by Eden Winters
DECISION
Diversion Book 8
Eden Winters
Warning
This book contains adult language and themes, including graphic descriptions of sexual acts which some may find offensive. It is intended for mature readers only, of legal age to possess such material in their area.
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual people, places, or events is purely coincidental.
Decision © 2020 by Eden Winters
Cover Art by L.C. Chase
Edited by P.D. Singer
Design layout by P.D. Singer
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced without written permission of the author, except as brief quotations as in the case of reviews.
Published 2020 by:
Rocky Ridge Books
PO Box 6922
Broomfield, CO 80021
www.RockyRidgeBooks.com
Many thanks to P.D. Singer, T.D. O’Malley, Feliz Faber, and D.H. Starr for critique and support, and to readers, who tell me they can’t get enough Bo and Lucky. This one’s for you.
Chapter One
Lucky was getting too old for this shit.
Keeping his mouth shut, he waited in the shadows, where he’d spent much of his life. Georgia’s biggest idiot, dressed in a Crimson Tide T-shirt and artfully ripped blue jeans, cradled a Sig Sauer to his chest and slunk to the mouth of the alley. The stink of piss, rotting vegetables, and other things to avoid dwelling on before lunch permeated the air.
If Dumbass over there paid as much attention to his location as he did his designer jeans and costly tennis shoes, he might survive training.
Maybe.
Four doors opened onto the alley, and two heavy-duty industrial dumpsters obscured Lucky’s view of anything beyond a few feet. The perfect place for an ambush. In this neglected area of Atlanta, sure as hell, anyone lurking in the dark depths wouldn’t be selling Girl Scout cookies.
Each of the guy’s heavy footfalls grated on Lucky’s nerves. Without pausing to check his surroundings first, the guy charged into the alley. The fucking idiot!
A frustrated growl burned at the back of Lucky’s throat. Not letting it out. Nope, nope, nope. Oh, hell. He shouted, “Stop!” Time to save the total moron from himself.
And wrestle the moron’s gun away from his face. Lack of bullets made the situation safer, but Lucky never underestimated the power of stupid.
Even years spent trafficking drugs shouldn’t have earned him this kind of redemption hell. “Mr. Riley.” Lucky clenched his teeth to keep from yelling. Earning a “needs to curb asshole tendencies” on a department assessment still stung. Okay, his words, not Walter’s, but whatever. It wasn’t like he’d called anyone a worthless, incompetent asshole.
Lately.
“Can you tell me what you did wrong?” Other than thinking drug enforcement might be a suitable career.
He tried hard not to wrinkle his nose at the foul stench wafting from the alley and whatever the big, green dumpster held. Not to mention the paint thinner Riley used as cologne.
Riley stayed silent, not even bothering to blush.
Lucky spun to face the other six far-too-young recruits tagging along behind him like a pack of puppies—and equally uncontrollable. The Southeastern Narcotics Bureau wasn’t scoring the pick of the crop these days, applicant-wise.
A young woman with braces raised her hand. “He went into a situation without backup?”
Really? Lucky fought the urge to slap his palm against his face. “Is that a question or your answer?”
She flushed the shade of red Riley should be. “Both. I think.”
“Don’t answer unless you have an answer. Anybody else?”
James “Jimmy” Salters, the oldest trainee ever, stepped forward, ticking off points on his fingers. “He’s not wearing a vest. He didn’t wait for backup. He walked into a blind alley, pointed a gun at his instructor…”
Why did Salters from Virginia have to be the smartest trainee in class? He’d annoyed the hell out of Lucky when he’d posed as a nurse during Lucky’s hospitalization. Back when Lucky donated part of his liver to dear old Dad. Now he dogged Lucky’s heels.
Then again, he’d pretty much stalked Lucky at the hospital too.
The asshat wanted to date Lucky’s sister? No way, no how.
Lucky checked the time on his phone. Two more hours—if he survived. Atlanta must’ve known he’d be outside with trainees today, and offered up the suckiest weather available. Frigid moisture misted his face, and he shivered in the black leather motorcycle jacket his partner had given him for his birthday.
