Reunion: Diversion Six

by Eden Winters

  “He still in therapy?”

  If Lucky gripped the steering wheel any tighter it would have bent. “Last I heard. Not sure how that works with him on assignment.”

  Johnson patted him again. “Trust him, okay?”

  Lucky snorted. “I’m the one shouldn’t be trusted, remember?”

  The air grew ten degrees colder. “You’re sitting here talking about a man who won’t forgive himself, and you bring up your own past? It’s gone. For both of you. You see yourselves as you used to be. No one else does.”

  “Maybe not you.” Asshole Keith never let Lucky forget about starting with the SNB as a felon working off a ten-year sentence. Or being a drug lord’s plaything. What a difference time made. Back then Lucky lived his life unapologetically lawless, cruising for the next thrill. Now he watched his back every moment for the past to creep up on him.

  Thirty-eight years old, almost a third of that time spent with the bureau, equaled one hundred and dead in dealer years. A combination of sheer dumb luck and stubbornness kept him alive this long. The time would soon come for him to hang up the badge.

  And do what? His life didn’t suit him for many other jobs. He used to dream of driving a cross-country rig. Now, every moment away from Bo tore at his soul. Bo could always join him on the road.

  No, since fulfilling his probation obligations in service to the SNB, Bo worked his ass off to prove himself, to be more than a waste of skin like his dad.

  “Lucky, the light’s green,” Johnson said, pulling him out of his musings at the exact moment a horn blasted behind him.

  Uh-oh. Better watch out. In his line of work, distracted could mean an obituary on the bureau’s memorial page. What if he went to work one morning and never came home? Or for that matter, if Bo never came home?

  His chest ached. He couldn’t lose Bo. Life wouldn’t be worth living.

  “Whatever weird shit you’ve got going on in that brain of yours needs to stop.” Johnson clutched Lucky’s shoulder, one of the few people who didn’t get growled at for touching him. “Pull over.”

  Lucky wasn’t prone to following other people’s orders, but he pulled into the parking lot of an all-night grocery store and faced his passenger. “What?”

  Her eyes glimmered in the low light. “What’s eating you?”

  “Nothing.”

  He attempted to pull his arm away, but she tightened her grip. “You know, whatever it is, you can tell me, right?”

  Yes, he did. Loretta Johnson might be a coworker, he might currently be her boss, but she’d become the closest thing to a friend he’d made in years. “I’m letting my age get to me,” he said.

  “Happens to us all. Let me guess, you’re wondering what will happen if you go to work one day and never come home.”

  “How’d you know?”

  Johnson gave him a weak smile. “I do the same thing every birthday. And I promise myself by my next birthday I’ll have made changes, gotten myself a less dangerous job. But every time I seriously consider doing something else, I remember what would happen if people like us suddenly stopped doing what we do.”

  She released his shoulder. “For what it’s worth, you’re one of the good ones. I’ve been around good cops, mediocre cops, bad cops.” After a moment’s pause, she murmured, “I’ve even sent a few to prison.”

  No need for her to name names. “It wasn’t easy sending your child’s father to prison, was it?”

  “Was it easy for you to testify against your lover?”

  Lucky didn’t talk to many people about Victor Mangiardi. “Like to have killed me.”

  “But Victor didn’t threaten to hurt your kid. Tyrone’s daddy knew the first time he stepped out of line, did a favor for an old friend, that he did wrong. Every night when he left home to make some extra money, he knew the cost. When he started using, I stopped seeing him. Told him to stay the hell away from my boy.”

  Lucky heard this part of the story before. She’d shot a man she’d once loved. Might still love. Had a child with.

  He’d never met anyone tougher, and he’d grown up with hard-living redneck types.

  “Remember the good you’re doing. Few people know the shit we’re up against every day. Will never know how many times we kiss our asses goodbye, believing we’re about to die.” Johnson made a kissing noise. “They might call us narcs or pigs, but at the end of the day, we make the world a safer place.”

  A safer place. One day Lucky might get blown away, and the only thing he’d have to show for his life would be a blip on the local news, like he’d gotten the last time he died on the job.

  Only next time, he probably wouldn’t get a new life and a new name.

