by Eden Winters
Lucky focused on his burger so he didn’t have to involve himself in the idle chitchat folks engaged in at cookouts. Every now and then, he’d glance up and catch Tyrone watching him. The boy always scooted back behind his mom, out of sight. Johnson, no, Rett didn’t appear to notice, but she probably did. She didn’t miss much.
Maybe Lucky reminded the kid of his father. He was small and blond with blue eyes, just like Rett’s ex, the guy she’d had the son with. And later shot. Lucky wasn’t fit to be anyone’s father. But the toddler squirming in Lisa’s arms brought back memories of him holding his nephews Todd and Ty, and wondering if he’d ever have a kid of his own. So long ago.
At last, dinner ended and the moment he dreaded arrived. Walter stood up and started them off. “Happy Birthday…” The others joined in with his off-key singing.
Hellfire. Sounded like someone stepping on cats. Bo kept Lucky seated with a death grip on his knee under the table. Lucky deliberately brought his hand up and ran his fingers over the cuff marks on his wrist.
What a lovely blush Bo had.
Lucky leered and whispered, “Remember the birthday cake I got you?” Which they’d eaten from each other’s skin. Oh, man! Who knew someone’s face could get such a deep shade of red?
But this cake hadn’t come from any bakery. Someone baked for him?
“Aren’t you going to blow out the candles?” Bo pasted on his best possum-eating-briars grin.
Rett’s son eyed the cake with rapt attention.
Ah, time to get out of something he didn’t want to do and foist the responsibility off on someone honored by the hand-off. “Hey, Tyrone. How about blowing out the candles for me?”
“Wow! Can I?” It took Tyrone four tries to blow out all too-damned-many candles.
And that folks, is how you get out of doing something you don’t wanna do.
Bo glared, Lucky shrugged, and Mrs. Smith doled out cake.
Tasted familiar. “What’s this?”
“Mocha,” Walter said around a mouthful.
“It’s coffee flavored,” Rett said. She turned to Bo. “You sure can cook. You can come on over to my apartment and fix me a cake anytime.”
Bo had made Lucky a cake. And left zero evidence behind in the kitchen. Lucky couldn’t boil eggs without turning the kitchen into a battle zone.
But cake. He used to get homemade birthday cakes every year, until…
Daddy giving half-playful, half-for real birthday swats. Mama baking a cake from scratch, either orange or vanilla. His brothers and Charlotte arm wrestling for the honor of cleaning the frosting bowl and beaters with a finger, sucking down every last bit of sweet.
Grandma and Grandpa always came over and gave him twenty bucks in a card.
And Lucky, being the birthday boy, got the biggest slab of cake.
He hadn’t had orange cake in twenty years. He’d never let his mother know, even if they were still talking, but mocha might be his new favorite.
“Presents!” Rett handed him a package the moment Lucky laid his fork down, derailing his side trip to Never-Will-Be-Again-Land. Tyrone ducked behind Mrs. Griggs when his mother stood up.
Eager faces all around. Opening a gift from her in public might not be such a good idea. No telling what she got him. Then again, it couldn’t be too bad with her kid present.
Mama used to make him open presents carefully to save the wrapping paper. He ripped into the package, leaving only shreds. The aroma hit his nose a moment before he registered the bag sitting in front of him. “Two pounds of Starbucks decaf.” Bo elbowed him into good manners. “Thanks.” That elbow had gotten a good workout lately.
But Rett sure knew how the gift-giving thing worked.
“Ours next.” Walter slid an envelope down the table. Braves tickets.
“Now you gotta make sure me and Bo are in town to watch the game.” And Lucky damned sure would pay Walter back for his part in the surprise party with a B-flat serenade.
Oh! Maybe a rousing rendition of Achy Breaky Heart. In the car. Where the boss couldn’t escape.
Walter scrubbed icing off his face with a napkin. “Duly noted.”
The present from Lisa and her husband didn’t shake worth a damn. Gift cards. And good luck getting Mrs. Griggs’s hand-knitted cat sweater on the little fur ball currently batting paper through the grass. Overall, not exactly the kind of gifts he’d gotten back in his drug lord boy toy days.
