“Yes, sir.” Walter didn’t need to remind Lucky to stay as long as possible. That’s what the SNB did. They rode out
storms.
Lucky barely made it home before Bo showed up, wearing only his helmet, jeans, a T-shirt and boots, the night being far too warm for leather.
“C’mon. Reyes wants us. The shit just hit the fan.”
“I know, and so does Walter.”
Bo gave a curt nod. “Let’s go.” He fired up the bike. Lucky donned his helmet and hopped on.
Lucky clung tighter to Bo than normal all the way to Reyes’ apartment. It might be his last chance for a while.
***
Reyes shouted into a telephone in Spanish. Lucky sat on the man’s ragged couch, catching every third word. Although Victor had owned property in
Mexico, among other places, he’d been of Italian descent. However, he’d occasionally entertained Spanish-speaking guests, and Lucky had
picked up a word here and there. The Spanish he’d learned in prison couldn’t be repeated in polite company. As fast as Reyes blathered,
though, Lucky couldn’t keep up.
Bo stood at alert in his usual spot by the door, but his attention was focused on a newspaper. He turned the pages at too-even intervals to actually be
reading. Reyes didn’t seem to notice.
“Take care of it,” Reyes barked in English before flinging his phone to the loveseat. He turned to Lucky and Bo. “Gentlemen,
it’s late. Take the rest of the evening off and tell the men not come to the garage until I say so. There’s a matter requiring my
complete attention.”
“I’ll take Ricky home,” Bo said, in full Cy mode.
The brief flicker of a smile crossed Reyes’ face. Affection? For Bo? Oh shit. “You do that. Take care of yourself, my
friend.” He shut the door behind them, but before Lucky and Bo were out of hearing range, he’d started yelling again, either to himself
or someone on the phone, Lucky wasn’t sure.
“Come,” Bo said, grabbing Lucky’s arm. “We don’t need to be here right now.”
“Do you know what all that was about?” Lucky double-timed, trying to keep up with Bo’s longer strides.
“Yes. Remember the truck driver I told you about that disappeared? Now he’s back, and Mateo’s accusing him of conspiring with
the cops. The guy was a sneaky little prick, and used more than he sold most days, from what Mateo just said. I picked up a name too. Travis
Eubanks.”
“Wait. You speak Spanish?”
“
Hablo muy poquito Español,
” Bo replied. “Very little, but enough to get by. Now, let Walter know to put a watch on
this Travis guy.”
Damn, but Bo kept pulling out new facets of himself on a near-daily basis. Lucky texted Walter while Bo fished Lucky’s helmet out of his saddle
bags. “C’mon. Let’s get out of here. The further away we are, the better.”
***
Bo led the way to the cabin’s front door, signaling
wait right there
with his hand before disappearing inside.
Lucky discarded his helmet on the front porch. He breathed deeply, drawing in pine and something sweet—honeysuckle, maybe?—while night
critters whirred and chirped. Overhead, a million stars lit the heavens, a reminder of the night when Lucky had huddled on a mountaintop alone, wondering
if he’d ever set eyes on Bo again. Wow. It’d happened in June. A full year ago. Just thinking about that hellish ordeal caused his
chest to constrict and made breathing difficult.
A few moments later, a helmetless Bo skipped down the steps, arms loaded. “Follow me,” he said, “but watch your
step.”
By the light of a nearly full moon and the soft glow of Bo’s flashlight, Lucky followed a trail through the trees. He stepped out into a clearing
and… Damn. The moon reflected off the glassy surface of the Oconee River, if he wasn’t mistaken. He’d been too busy his last
trip out to notice water nearby. Bo set down his burdens and spread a quilt on the ground, plopping down on top. “Come on, get
comfortable,” he said, taking off his boots and tossing them aside.
Lucky eased down on the edge of the quilt to take off his boots, keeping his eyes on Bo’s barely visible form and letting his eyes adjust to the
dark. The click of a pop top sounded twice. Bo handed a can to Lucky. Beer, not wine. So Cyrus and not Bo.
Lucky swigged down a mouthful of some pigswill Bo would never drink. He murmured, “Bo,” to double-check and received no reaction. Yes,
definitely Cyrus then.
They sat in silence for a while, sipping beer. Being close enough to reach out and touch stiffened Lucky’s cock, but if he acted on his impulses,
would he have Bo in his arms or Cyrus Cooper? Was wanting them both wrong?
“What do you want with me?” he asked.
“I want to kick your ass to prove I’m the bigger badass, mostly.” Cy’s grin gleamed in the faint light.