Birthdays. Bah. Highly overrated. Wait! What the fuck was today?
Ah, hell. Another one. Nope. Not thinking about turning a year older now.
Not when his trainees might take him out by quitting time.
He’d worn his uniform of choice for the occasion: Boots, jeans, black leather jacket, faded Guns N’ Roses T-shirt and Ray-Bans in his pocket, should a dismal as hell March decide to offer up some sunshine for a change. “Who wants to try next?”
Three of his students took a collective step backward, while one stepped forward. Death Wish Salters. Lucky should have known. He waved a hand towards the alley.
Salters grinned, unzipped his jacket and...
Da fuck? “Did you just flash me?”
Grin widening, without the faintest hint of apology, Salters turned, showing the whole class what lay beneath the Southeastern Narcotics Bureau-issued jacket. “What? I’m just showing you my vest.”
Sure enough, the guy wore a bulletproof vest over his T-Shirt,
All traces of smart-assery faded, replaced by grim determination. “You’re my backup.” Salters nodded to the second least hopeless of the crew, and also the most trigger-happy.
With a nod of her own, Robinson— a deceptively petite blonde—took up position, casting a gaze at Lucky for approval. Lucky gave none. She needed to trust her own instincts in the field. She’d tested well, outscored half the department, rookie or veteran, on the firing range, and truckers bowed in awe at the colorful insults she hurled at the least provocation.
Gun in a double-handed grip against his chest, Salters bounced from one doorway to another. He paused long enough to take a lay of the land and let the trainee-most-likely-to-take-someone-out-due-to-road-rage get into a supporting position before darting to the next door. Yeah, well he should do better than the others, since he’d already put in time with the SNB, just without formal training, and without training from a former trafficker turned drug agent.
Or on the streets of Atlanta rather than the mostly civil confines of a hospital.
Lucky’s cell phone chimed and a quick glance showed a smiley face from Johnson. Robinson and Salters completed the course, then. They returned to the group, more than a bit smug, and fist bumped each other.
Lucky huffed. The truth hurt sometimes. “Good, Mr. Salters. You and your partner might live to take on another case.” He dared not call the woman “Road Rage Robinson” to her face, a name her fellow recruits hung on her long before Lucky got the opportunity.
Though the jury hadn’t reached a verdict on Lucky’s chances of coming out of this training exercise alive. Who the hell considered him training newbies a good thing?
Oh, right. Walter. Boss man.
Lucky sent his next charge down the alley toward the end where their fictitious drug dealer doled out cellophane bags full of powdered sugar, most likely glowering at actual dealers wandering by until they tucked tail and ran.
The smart ones, anyway.
Johnson might’ve died of boredom by now since none of the trainees had reached her yet except Robinson and Salt
ers, and they’d returned too quickly to have even started a conversation.
She could always use the idle time to paint her fingernails—or bench press a nearby Mazda.
The next contestant charged straight down the alley. Had they not watched Jimmy at all?
“Wrong!” Lucky yelled. Damn it! Why didn’t they pay attention? “The sniper just picked you off.”
If they’d been on the street for real, Lucky would have returned to the office with at least four body bags, and a lot of explaining to do.
While the class looked for imaginary bad guys, Lucky kept constant watch for a real one. He’d cost former DEA flunky Owen Landry one hell of a good-paying job, and sent quite a few pharmaceutical executives to prison.
He hadn’t won any friends in the pharma trade with his latest case.
Not to mention a few additional folks, and an embarrassment from the Southeastern Narcotics Bureau itself. The SNB sure couldn’t pick ‘em anymore. Two former criminals—well, Lucky and a guy who wasn’t really a criminal, just got caught up in something wrong—on their payroll, and the college-educated IT geek was the one to traipse down the wrong path.
Every time Lucky left the house, he watched over his shoulder. Sooner or later, he’d have hell to pay.
Chapter Two
“What do you say? Put in a good word for me?” Salters followed Lucky across the parking lot under the SNB’s building. His long legs took away the option of outrunning him.