Thank God.
Lucky dug his buzzing cellphone out of his pocket. The only people who ever called him after working hours were all here. He checked the caller ID and froze.
Oh shit.
Charlotte.
What the hell? She never called. They texted each other or e-mailed, but they never, ever spoke. And he’d already gotten her birthday card.
Hearing her voice would only hammer home what a shitty brother he’d been, getting involved with the wrong people and going to jail. No matter what, she stood by him, God bless her misguided heart.
Bo peered over Lucky’s arm. “Aren’t you going to answer?”
“Huh?”
“The phone. Aren’t you going to answer your phone?”
Whatever made her break their normal pattern had to be bad news. Lucky shook his head and dropped his phone on the table. She wouldn’t call in birthday wishes.
Bo reached for the phone. “Someone really should answer.”
“You answer.”
The phone stopped buzzing. Good. Maybe she’d leave a message.
The buzzing started again.
Bo sighed and picked up the phone. “Hello? No, it’s Bo. That’s all right. I completely understand. He’s here.” The smile fled Bo’s face and his voice. He held out the phone with a shaky hand. “Lucky, you need to take this.”
Chapter Three
Hard to tell whose hand trembled more, Lucky’s or Bo’s. Their fingers connected when Lucky took the phone. Bo held Lucky’s hand a moment before letting go. Holy hell. Must be something awful.
“Let’s all go inside.” Bo herded their guests out of earshot.
“Richie? Richie!” came from the tiny speaker.
Staring didn’t make the phone disappear. Lucky braced for the worst. “Hello?”
“Richie? Thank God!”
No one had ever thanked anyone for Lucky. Years disappeared, his sister’s voice as familiar as if they’d talked yesterday. Tears sprang to his eyes unbidden. Throughout the bad years, she’d been his lifeline. The only one who never gave up on him.
He schooled the tremble out of his voice. “What’s wrong?”
She’d never sugar-coated the truth. “I really hate to call with bad news like this, especially on your birthday, but it’s Dad.”
An invisible fist slammed Lucky’s gut. If he hadn’t been sitting, his suddenly weak knees would have dumped him on his ass. “What about him?”
“You know he’s been on the list for a liver transplant for a while now, right?”
“Yeah.”
The following pause didn’t bode well. “He’s running out of time.”
Well, damn. Lucky might not have spoken to his folks since his arrest, and they might believe him dead, but at the end of the day, they were still his parents. They’d always been there before, and he’d figured they always would be. “Is there anything can be done? Doesn’t someone have to die and give him their liver?” Most of the people Lucky’d seen die over the years hadn’t had enough liver left to donate.
“Not necessarily. We’re hoping to match him with a living donor. They can give part of their liver.”
“Then we gotta find a donor. Um… how do we go about finding one?” As kids, Charlotte always dreamed of nursing, while Lucky dreamed of driving trucks. Lucky, find a usable organ? No chance in hell. Know how to wreck one with booze and drugs? Oh, yeah buddy.
“It’s best if they can find a family member. They’re more likely to match. But Uncle Ben’s in too bad of health, and he’s the only one of Dad’s brothers
still alive.”
“Uncle Ned passed? When?”
“Ten or eleven years ago.”
“And you didn’t tell me?”
“You didn’t like him much, as I recall.”
Lucky liked Uncle Ned fine until he’d started preaching fire and brimstone and gays going to Hell. “What about Day?”
“Daytona’s going through rehab again, Dallas’s diabetes means he wouldn’t work, and I’m not a match.”
Which left two sons. “Bristol?”
Charlotte snorted, the sound bringing back memories of a teenaged version of her. “He says it’s in God’s hands, and if God wants Dad to live, then he will.”
How had their sweet mother given birth to such a useless shithead as Bristol? “That leaves me.”
Her sigh wafted over the phone. “That leaves you.”
Lucky drew in a deep breath and exhaled slowly. “I can’t even give blood ‘cause I’m gay. What makes you think they’ll let me donate body parts?” If such a thing were even possible. But Lucky’s knowledge of medical stuff ended where the drugs began. Still, squirming started in his guts.
