bo and Johnson. He’d never truly appreciated the boss dealing with the corporate types, sparing Lucky unless absolutely necessary.
A wave of sadness hit him. In his mind he recalled Walter, dressed to the nines, alternately playing Favorite Uncle or Worst Nightmare, depending on the situation. His heart squeezed.
He checked out the lobby while waiting, rocking onto the balls of his feet. Gray walls, gray floors, ridiculous framed motivational posters hanging from the walls.
At least the air conditioning worked.
“We’re here to see Mr. Chastain.” Johnson nodded to the uniformed security guard and flashed her SNB badge.
“I’ll let him know.” The guard picked up the receiver and punched numbers into her desk phone. How the person on the other end of the line understood the near-whisper he’d never know. She hung up. “Someone will come and get you.”
Another point in the plus column of this company: The whole time Lucky had been coming here, he’d always been greeted by the guard and escorted by plant personnel. Couldn’t be too careful these days, even with his SNB badge. Not good to let strangers roam around unsupervised in a plant where most of the products brought a high price on the streets, and death in the wrong hands.
Today’s closeout meeting meant not coming back here for the foreseeable future.
A young man squeaked down the hallway in high-topped black tennis shoes, appearing younger than Todd, wearing red skinny jeans and a white button-down shirt. Sheesh. Some people went too far with business casual.
“Could you come with me, please?” The guy swung a curtain of brown hair from his eyes with a flip of his head.
Were companies recruiting from high schools now? At least the kid was a whole lot politer than Ty, though he appeared nearly the same age.
Lucky trailed behind Bo and Johnson, following their guide down a windowless hallway and into an elevator. They exited on the fourth floor and trailed Mr. Red Jeans into a conference room.
Lucky and Johnson wasted no time getting to the coffee pot, her giving him a playful shoulder shove to get there first. They’d even brewed a pot of decaf for Lucky. Bo snagged a bottle of water from the coffee counter.
Another company. Another suit and tie meeting. He’d lost track of how many. Chastain Pharmaceuticals. One of the few family-owned pharma companies that hadn’t been swallowed up by huge, multinational corporations.
Though, judging by what Lucky found through researching, the place remaining independent wasn’t due to lack of the bigger companies trying.
Give ‘em hell, folks. Give ‘em hell. Score one for the little guys.
The polished, granite-topped table must’ve weighed a ton, and the light blue chair nearly ate him as he sank into plushness. Floor to ceiling windows gave a stunning view of Atlanta and, in the distance, Stone Mountain. The SNB offices offered similar views, and higher off the ground.
Artwork hung from the walls opposite the windows, in a style Bo called Modern Art. Damned ugly dark splotches on canvas if you asked Lucky. He’d seen more fascinating ketchup smears on napkins.
Johnson cleared her throat, pulling Lucky’s attention back to his job. He’d dressed up for this, so they could wait until he was good and ready to get this show on the road.
Two men and three women crowded around one side of the table, big fish in a small pond, warily eying the three barracudas in business suits. Oh, how he’d once gotten off on making people sweat. All he’d have to do was peek at Bo’s iPad, scowl, rake a glare over the company personnel, and they’d likely hyperventilate.
Bo sat beside Lucky. Now there was a guy who looked good in a suit, and not the least bit uncomfortable. He made a damned good sight out of the suit too.
Lucky scratched his leg under the table. Stiff-assed pants. The polished loafers squeezed his feet. Those suckers were due to sail out the car window on his way home.
Hmmm… Wait a minute. The first time Lucky met Bo they’d been on their way to a consultation with a pharmaceutical company. Only, Walter led the meeting that time. More and more Boss shoved Lucky into the limelight.
Walter had to go and mention the one word capable of striking fear into Lucky’s heart: retirement. How was Lucky ever going to manage not to piss off the top brass without Walter around to act as a buffer?
This time, unlike with Regency Pharma all those years ago, Lucky got to deliver good news, not set wheels into motion that wound up throwing folks in prison. Try as he might—and he tried like hell—he’d not found anything noteworthy in his investigation. An employee forgot to sign an invoice, but the misplaced file hadn’t remained missing long.
These folks knew how to run a business, as witnessed by the few individuals in the conference room—the rest were out running the factory, like they should have been.
He used to judge the success of a company by how well the cars parked near the factory entrance matched those near the offices. Here, the workers weren’t driving home in beaters.
Lucky approved. Not that he’d say so.
While they waited for a last-minute straggler, he watched his partner.
Partner. His partner. Bo. Tapping away on an iPad, professional as hell. Maybe they should add to their role playing. If and when their house cleared out enough for a rousing game of Businessman and Delivery Guy.
