He watched the intensity on Bo’s face gradually change into rapture. Eyes closed, sooty lashes swept his cheeks. The cords in his neck stood out.
“Oh God, oh God,” he chanted, splashing warmth on Lucky’s belly. His fingers dug into Lucky’s biceps and he panted,
uttering “uhs” and “ohs” and “Oh my God, Lucky”.
The rhythmic squeezing of Bo’s internal muscles hurried Lucky along
.
Bo’s pleas from the alley penetrated his lust-filled fog.
What would it be like to fill the man’s body with nothing in between? Oh hell. Nothing between. His come filling Bo’s body in
the most intimate way.
Shockwaves raced through Lucky, and he plunged over the edge with Bo’s name on his tongue.
***
“Here.” Bo handed Lucky a square silver box neatly tied with glittering ribbon, then dropped his hand to Cat Lucky’s head for
a quick scratch. The foil wrapping paper wasn’t torn or taped over. “It’s not much, but I hope you like it.”
A present. Bo’d gotten Lucky a present. Shaking didn’t produce a rattle. Not big enough to be another dragon statue, though the last
one Bo’d presented had kind of grown on Lucky. It made one hell of a paperweight.
Taking care to preserve the paper like his mother, the ultimate re-user, would have, Lucky peeled up the tape and slid a box out of the wrapping. The lid
snapped open to reveal a watch far nicer than any Lucky’d owned since the Feds took the Rolex he’d gotten from Victor. “Wow!
Thanks,” he said, allowing Bo to help him put it on.
“It’s an Eco-drive,” Bo explained while tightening the band. “It’s powered by light and never needs a
battery.” Bo’s fingers lingered on Lucky’s wrist a moment, tracing the pattern of an old scar.
Lucky raised his arm toward his nose for a better look. Sweet. No scratched crystal, and the timepiece looked like something worth owning, unlike the
shoddy ten-dollar model he’d left lying on a rock somewhere in North Carolina during an unplanned, one-legged hiking trip. He wrapped his arms
around Bo, both in thanks and memory of being without him last spring in the mountains, thinking he’d soon bite the big one.
Don’t go there. You’re here now. He’s here now. Stop thinking so damned much.
“Now for my gift,” Lucky said, rising from the couch to retrieve the poorly wrapped package from beneath the Christmas cactus. He took
a deep breath. “I hope you like it.”
Unlike Lucky, Bo ripped open his gift with reckless abandon. His mouth fell open. “I… um… Am I allowed to have
this?” He stared at the box holding a .38.
Oh wait. Was he anti-handgun? “I talked it over with boss man. Your circumstances are different from mine. You only got probation, you
weren’t convicted. Given your assignment, we both thought it best if you took your own piece with you.” He’d never forget the
day he’d found a package containing a .38 on his desk, undoubtedly from Walter. Right now his sidearm occupied an evidence bag somewhere in
Canada, while he used a department loaner. Damn, but he missed his gun.
The cold metal shimmered when Bo lifted the weapon from the box. It’d taken weeks of Internet research to select the right one; Lucky’d
even turned a blind eye to price. Bo deserved the best. “I’ve no idea what to say.”
Not good. Not good at all. “Don’t you like it?”
“Like it? I love it. You got me the perfect gift. Thank you.” He wrapped Lucky in a one-armed hug while hefting the gun with his free
hand.
“Know how to shoot?”
Bo gave Lucky an “Oh, please!” scowl. “I’m an Arkansas country boy. Of course I know how to shoot. My aunt taught
me.”
Lucky wondered if the aunt who’d gotten custody of Bo after the courts took him from his daddy taught him to shoot in case her brother came back.
Providing Bo with the means to take care of himself earned her points in Lucky’s book.
Their gazes met, and for a moment neither spoke. Bo broke the silence. “I’m scared, Lucky. I’ve never done anything like this
before, and you won’t be there to catch me when I fall.”
“You won’t fall. Besides, you’ll have Art.” While Lucky would rather have the honor of watching Bo’s
back, if Lucky had to choose anyone besides himself, Walter or Art topped the list.
“What happens if I’m made?”
Don’t think about that.
A vision sprung to his mind of Bo surrounded by pistol-wielding desperados. “You won’t be.”
‘Cause you can’t let that happen.
“Get a good cover story, stick to it, and if questioned, get mad.”
Be safe. Watch your back. Come back to me.
“Works for you, doesn’t it?”
Bo offered up a tired smile.