“And another part of me wants to fuck you till neither of us can walk.”
Sounded mighty damned good to Lucky.
Cy murmured, “Ricky” and sealed the deal. Tonight they’d be Cyrus and Ricky, with no SNB to worry about, no case, no
do-we-use-condoms-or-don’t-we. For the next few hours, they were two horny men getting some action. However, Ricky and Lucky weren’t
two distinct people like Bo and Cy. Ricky was merely an earlier incarnation of the current Lucky or, as Bo had said, the man he might have been if not for
Victor’s influence.
Who moved first? Who cared? Cyrus met Lucky midway, and they tumbled to the quilt together. “God, you’re hot,” Cy breathed
against Lucky’s ear. Then he put his tongue to good use, delving into Lucky’s mouth. They wrangled each other out of their clothes,
breaking the kiss long enough to deal with T-shirts and jeans, and came together again like their lives depended on the connection.
Cyrus wound up on top, demanding a place between Lucky’s thighs. Where he wanted, not where Lucky wanted him. A double handful of that round ass
let Lucky thrust and shove from below until their cocks rubbed together. Cy chuckled low in his throat and pinned Lucky down, making him squirm for
position. Relenting, Cy lifted enough to slide one callused hand between them, holding their stiff lengths in his grip. Lucky moaned. Those
weren’t Bo’s soft pharmacist’s fingers; this wasn’t Bo’s tender handling.
The soft scrape of whiskers also didn’t belong to Bo, and they rasped against Lucky’s “been too long since I last
shaved” growth. Lucky pulled away, only to roll a lot farther than he expected when Cyrus disappeared.
Cy made a Bo-shaped silhouette against the sky, with something in his hand. The small shriek of ripping foil warned Lucky to brace for the chilly squish of
latex over his cock. Instead, a slick finger found his hole. How long had it been since Bo had breached him? And it wasn’t Bo touching him now.
Cy wanted in.
“Put this on me,” a gruff voice demanded. In the back of his brain, Lucky complained,
Who the fuck does he think he is?
But he
merely nodded and complied, sliding the condom down Cy’s erection. Hell, yeah, Cy would top. No switching around there. Lucky lay back on the
quilt, legs spread, honing his attention on the fingers working him open.
Cyrus caught Ricky’s face in one hand. “Answer me this, first. Who am I to you? Are you fucking Bo or Cy?” The question was
pure Bo; Cy wouldn’t even ask. Cy’s gesture would be a handful of hair, yanking back.
“I’m fucking whoever the hell you are, ‘cause you’re all the same to me.” And he? Who was he? It was the
truth. It was a joke. “And you can consider yourself
fucking Lucky
.” With that he spread his legs wider and welcomed Cy inside.
The expected, “Are you okay” or “I’m not hurting you, am I?” didn’t come.
Cy fucked like he rode a bike, the master of his own universe. He hit Lucky’s prostate, nothing gentle in his penetration. Work-roughened fingers
wrapped around Lucky’s wrists, pinning them to the ground.
Oh dear Lord, yes!
A moan escaped, followed by a tightening in Lucky’s groin. He wrapped his legs around Cy’s waist for added leverage. Cy plunged into
his body, forceful and passionate. He shoved in once more, twice more, sliding into the confines of Lucky’s ass.
Driven on by need, Lucky bucked up, garbled pleas and barely discernible moans harmonizing with the crickets and whippoorwills. They rocked together in a
whirlwind of lust and barely held tension.
Faster and faster they came together and drew back. Not one for tender kisses, apparently, Cy nipped on all of Lucky’s available skin within
reach. A moment of panic clenched Lucky’s insides. Soon he’d blow while giving himself totally and completely over to another man. But
who? Whose cock filled him now? And who did
that
man think
he
was fucking? Did it matter how many men were inside when they all wore
Bo’s body?
Cy shifted his weight to one hand, freeing the other to grip Lucky’s shaft. So close. So damned fucking close. Lucky’s fingers slipped
and slid off Cy’s sweat-slickened biceps. Cy’s cry of completion carried out over the water.
He’s coming. Inside me.
Fire shot through Lucky straight to his groin. Whoever he is. Whoever I am.
Oh dear Lord in heaven.
Cy’s plunging faltered and Lucky added a hand to his cock, speeding up the stroking. He stiffened and cried out. Cy buckled a moment later,
falling on top of Lucky and sucking in mouthfuls of air. When Lucky would have squirmed out from underneath, Cy’s brought his arms up around him,
holding him in place. “I love you, whether you’re Ricky or Lucky.”