Johnson stood off to the side, chatting with the CEO, cup of coffee in hand. The man grinned and let out a laugh. Oh, damn. Johnson being flirted with? He’d better intervene before she punched the man’s teeth down his throat.
But wait! Johnson laughed too, throwing back her head. She’d donned a form-fitting suit for this meeting, so different from her SNB uniform or the clubwear she wore undercover. She fit right in with these executives.
So did Bo. Funny, when he’d first met Bo, he’d imagined a spoilt brat who’d grown up with wealthy parents. Nothing could’ve been farther from the truth. As during the long-ago meeting, not a single wrinkle dared muss Bo’s clothes. The fingernails he used to have professionally manicured were by no means jagged, but they’d not been buffed in a salon in a while. Bo also no longer glued his hair in place, letting the soft waves fall naturally. Dark brown hair, without the highlights he used to wear.
He looked so much better like this.
Approachable.
Fuckable.
Loveable.
The fingers clutching a bottle of spring water still bore no wedding ring, damn it, but Bo sure groomed well.
Lucky could still rock his world.
Back then Bo had been “Newbie”, a pain in the ass necessary to getting Lucky out of the SNB’s clutches once and for all.
Yet here Lucky was.
There Bo was.
Tonight, they’d be lying together in wrinkled sheets, the bubble butt Lucky used to only dream about making a pleasant handful against his palms as they…
“Lucky? Lucky!”
How the hell had Johnson snuck up on him?
He’d store the image of a naked Bo for later. “What?”
“It’s time to get started.” She smoothed a hand down her jacket and sat next to Lucky. Bo on one side, Johnson on the other. Why? Tag teaming to keep the resident asshole in check?
Oh. Perfect position to ogle the CEO—who also wasn’t wearing a wedding ring.
What the fuck? “Don’t you have a boyfriend?” Lucky hissed from the side of his mouth. He’d never pass up an opportunity to yank her chain.
Johnson flashed an unapologetic grin and murmured low enough to be heard only by Lucky, “I’m seeing someone at the moment, but I’m not dead by a long shot, and I so enjoy fine art. That man over there? He is fiiiiiine.”
Thank God she wasn’t wearing a wire.
Yeah, the man did have some looks on him, but didn’t hold a candle to Bo.
Bo rose from his chair and addressed the CEO. “Mr. Chastain, could you please show us a few of your standard operating procedures? We’re especially interested in any processes dealing with mixing-room housekeeping and security for controlled substance shipments.”
Chastain nodded at the newcomer in the room, a young lady who reached into a folder lying before her.
She handed a stack of papers to Chastain, who passed them to Bo. She also shared the wealth with Lucky and Johnson. “I believe you’ll find everything in order.”
Lucky dug some papers from the stack. Let Johnson deal with housekeeping, his area of expertise leaning toward security and diversion prevention of shipments.
He poured over his stack of procedures. Whoever’d written them knew what the hell they were doing. Except for a weird spacing problem on one of the pages, he couldn’t find one damned thing wrong.
“Shipments security checks out,” Lucky said, though he’d already consulted DEA and local police reports to confirm no missing product in the past five years.
Bo tapped away at his iPad.
“I have a question.” Johnson glanced up from her reading. “It says here that only approved chemicals are to be used for cleaning. Is there an approved list?”
The woman across from Lucky smiled and produced another document from the deceptively thin folder. How much stuff did she have in there?
Johnson nodded as she read. “Standard list. I see you use mostly green materials.”
“When we can.” The woman beamed. “It’s a pet project of mine.”
“Nice work.”
After perusing a few more documents, and accessing online records, Bo said, “Mr. Chastain. Would you mind excusing us? We need to compare notes.”
“Certainly.” The man rose and ushered his managers from the room. He smiled at Johnson before leaving.
Small. Blond. Handsome. Right up Johnson’s alley.
“So, what you got?” Lucky pushed his papers toward Bo, though the procedures were a last-minute formality. They’d pretty much decided the outcome of this audit days ago.
Bo swept a hand out, indicating the building. “Nothing. This place is squeaky clean. Loretta, have you found anything?”
“Other than the leaky water fountain during our walkthrough, nada. It took maintenance all of five minutes to fix the problem. Lucky?” She swiveled her gaze his way.
“Boss Man won’t let me ding a company down for shitty coffee.” He’d tried. “Many more businesses like this one and we’d be out of a job.” He finished the last drop of the a-lot-less-than-Starbucks-quality-but-still-drinkable brew.
Bo glanced from Lucky to Johnson and back again. “Then I say we get this report printed up and call it a day. Agreed?”
Lucky and Johnson spoke in unison, “Agreed.”
Well, what did you know? Lucky, agreeing with people. Much more of that and he’d lose his sonofabitch reputation.