Lucky’d seen more sincere smiles on the faces of used car salesmen. “Yeah, it does. Be the meanest motherfucker around and no one will
dare mess with you.”
Lucky placed the paper, boxes, and gun aside to distract Bo the best way he knew how. No way in hell did he want to dwell on what might happen without him
around to watch out for his partner. He might not be ready to settle down in the house with the picket fence, but damn it, Bo was his, and nobody messed
with Lucky’s man.
He lifted a nearly empty wine glass, dribbled burgundy droplets across Bo’s lap, and collected the sweet moisture with his tongue. They finished
off both glasses from each other’s skin.
***
The next morning over breakfast Bo asked, “Lucky? Did you know there’s a tree lying in your backyard?”
Chapter 11
“Cyrus!” Lucky shouted from across the living room.
Bo spun around without the least hesitation, nearly dislodging the cat on his lap. “Yes?”
“Good.” First test passed. “Now tell me, when were you born?”
“September twenty-third.”
Lucky raised his brows.
“Jameson says we’re to stick to the truth as much as possible. Easier to remember. Cyrus Cooper and I have the same birthday, even if
he’s four years younger than me.”
Made sense. “What’s your background?”
“I grew up in Arkansas, got locked in juvie for six months my senior year for vandalism.”
Oh, now Bo being in juvenile lockup skated the edges of credibility. “Can you give details of the detention center?” Lucky would have
liked to say more, hiding his fears behind his usual snark. But Bo’s life depended on him being a believable Cyrus Cooper.
A rueful laugh answered him. “Sure can. My roommate’s name was Archie. Can you believe it? He’d gotten in trouble for
shoplifting.” Bo’s placed a finger on his chin, giving him a thoughtful expression. “I took auto mechanics there under a
teacher named Lewis, who owned a 1977 Harley Davidson Super Glide. He used to bring the bike into the classroom, which is how I got interested in working
on motorcycles.”
Lucky observed closely, but Bo didn’t show any of the telltale signs of lying. No stumbling over his story, no accidental body language.
“Where’d you get the information?” Whatever lies he told, he’d have to be able to back up.
Bo’s smile fell. “Firsthand. My dad waited outside of the school and talked shit to my brother one day after we’d moved in
with my aunt. I found out where the asshole stayed and took a baseball bat with me to have a chat.” He shrugged. “You know how it is to
be young and pissed off. Consequences are the last thing on your mind.”
“What did you do?” Mild-mannered Bo played vigilante?
“I busted the windshield out of his car.” Bo stared at his fingers, slowly tracing the black and white pattern on Cat Lucky’s
head. Without the cat, no doubt those fingers would be twisted together in his lap.
“Why on earth did you bust up his car?”
Raising his head, Bo issued a full on challenge with nothing more than a scorching glare. “I aimed for
him
and missed. Still,
it’s easy to stretch the truth, say I got locked up for gang activity if it’ll win Reyes over.”
Oh. The death glare said
we ain’t talking about this now
. Time to move on to the next question. “You ride a bike.
How’d you learn?”
“I picked up the basics from my teacher. Then my aunt’s boyfriend had an old Sportster that didn’t run. When I got out of
juvie, he told me it was mine if I got it running, so I got it running.” Pride chased back the storm clouds on Bo’s face.
“What happened to it?”
“I gave the bike to my brother when I left for boot camp.”
They grew quiet, Bo petting the cat, Lucky staring unseeing at the notes they’d created to quiz Bo, and Cat Lucky churning out contented feline
noises. Lucky posed a question not on the list, hoping to lighten the mood. “I’ve been meaning to ask you something.”
“Fire away.”
“You’re vegetarian, yet you wear leather chaps. Won’t they throw you out of the vegetarian guild for wearing animal
skin?”
“If I go down while riding, nothing’s gonna save my sorry hide better than leather. If given a choice between my skin
and—”
“Good choice.”
“Besides,” Bo’s half smile grew into a grin, “someone gave me this cool set of chaps and totally gets off on me
wearing them.”
Oh yeah. Now’s he’s talking.
“Have you ever turned too fast and knocked something over with that bubble butt of yours?” Lucky added a leer for good measure.
“Yeah, actually I have. But I haven’t heard you complain.”
“And you never will.” Lucky waggled his brows. “I have an idea. Why don’t we strip down and play questions and
answers in the nude.”
“If we do that, we’ll never get anything done.”
“Yes, we will.”
“No, we won’t.”