His sister dropped her voice to a mere whisper. “I wouldn’t ask if you weren’t our last chance—his last chance.”
Double damn. “If the old man knew it came from me, do you reckon he’d even take it?” Not likely. Stubborn-assed Lucklighters.
“He’ll take it.”
“You sound awfully sure.”
“I am.”
Lucky jumped when a hand landed on his shoulder, then he leaned back into Bo’s embrace. Bo didn’t say a word, merely held on tight, exactly what Lucky needed. As much as he’d love to say he’d do anything to save his old man, he wasn’t alone anymore. He’d have to talk things over with his partner.
Using Bo for an anchor, Lucky replied. “When do you need an answer?”
“Soon.”
“I gotta think about this thing.” And discuss the matter with Bo.
“I understand. And I wouldn’t blame you if you said no, but Richie, I had to ask.” Her voice took on a hopeful note.
“I know.” She’d do anything for anybody. Of course she asked.
“So, you decide what’s best for you, but don’t take too long, okay?”
Time. Dad must not have much left. “I won’t. And Charlotte?”
“Yeah.”
“It’s… it’s good to hear your voice again.”
“Yours too. I love you, Richie.”
He started to answer, “Back atcha” like he used to. No. After so long, those words wouldn’t do. Eyes closed, picturing his sister’s face, he clearly spoke each well-deserved word. “I love you too, Char.” The truth needed saying, even if his heart threatened to break.
“Happy Birthday, big brother.”
Bo took the phone from Lucky’s numb fingers, plopped down beside him, and held on. How did he always know exactly what Lucky needed?
Dad. The man he’d looked up to, used to want to be like. The man he’d tried so hard to impress. In Lucky’s mind, Clarence Lucklighter lifted hay bales and slung them into the truck bed like they weighed nothing, or wrestled goats to the ground single-handedly for shots or hoof trimming.
No way could Dad be dying.
But he was. And he’d grown older since Lucky last laid eyes on him, might not be as robust. Lucky clung to Bo like a lifeline. “Did she tell you?”
“A bit.”
“Should I do it?”
“I can’t tell you. You have to make this decision.”
“You’re no help.” Bo should say yes or no and keep Lucky from having to decide.
“I’ll be here for you either way. You know that.”
Yes, he did. All the shit they’d gone through together ought to count for something. “Will you at least help me figure out what to do?”
“If you need me to.” Bo tightened his arms around Lucky.
Lucky drew back enough to make eye contact. “In spite of one of us being so pigheaded it almost didn’t happen, we’re partners, right? Didn’t you say after I bought a house without your input that we needed to share major decisions?”
Bo rolled his eyes heavenward. “Now he listens.” His forced smile took the sting from the words. “Let’s go inside. Sleep on it. You don’t have to decide tonight.”
No, but judging from Charlotte’s urgency, Dad needed an answer soon. “If I said yes, and I ain’t saying yes yet, mind you, what would I have to do?”
“First, you need to have some tests run to determine if you’re even eligible to donate.”
Oh. Yeah. A few tests might take the choice out of Lucky’s hands. Maybe doctors might get him off the hook, but then again, the little boy in him still needed his father to always be there. Even if it meant giving of himself to a man who’d cut him out.
Bo stood and took a step toward the house. “Let’s go to bed.”
Wait. What? Where’d their guests go? “What about Walter and everybody? And by the way, how’d they get here? Their cars aren’t here.”
“They walked down the street to the clubhouse where they parked. I baked the cake there so you wouldn’t know I’d come home yet. C’mon, help me clean up.”
Next time Lucky would be sure to check the clubhouse.
They got everything back into the house in a few trips, though Moose had to sniff every inch of the backyard before charging back inside, tongue lolling. He gave Lucky a wet swipe on the hand. Lucky jerked away.
Lucky Cat didn’t evade fast enough. He arched and spat. Moose licked him again.
“That cat is so like you.” Bo snickered and led Lucky out of the kitchen, through the living room, and to their bedroom. The pets trundled in behind them. Moose collapsed onto the rug at the foot of their bed.