I don’t know why you do, but please don’t ever stop
came out as, “Love you, too, whoever you are.” Bo loved him. No matter what he’d done, where he’d been, or how
badly he fucked up on occasion, Bo still loved him. Lucky didn’t deserve the love, could never be good enough to deserve it, but he’d
try like hell to come close, because without that love? Without Bo? Well, he simply didn’t want to dwell on such.
And then it occurred to him.
I’m Simon Harrison, and I can make Simon into anyone I want him to be. If I fuck this up I really will kick my own ass.
***
Lucky shifted in Bo’s embrace, wrapping the quilt tighter around them. The unmistakable thundering of a Harley echoed through their valley from
the main road. Goose flesh formed on Lucky’s arms. Damn, but he loved the purr of a big bike. Someday. Someday. Him and Bo and the open road. Bo
dreamed of backpacking the Appalachian Trail. Lucky dreamed of cruising to Spokane, Bo nestled against his back. “Are you ready to tell me about
your strange phone call the other night?”
Bo sighed. “Yes, but I have to do it as Cyrus.”
Not good. “Whatever works.”
Hauling himself upright and stretching his legs out on the blanket, Bo drew an aura about himself, sitting up straighter, shoulders back, donning the
mantle of dead drug dealer Cyrus Cooper. “Reyes runs a tight ship,” he said in the distinct, gravelly growl that meant Cy.
“And?”
“Someone stepped out of line. Some of the guys got to comparing notes, figuring out who made more money. You remember a skinny kid named
Demarcus?”
“Not really.”
“Wore a red bandana and drove a Sportster.”
A face came to mind, seven kinds of ugly and missing a few prominent teeth. “Oh, yeah. Toothless.”
“He has a name, Ricky: Demarcus Sutton.”
Ricky, not Lucky. Damn, Bo dug down deep for this confession.
“Now that you mention it, I haven’t seen him around lately.”
“You won’t.”
Lucky’s hackles rose. “Why not?”
For a fraction of a second, Bo peered out of Cyrus’s eyes, their brown depths glistening. Cyrus blinked rapidly a few times. “Like I
said, a few guys got together and started making demands. They sent Demarcus to the garage as their spokesman. You were in Texas at the time.”
Oh shit. “Please tell me you didn’t kill him.” Walter might defend his men from a multitude of sins, but murder
wasn’t one of them.
“I… I never touched him. Not directly. I watched the door while Mateo took a tire tool to him.”
“It killed you not to interfere, didn’t it?”
The man across from him swallowed hard. “No. And that’s what bothers me. As Cyrus, I felt the guy deserved what he got, and I
wouldn’t have helped him even if I could.”
No way Bo could disassociate his compassion to such a degree. “To stick your neck out wouldn’t have helped either of you, and would
have compromised your position.”
“Yes.”
Damn, Lucky’d never considered such a possibility. “Are you all right?”
“Not really.” Cy shrugged. “But what can I do? I’m two different men, and the stronger is taking over the
weaker.”
A comment best filed away and saved for the experts. Man, but Lucky wished he’d studied psychology. “Is the guy still alive?”
“Probably wishes he wasn’t, but he’ll live. If he’s capable, he’d make a good witness in our case against
Reyes, but it might take a while for him to recover.”
“Understood.”
“Lucky?”
“Yes?” Good, “Lucky” meant he hadn’t lost Bo completely.
“Jerry was there too. Mateo made him watch. I could tell he didn’t want to, but he’s under Mateo’s sway. In the end
when Demarcus lay bleeding, Mateo ordered Jerry to kick the guy a few times.” Cy squinted his eyes shut, as though trying to block the unpleasant
image. “I didn’t like the look in his eyes when he finished. I want Jerry out of this before Mateo turns him into another version of
himself. He thinks it’s a game, watching the boy trying to win the affection and respect of the guys. They tease him, tell him they’ll
give him colors one day if he does what they say. They won’t. They laugh at him behind his back. Which is why I protect him. I want him
out.” Even as hard-assed Cy, Bo took care of the people he’d claimed.
But untangling Jerry from the web might cost them their case. “Thanks for telling me.”
“Don’t mention it again, please. I’m not dealing well.”
No, he wasn’t, and Lucky saw a few extra counseling sessions in Bo’s future. But he’d done good. He’d endured, and
he hadn’t blown his cover. “I’m proud of you.”
“I’m glad, ‘cause I’m not too proud of myself right now.”
“Why?”
“I hurt a man, or rather, stood by and let one get hurt.”