“Prove me wrong.”
Bo stripped. They resumed their question and answer session two hours later, somewhat worse for the wear.
***
“Got your gun?”
Be careful out there.
“Yes, Lucky,” Bo huffed, giving his luggage a final inspection. No fancy Pullman case this time, just a ratty old duffle.
“Leaving behind all traces of your real identity?”
I know it’s against policy, but if you need me, call. I’ll be right there.
Lucky peered into the bag. Sure was a lot of black in
there. Of course, Bo’s black Harley shirt and scuffed boots matched the color scheme. The man made one fine biker.
“Yes, Lucky.” Bo opened his wallet to display Cyrus Cooper’s driver’s license.
What could he have possibly forgotten? “Got plenty of trackers?”
“Yes, Lucky.”
“Got the address?”
“Lucky?”
“Yes?”
“I’m a big boy. I can take care of myself.” Bo took the sting out of the words with a kiss. “I have to go now.
I’ll call you if and when I can.”
Lucky stood his ground for a long moment. Long enough to earn another pulse-pounding kiss.
“I’ll miss you, Lucky. Take care of the cat while I’m gone, and the cactus, okay?” Bo grazed his lips against
Lucky’s ear. “And take care of yourself.”
Though they’d both said the words before, they didn’t yet trip easily from Lucky’s tongue. “You too,”
would have to do. Bo didn’t push for more
When Lucky didn’t move, Bo stepped around him to get out the door. His footsteps stomped across the porch and down the stairs. “Bye,
Mrs. Griggs,” he heard Bo call to the landlady, doubtlessly sitting on her front porch.
Bo’s truck’s engine rumbled to life, the growl growing fainter while Lucky’s heartbeat thudded faster.
Oh shit! I know what he forgot. He forgot to take me!
***
Lucky sat on the couch, staring at the reminder of the night he’d celebrated Christmas early with Bo. Fallen blooms littered the floor under the
cactus. Maybe watering might help, if Lucky could summon the energy for a trip to the kitchen sink. Too bad he couldn’t teach the damned cat to
do chores, but the critter barely answered when called.
A turkey club sat uneaten on the coffee table, and Lucky raised his wine bottle in a toast. “Here’s to you, William Patrick
Schollenberger the third. Merry Christmas, wherever the fuck you are.”
He wrapped Charlotte’s homemade afghan tighter around himself to ward off a chill.
Must be coming down with something.
She’d
done a better job this year, for none of the stitches had come unraveled yet. Who’d a thunk it? The woman he used to call Suzy Lumberjack for her
lack of domestic skills had taken up knitting at the advice of her therapist for stress relief. With two teenaged boys and a job at a hospital, he imagined
she built up a lot of stress to work off.
His phone sat next to his uneaten dinner. How he’d love to call, wish her and the boys a merry Christmas, but no telling where she was right now,
and the boys believed him dead. He sighed and swilled another mouthful of wine. Bo would have a fit if he saw Lucky now, chugging from a bottle and fast
approaching the “one too many” point. Christmas Eve and all alone. Rain pounded a steady beat against the windows, adding to his gloomy
mood. He could turn on the TV. Or maybe call up a favorite playlist on his iPod. Both required motion, and the bundle of black and white fur on his lap
didn’t seem to want to move.
Back on the farm, Mama probably had a ham in the oven, slow-cooking through the night, and she’d be up early to candy sweet potatoes, bake pies,
and make green bean casserole. His mouth watered, and he glared at the poor substitute for a feast sitting on the coffee table. Maybe he’d feed
the turkey to Cat Lucky later.
Tomorrow the family, except Lucky, who was presumed dead, and Charlotte, still hiding out from her ex’s family in Spokane, would gather around
the table in the old farmhouse Lucky’d grown up in. Mama and Daddy, Grandma and Grandpa Lucklighter, Dover, his wife and daughter, Bristol and
whoever he decided to date this week, and Daytona. Had Daytona ever gotten over his drug habit, and if so, had he finished college and found a girlfriend?
Of all the family, Daytona came closest to joining Lucky in black sheep-hood.
The next swallow of wine tried to go down the wrong way. No sense dwelling on his folks. Even before he’d been reported dead, they’d
had enough of his lawless ways and disowned him.
Cat Lucky hopped down and strolled to the front door. “Merrroow?”
“Hell, I’m such bad company even you can’t stand me tonight.” Lucky opened the door and the cat streaked out into
the chilly night, his tail high.