“You are not dating my sister,” Lucky growled for possibly the millionth time since Salters had transferred from the Virginia office. Of all the trainees, Salters alone had any experience with drug enforcement. He also held a nursing degree. Lucky should say okay and let Charlotte discourage him once and for all.
But what if she said yes?
“Why not? I have a job, a car, am in the process of buying a house, don’t have any embarrassing tattoos, and no prison record. What more can you ask in a good ole Southern boy?”
What, indeed. Charlotte’s ex-husband had the last two options without benefit of the first two. When in doubt, Lucky used his father’s tried and true, fits all occasions, “Because I said so.”
Jimmy beat Lucky to the elevator and barred the way. “Oh, come on, man.”
“Have you ever been to a boxing ring?”
Jimmy scrunched his brow. “No, why?”
Oh, yeah, ripe for Lucky’s lesson number one for new hires: He could kick their butts. “My sister can make up her own mind who she dates.” And she wouldn’t choose Jimmy. No way, no how.
Especially since Lucky had no intention of telling her about Salters’ infatuation.
“Then invite me over. Or better yet, give me her phone number and I’ll take care of the rest.”
Persistent cuss. Lucky stepped on the elevator with Jimmy, punched the button for the sixth floor, and stepped off. He grinned and waved as the door slid shut.
Whew. Laughter cut his reprieve short, the other trainees catching up to him. The moment the door slid open, he jumped on the elevator and forced the door closed. Would this day never end?
***
Lucky managed to crawl out of his Camaro on the third try and made his way halfway up the sidewalk. Damn. He turned back to the car for his computer bag. He really was getting too old for this shit, and no cars in the yard and a quiet house didn’t mean he wasn’t about to get dragged into more. Might as well check the mail too.
Bill, bill, bill. No card from his sister, since she now lived with him.
He stared at the house with longing. How he’d love to creep into his bedroom, take a hot shower, get a massage from Bo, have all the sex he could manage while being bone-weary tired, and fall into bed for a nice, long sleep.
From which he didn’t really care at the moment if he woke.
The best and worst things going for him these days were the people who loved him. Great to have someone watching his back, but they did god-awful things sometimes to show their love.
Like…
Lucky braced himself and unlocked the front door. Sometimes he regretted installing the doorbell camera—they could see his every move.
Slowly, slowly he opened the door.
“Surprise!”
Holy Fuck! He staggered back against the table by the door. How did this damned many people fit in his living room?
“Happy Birthday!”
Oh, God. They’d remembered.
Bo grinned, complete with the dimple Lucky loved far too much, and came at him, mouth first. Lucky struggled a moment and relaxed. Nobody here better give a happy damn if he kissed his man in his own house.
A party. Which meant at least two hours of pretending he liked people. Well, he liked most of these.
Bo winked and gave him another kiss. “I’m saving my gift for later.” Whoa! Was that a bit of scruff on his face? Lucky liked the rugged look. Of course, Bo looked good shaven, unshaven, in a suit, in biker leathers…
In nothing at all.
But “later”? Maybe Lucky could learn to tolerate birthdays, even if bacon didn’t seem to be involved this year.
“Happy Birthday, brother!” Charlotte grinned at him from the kitchen door. “There’s cake!”
There damned well better be for Lucky suffering this indignity.
“And presents,” his nephew chimed in. At sixteen, Ty wasn’t old enough for birthdays to make him feel ancient.
Thirty-nine. Thirty-nine fucking years old. Way too close to forty.
Too fucking old. He gave the room a quick once-over and let out a breath. Not a trainee in sight, in particular, no Jimmy.
Good.
“Happy Birthday, Lucky,” Walter Smith called from the couch. The mountain of a man pushing seventy probably saw thirty-nine as young.
Someone grabbing his bag and others shoving him farther into the house meant he didn’t have to speak yet. They herded him toward the reclining chair and handed him a paper-wrapped box.
“That’s from me and Rone.” Lucky’s work partner beamed, nails bright purple when they’d been pink that morning. Yup. She’d found a way to kill time while waiting to play drug dealer for the rookies.