  Wait a minute! She’d wished him a happy birthday earlier, without acting. “You knew it was my birthday all along, didn’t you?”

  Johnson snorted. “What kind of friend would I be if I didn’t?”

  If she didn’t do or say something soon, he might give in to the urge to hug her and never let go. Or say something stupid.

  She saved him from himself. “Now c’mon and get me home. I need to get out of this dress and actually breathe.”

  They didn’t speak for the few short blocks to her apartment until he pulled up to the curb. What could he say? “Thanks.”

  “Don’t mention it.” She held her hand out. “List, please.”

  Oh. That. Lucky dug the scrap of paper out of his pocket and placed it on her palm.

  He didn’t acknowledge her kissing his cheek or her soft, “Good night, and happy birthday.” She slogged up the sidewalk to her building, high heels in hand.

  Somewhere in all his screw ups, Lucky must’ve done something right, because the good Lord had given him Bo, Walter, Charlotte, his nephews, and Johnson.

  And damned if he’d let anything bad happen to any of them.

  Chapter Two

  Lucky punched the clicker clipped to the visor of his Camaro eight times. Nothing happened. He’d put new batteries in the remote, so the fault lay with the gate. How bad to have to ask permission from an unreliable-assed gate to get home? After a grueling workout, taking his frustrations out on the gate with a motherfucking sledgehammer might be the perfect cooldown.

  Of course, having Bo here would’ve sure kept his ass home.

  The beautiful, cloudless day mocked his stormy mood. He rolled down his window, punched in a code, and the gate pulled back, barely enough to squeeze the car through. Okay, no rash actions today. Maybe tomorrow.

  Empty driveway. Again. He hit another visor switch to open the garage. Nothing. Again. Like the damned thing might magically repair itself. Something else on a long list of things to fix on his and Bo’s money pit.

  One day they might have a house worthy of the mortgage payments, if they could stay off assignment long enough to get the ever-growing to-do list done.

  They couldn’t win.

  Well, at least no unexpected cars sat parked in the front yard. No well-meaning coworkers barging into his life, demanding he celebrate a worthless-assed birthday.

  But a neighbor’s grill scented the neighborhood with cooking meat, making his mouth water. Ah, what he wouldn’t give for a good, juicy, homecooked burger.

  He checked the mailbox by the curb. Bill, bill, junk mail, a “Welcome to the Neighborhood” flyer. Jeez, they’d only been living here four months.

  The expected envelope lay at the bottom of the pile, postmarked Spokane, Washington. He tore the envelope open and yanked out a card, with some mushy sentiment on the front about him being a great big brother. Lies! His sister signed like she always did: Love, Charlotte, Ty, and Todd. At the bottom she’d added: Can I tell the boys you’re still alive now?

  No. Because they might tell Mama and Daddy, and Lucky wasn’t ready to deal with their cold shoulders all over again. Better off for them to believe him dead.

  The envelope contained the annual picture of Charlotte and the boys. She’d dyed her hair auburn, but otherwise she hadn’t changed much sinc
e last year. Both sons towered over her. They’d gotten their height from their dad, their one gift from the abusive bastard. Maybe Lucky should finally change out the picture on his work desk, taken while she’d been pregnant with Ty.

  The water bill came to William Patrick Schollenberger III, while the electric bill came to Simon Harrison. One day soon, Lucky’d change his name back to Richmond Eugene Lucklighter, since everyone he hid from knew exactly where to find him.

  He trudged up the steps and opened the lock. At least the keypad worked. He listened at the door. Nothing. The hair on the back of his neck rose. Something wasn’t right. No alarm. He’d set the damned thing when he’d left for the gym.

  Having a dog didn’t help much. The only threat Moose posed was knocking a thief to the floor and drooling on them. But still, the beast usually ran to the front door the moment a car pulled up.

  Using his body to hide his gun from the nosy neighbors, he pulled his .38 from his gym bag and crept inside. Never leave home without firepower.

  Nothing out of place. Footsteps approached fast, a blur speeding across the floor. Oh shit! He braced.

  The shape hit him full on. Down he went. The gun landed out of reach, and the mail scattered across the floor. Lucky struggled, but couldn’t avoid the big beast’s tongue swiping half his face.