Cat Lucky perched in the bedroom window, staring out at the night and likely planning evil for the beagle next door. Bo drew the blinds.
Lucky flumped down on the bed and kicked off his shoes. “I thought your assignment would never end.” I missed you. I love you. Never leave me alone again. If so many thoughts weren’t churning up his mind, they’d both be naked by now.
“I was only gone a few weeks.”
A few weeks Lucky’s ass. Seemed like a lifetime.
Bo peeled off Lucky’s T-shirt. “Don’t tell me you missed me.”
Lucky shifted, letting Bo yank his jeans down and off. “Okay, I won’t.” Snuggling up to Bo tonight might mean a good night’s sleep, after a sleeping tonic of getting his brains screwed out.
An hour ago he’d planned to give his lover a proper sexual homecoming the moment their coworkers left. Now, Lucky’s cock wasn’t much of a concern.
He lay on his back, staring at the ceiling fan lazily turning. Moose pounded the footboard with his paw while scratching an itch.
Cat Lucky curled beside Lucky while Bo stepped into the bathroom and turned on the shower.
One little piece of Lucky might save his father. A father who’d disowned him. Wait a minute! Charlotte said Dad would agree even if he knew where the offering came from, but could Lucky possibly give part of his liver without his parents finding out the donor?
The people who used to care about him didn’t know where he was or what he called himself. Or even that he lived. He’d ask Charlotte later. She’d called and broken their text and e-mail only routine; they might as well start talking from now on.
About damned time.
On autopilot, he trudged into the bathroom and stood beneath the shower’s spray, barely helping while Bo scrubbed him down. All day long he’d planned what to do when Bo finally came home: take him on every flat surface and attempt the vertical ones.
Now his mind kept returning to the kind of things he visualized when trying not to get hard. Hospitals, doctors, needles… drugs.
And yet Bo dried him off, put him to bed, and held him without using the stiffie occasionally brushing Lucky’s thigh.
Safe in Bo’s arms, he didn’t have to worry about the right
thing to do.
And yet he did.
Chapter Four
Lucky sat at his desk, but his mind hadn’t made the trip to work yet. Sipping cold coffee and staring off into space hadn’t accomplished much.
His father needed him, but would his father accept his help if he knew where it came from?
Charlotte said yes, but back home folks didn’t say “stubborn as a mule” like they did in other parts of the South. Nope. The folks in their little farming community said, “Stubborn as a Lucklighter.”
Down to the last one.
On Lucky’s computer screen, the image of a young man smiled at him—a man who’d lost his life in the line of duty before Lucky joined the SNB. No guarantees. Lucky or any other agent could go out today and get gunned down, or have a wreck in rush hour Atlanta traffic.
Or live to a decent age and suffer liver failure. Dad had been twenty-one when Lucky came squalling into the world. He hadn’t reached sixty yet.
Too young to die.
Way too young.
Lucky scrolled down the bureau’s fallen agent page. If he died today, what good had he done, selflessly, for someone else, expecting nothing in return?
Not a thing, regardless of what Richmond “Lucky” Lucklighter’s online obituary said about dying in the line of duty while protecting a fellow agent. Now came a chance to do something good for his family. No one had to know. But if his sister wasn’t a match, who said Lucky would be?
Bastard Bristol probably matched perfectly. And the sorry sonofabitch was unwilling to give up a chunk of liver to save their old man’s life. Heh. For once in his life, Lucky got to be something other than the black sheep of the family. Pretty weird. Not like him at all.
He closed the memorial page went back to his internet surfing.
Each reference to “liver transplant surgery” and “living donor” confused him more and more with all the doctor talk. And damn, get a load of the possible side effects. He didn’t even realize he’d been squeezing the life out of a pencil until it snapped.
“Hey! You okay?” Bo traipsed into their shared cubicle, took the broken pencil pieces from Lucky’s hand, and tossed them in the trash.
Anybody else, and Lucky would have either growled or grinned and said, “Fuck, yeah!” Bo saw through his lies. “I’m not sure.” He slammed his laptop closed on a way-too-graphic surgery picture.