Two big eyes peered out from behind her. Another five years and her son might stop hiding from him. Then again, Lucky wasn’t known to be kid-friendly, or anyone-else-friendly, for that matter.
A sea of smiling faces crowded around him: Bo, Charlotte, Rett, Walter, Receptionist Lisa from work, his nephew Ty, along with his pretty young girlfriend who couldn’t possibly be the office asshole’s biological daughter.
He ripped open the paper. Lucky smiled. Bo’s smile fell and he arched a brow at Rett. She shrugged, palms out. “Hey, Rone picked it out.”
On Lucky’s lap lay the biggest pack of Oreo cookies he’d ever seen. “Costco,” she stage-whispered behind her hand.
More gifts like hers might have Lucky rethinking the whole birthday thing. Hmm… He’d have to find a place to hide them. Health-freak Bo had already ferreted out Lucky’s other stashes.
“Open mine next!” Charlotte shoved a card under his nose. Every year she’d always timed a card to arrive on his birthday, or close to it in the case of his birthday falling on Sunday. He opened the card. A gift certificate fell out. Couples massage?
Oh, man. She shouldn’t have given her gift this early in the party. How was he going to get through the next few hours with images of a naked Bo stretched out on a massage table filling his mind?
She bent down and whispered, “I’m sorry I couldn’t give you what I really wanted to this year.”
Bo wrapped her in a one-armed hug and squeezed. Bo and Charlotte, the only two people besides Lucky who understood her dejected tone.
The object of Lucky’s fantasy had one free arm left to elbow Lucky. Oh. Yeah. “Thanks, Charlotte. Thanks, Rett and Rone.” Rone stuck a hand out from behind his mother and waved. Ah, the kid was finally warming up to him.
“Mrs. Griggs couldn’t make it, but she sent a gift.”
Lucky opened the box Charlotte handed him. Homemade cupcakes and a cookbook. Just because he’d enlisted her help to cook Bo a traditional Christmas dinner didn’t mean he planned to run Charlotte and Bo out of their shared domain permanently. Somebody had to sit on the couch and keep Ty company while they fixed supper, right?
Ty’s gift turned out to be a new Bob Seger T-shirt, since Lucky had recently lost his original one. “Thanks, Ty.” His nephew had gone from hating Lucky to buying him nice gifts. Lucky’s eyes stung and he gave a sniff. “Allergies,” he said as explanation.
“You don’t have allergies.” Trust Bo to remind him.
“I was going to get you a shirt that said, “I’m a bad-assed mother—” Charlotte’s glare cut Ty off.
“Hey, Uncle R… Lucky!” Todd emerged from behind the crowd.
“Todd! What are you doing here?” Since leaving for college, Todd hardly ever visited.
The kid grinned. “What’s a few cut classes when I get to see my favorite uncle? Check your email. I got you some music credits.” Todd narrowed his eyes. “But don’t download Achy Breaky Heart or Uncle Bo will kill me.”
Lisa gave him a leather-bound organizer, like he’d be organized enough to keep one. “Look inside,” she said. “Your sister helped me.”
Page after page contained work meetings, family and friend’s birthdays, and things like “National Potato Day” and “Chicken Dance Day”. The moment Lisa turned her head he handed the thing to Bo. Who needed a leather organizer? His came in human form.
A mighty fine human form too.
The next package contained books on training techniques. Lucky shifted his gaze to the boss.
“Look inside,” Walter mouthed.
Uh-oh, this could be bad. He opened the top book to find a sheet of paper, and he scanned the print. Oh. Wow. His throat clogged. Might be from his swelling heart. Damned non-existent allergies! He turned the paper to show Bo.
“Thanks, Walter,” Bo murmured, since words stuck in Lucky’s throat.
The boss’s gift consisted of vouchers for two weeks at the river cabin where Bo had lived during their assignment in Athens, Georgia. One of Lucky’s favorite places, away from traffic, away from people, just him and Bo and the great outdoors.