  “Damn it, Moose. Haven’t we told you not to jump on people?” A long string of drool inched dangerously close to his eye. Lucky turned his head in the nick of time.

  Moose whined and snuffled Lucky’s hair.

  “All right, all right, you win!” He scratched Moose’s furry ear.

  On the couch a few feet away, Cat Lucky watched the show.

  Lucky struggled out from under roughly ninety pounds of half-grown dog. He hauled himself to his feet and did his best to amble into the kitchen without tripping over a meowing cat or getting knocked over by an energetic bundle of white fur.

  He opened a can of the cat food Bo insisted was better for Lucky Cat than tuna, and poured enough dog food into a bowl to feed a young elephant—or a Great Pyrenees. Moose ran across the kitchen floor and slammed into the bowl, sending brown bits skittering across the tile.

  By the time Lucky got the broom, the problem would solve itself. If only other problems went away if ignored.

  Crunch, crunch, crunch, came from Moose, while Grwwmmmm… came from Cat Lucky.

  With the pets fed, it was time to find some human dinner. Lucky rambled through the freezer, sorting through plastic containers of spaghetti and hash. Down to four. Bo better come back from undercover soon before Lucky resorted to eating his own cooking. His frozen pizza and outdoor grilling skills were okay. The rest, not so much.

  Taking a container of spaghetti to the microwave, he dodged the four-legged vacuum cleaner hoovering up Purina. With the last crunch, his whining began.

  “Okay, okay. I’ll let you out.”

  The fluffy plume of Moose’s tail swatted Lucky all the way to the door. How uncomplicated his life had been before acquiring a partner and two, as Bo put it, fur kids.

  But he’d been lonely too, even if he hadn’t admitted his loneliness at the time. While he didn’t normally celebrate birthdays, Bo had spoiled him for not wanting to be alone. Johnson hadn’t even wanted to go a few rounds at the gym, saying she had shopping to do. Instead, Lucky pumped iron with a skinny little weasel of a man eyeing his backside.

  Well, at least he had a dog and cat for company, and a load of chores to occupy his time. Like fixing the garage door. He opened the new sliding glass door he’d installed shortly after buying the place. Both cat and dog barreled out into the backyard.

  “Surprise!”

  Shit! Lucky grabbed the deck rail with one hand and his chest with the other.

  His work partner better lay off the lies. Loretta Johnson stood at the grill, flipping burgers. Walter and Mrs. Smith sat in lounge chairs. Mrs. Griggs, Lucky’s former landlady, loaded food from a box onto the picnic table Bo insisted on buying and Lucky argued they’d never use.

  Moose, the traitor who hadn’t barked, made a beeline for Johnson’s kid.

  “The dog will be big enough for him to ride soon,” Johnson commented.

  Yeah. Fully grown, Moose might weigh in around one-twenty. Better get him some obedience training soon, or he’d destroy the house.

  The man responsible for this little surprise approached, his wide grin revealing The Dimple. No point in complaining once The Dimple appeared. If Lucky had his way, he’d make it a permanent fixture on his lover’s face. He almost flinched when Bo wrapped him in a hug—almost but not quite.

  Everyone smiled. He’d have to get used to acceptance after so many years of hiding his and Bo’s relationship. Of course, these folks wouldn’t pop off at the mouth with any homophobic comments. They were family. Maybe not a God-given family, but one he’d chosen for himself. Or rather, they hadn’t taken no for an answer when they’d chosen him.

  Even SNB receptionist Lisa and her husband, but only because they’d visited twice with no sneering yet. They were doing good so far, and if they kept up being sociable but not in his face about the whole friendship and feelings thing, they’d be considered second-cousins-once-removed in no time at all.

  Lucky yanked Bo to his chest and hid his relief in the crook of his lover’s neck. Lover. His lover. And no more hiding from Walter or anyone else. “When did you end your case?”

  “This morning. Even if I hadn’t, I would’ve managed to get here somehow. Can’t miss your birthday now, can I?”

  Lucky kept squeezing until Bo pulled away. If not for a yard full of people, and possibly giving the neighbors an X-rated show, Lucky might be tempted to throw Bo on the picnic table and do everything he’d been dreaming about since their encounter in the alley.