“I’ll go find Chastain.” Johnson shot out of the room before anyone could stop her. Yeah, he bet she would.
“What’s this thing she’s got for short, blond-haired, blue-eyed men?” Bo asked.
“You’ve got one in your bed, you tell me.” Lucky leered and tried to waggle his brows. Damned things refused to move independently.
“She can’t have mine,” Bo muttered, attention riveted on his iPad. “Though I never quite understood her fascination with Phillip Eustace. At least you and Chastain have some backbone to you. I doubt Phillip’s made a decision on his own in his life.”
The yes man squeaked into the SNB two steps behind O’Donoghue and stood in the man’s shadow ever since. What did Johnson see in the little lapdog?
Lucky observed Bo some more and shifted a bit in his chair to give his rising erection room to grow. Bo, the one who’d talked him into staying with the SNB long after he’d done his time. Who’d gotten him off caffeine, gave him so much to look forward to.
A home. With him. Maybe one day Lucky’d talk him into getting married.
Small tendrils of guilt crept inside his mind. He still hadn’t told Bo about Charlotte offering to carry a kid for them.
The day they’d met Lucky would have run screaming if anyone suggested he’d be happily domesticated.
Now, Bo’d become the best part of life.
He’d open a can of redneck whoop-ass on any bastard who dared try to steal his happiness.
***
Keeping his mouth shut about Walter took every bit of Lucky’s self-control. Grilling outside meant he didn’t have to face Bo with the nephews around. Armed with a spatula, standing guard over grilling chicken—and not-actual-chicken, in Bo’s case—meant he didn’t have to interact. Bo knew him too well. Read him too well.
Avoidance was the only way to keep from spilling his guts.
Todd brought plates and cups to the picnic table. So helpful. The moment he placed his burdens on the table he scratched Moose’s ear and darted toward the house, the dog bounding after him. How had the Lucklighters managed to produce a rule-follower and non-troublemaker?
Speaking of stereotypical Lucklighters…
Lucky glanced into the living room through the sliding glass doors to where Ty sat on the couch, pretending to read a text book while playing a video game on his phone, doing his best to exist in a lame world full of idiots who didn’t understand him.
Lucky shook his head. He loved his nephews, but Ty didn’t make it easy.
Ty perked up when Bo entered the room and, wonder of all wonders, he darted into the kitchen and emerged through the sliding glass doors a few seconds later, loaded down with bowls.
Lucky never felt so out of his element as he had since his sister dropped off her sons. What could he say or do to make things better? Lucky spent his whole life in one house until he left of his own free will, and most of his friends had left the area too.
Ty knew nothing but the same house, same town, since he’d been a few months old when Charlotte had moved to Spokane to escape an abusive asshole.
A hand landed on his shoulder. “How’s the chicken coming along?”
Lucky jumped.
“Sorry, didn’t mean to scare you.” Bo ran his lips along the shell of Lucky’s ear.
Lucky stiffened and searched out his nephews.
“They’re in the house talking to their mom on the phone. Ty’s telling her all about his first day of school,” Bo murmured. “I get you all to myself for a minute.”
Charlotte reporting on selling the house—the house Ty missed—wasn’t likely to improve his mood.
Easier to face down a hopped-up addict than a sulky teenager.
It wasn’t until after dinner, when Lucky hauled the trashcan to the curb for pickup, that he spotted an unfamiliar car parked in the driveway of an empty house, three doors down.
Prickles rose on the back of his neck and a familiar sense of wrongness squirmed in his gut. Years of living on high alert had fined-tuned his survival instincts. The car shouldn’t be there.
No lights shone from the house windows, so not a potential buyer. The neighbors on either side had plenty of parking, so not someone poaching, and getting in the gate required a code.
Hmm… Interesting. As was the glimpse of red hair on the driver.
Oh, hell no.
Lucky dropped the trash can and started down the walkway.
The car started.
Lucky took off hell for leather, but the car squealed tires.
Fucker.
Fuck his damned gimpy-assed leg. Of course, his side had to get a word in. He pressed his hand to his incision site, staving off the screaming protest of the healing scar reminding him he’d recently lost half his liver.
Voices from the kitchen said he had a few minutes alone to catch his breath when he returned to the house. He fired up his work computer, logged into the SNB site, and entered the car’s license plate.
Not found. Damn it!
Though any number of people might have reason to stalk him, no mistaking Rookie Rogers’ flaming hair. The bureau database didn’t show the license number either.
He should tell Bo.
No. No need getting him upset without reason. Besides, he’d try to talk sense, tell Lucky he’d let his imagination run away with him.
Come tomorrow, Lucky planned to get some answers.
Even if he had to beat them out of somebody.