  The memory of being cuffed and at Bo’s mercy… Just wait until everyone went home.

  “Wow! You’re awfully friendly.” Bo side-eyed their guests and turned his attention back to Lucky. “You mean you’re not pissed off because I invited folks over for a cookout for your birthday?”

  “It ain’t my birthday.” No, not today. Everybody got birthdays—he’d take a whole week. Happy birthweek to me! Especially with Bo home to spoil him.

  “Of course it’s not your birthday.” Walter ambled over. “That’s why we went through all this trouble. Any excuse for cake and ice cream.” This from a man who drank liquid doughnuts from a mug instead of coffee. He raised his hand.

  Even though Lucky braced himself, Walter’s playful shoulder swat nearly knocked him off his feet. The man didn’t know his own strength.

  Johnson flipped a burger, and the grill flared. She never even flinched. Did anything rile the woman?

  Lisa waited off to the side, kid in her arms and husband at her back. She looked ready to run if Lucky turned into the asshole he used to be.

  Was. Not used to be. She got a free pass for making friends with Bo. And the cute kid. Background checks hadn’t turned up anything on the husband.

  Yet.

  Mrs. Griggs came traipsing across the grass, wearing a loose dress and slip-on shoes that weren’t a far cry from her usual bathrobe and slippers. She’d accessorized with a black and white tuxedo cat, getting reacquainted with the traitorous feline who’d deserted her in favor of Lucky.

  Leave it to Lucky to find a cat addled enough to prefer him over the woman who pampered every cat in the neighborhood silly.

  She waved a cat-laden hand toward his house. “Sure you’re not gonna change your mind and move back into the duplex? The new tenants are awful. And they hate cats! What kind of rational human hates cats?” Her kissing Lucky Cat’s nose and cooing, “It’s okay, snookum. Mommy loves you,” didn’t exactly make her an expert on rational.

  Mrs. Smith motioned from the picnic table. “Come. Sit. It’s time to eat.”

  Johnson brought over a platter full of burgers. Two patties with bits of green and red showing sat off to themselves on a saucer. Veggie burgers. Ho
w could anyone…

  Bo elbowed Lucky’s ribs. “They’re mine, not yours, so you don’t have to get grossed out. I won’t make you eat one.”

  They must’ve been together too long if Bo read him so easily. Lucky attempted an innocent expression.

  Bo narrowed his eyes. “Don’t start nothing and there won’t be nothing. Snark and I’ll snark back.”

  Bo did know him too well.

  Johnson’s son hopped up to the picnic table. He couldn’t be more than six or seven. What was his name again?

  “Tyrone, what you want to drink?” Johnson asked the boy. No, not Johnson. Out of work she wanted Lucky to call her Rett. He still struggled with the idea of having an actual friend and using her nickname.

  Tyrone widened his eyes at the candles. “Whoa! That’s a lot of candles. How old are you?”

  “Tyrone!” Loretta glared at her son. “You don’t ask people their age.”

  “Why not? Everybody asks how old I am.” He held up six fingers. “I’m this many.”

  Lucky sighed. Two hands’ worth of fingers wouldn’t show his age. “I’m thirty-eight.”

  Tyrone glanced up at his mother but kept his mouth shut.

  “That’s okay, kid. When I was your age, thirty-eight seemed old to me too.” And what had Lucky accomplished in all those years? Not a whole hell of a lot.

  Bo put his elbow in Lucky’s ribs again, and this time he didn’t growl. “You’ve got a rut between your eyebrows. Whatever’s bothering you, it’ll be all right.” He wrapped Lucky in a brief one-armed embrace. “Now, let’s eat. These folks have come all the way across town to embarrass you by singing Happy Birthday. And I have it on good authority that none of them can carry a tune in a bucket.”

  Oh God, no. “You did tell ‘em they didn’t have to do that, right?” One could hope, anyway.

  “Lucky, look at these people. Do you know a single one of them who’d do what I said?”

  Lucky eyeballed the people gathering around the burgers. “Maybe Lisa.”

  Bo let out a snort. “Not outside of work. I’ve tried. Now c’mon and take a seat.”