Reunion: Diversion Six

by Eden Winters

  “Stop thinking so hard.”

  “I’m not!” Lucky snapped, though if he contemplated his future any harder smoke might pour from his ears.

  “Yes, you are. You got those ‘I’m thinking’ wrinkles right here.” Bo ran a finger between Lucky’s eyebrows.

  The bad thing about having someone around who knew him so well was they knew him too well. He couldn’t get away with shit.

  “Now, I believe you have an advantage over me. You have on too many clothes.” Bo plucked at Lucky’s T-shirt.

  Lucky normally wasn’t one to do as told. But when told to do what he wanted to do anyway? Yeah, buddy. And he’d even swallow his pride and pretend this wasn’t make-up sex to smooth over Bo ripping out his heart.

  No. Not fair. Bo wanted the hearts and flowers. Needed hearts and flowers. He wasn’t the kind of guy to settle to make things easier.

  Not something Lucky would forget again.

  He lost himself in the feel of skin on skin and the prickles of Bo’s unshaven cheeks. The cold tile on his bare ass when he shimmied out of his jeans added to his awareness of the moment.

  Tomorrow could go fuck itself. He had today. He had Bo. The house he’d never even realized he’d wanted until Bo opened his eyes. The dog. The cat who’d chosen him. His life was as close to perfect as it had ever been, with him sliding his body against Bo’s.

  No time now to worry about condoms or no condoms. With hands and hard thighs to hump and necks to bite and suck, nothing else mattered.

  Bo kissed Lucky’s eyelids and ran his callused fingertips over Lucky’s skin, skating over a nipple, brushing against the straw-colored hair on Lucky’s chest.

  He wrapped his fingers around Lucky’s wrists, raised them over Lucky’s head and pinned them to the floor. His gaze smoldering hot enough to melt lead, he descended, forcing his mouth down hard on Lucky’s.

  What did it cost him to give the roughness Lucky wanted while risking his own triggers?

  “You don’t have to,” Lucky murmured against Bo’s mouth.

  “I want to.” Bo released Lucky’s arms to slide a cushioning hand between Lucky’s skull and the tile floor. He took both their cocks in the other hand.

  Lucky grabbed any bit of Bo his arms could reach. Tugging, holding, never letting go. Not merely sex. Something beyond sex. Something better than a million random back alley encounters with a million random guys. Sex once meant a hurried fuck with some nameless guy. No kisses, no gentle caresses. Just hard, fast, and mean, until they came, zipped up, and slunk away without a backward glance.

  With Bo, he’d learned to make sex more than a race to the finish line.

  Lucky found friction for his cock against Bo’s thigh, and Bo answered in kind. They fell into rhythm, mouths joined, bodies melded together.

  The two of them. Nothing to intrude on them here. How had Lucky ever existed without Bo? How had he ever…

  “Oh, damn,” Bo said. That had to be the most erotic thing ever, especially when he jerked, once, twice, three times, adding slipperiness to Lucky’s thigh, all while staring deeply into Lucky’s eyes. Too deep. No secrets, no hidden thoughts.

  Laid open. Bare. And trusting Bo to never use Lucky’s weaknesses against him.

  Lucky fought not to come, focusing everything on the sheer bliss on Bo’s face, the way he tried to keep pumping Lucky when all his brain cells pooled up in a big puddle of contentment. Where Lucky would be in…

  Spasms hit with the force of a bomb. He gave up fighting and let loose, moaning out his passion. Bo grabbed Lucky’s cheeks and swallowed the moan in a frantic play of tongue against tongue. The ebbing shockwaves crested again.

  For moments the pleasure held him tight, as tightly as Bo’s arms. Lucky lay on the floor, half on and half off his lover, each breath, each heartbeat a precious gift.

  Reality crashed down. He’d proposed, and Bo had said no.

  Even sex couldn’t dull the pain.

  Chapter Eight

  Damned if he did, and damned if he didn’t. Lucky stared at the sheet of paper in his hand, mind still reeling from the doctor’s words. “Congratulations. You’re a match for the patient.” And not a single homophobic crack. Yet.

  A shadow fell over Lucky’s desk, too narrow for Walter and not libido-amping, so not Bo. The hand holding a cup of coffee his way sported long red fingernails. “What do you want, Johnson?” He took the peace offering—or bribe, depending on the next words out of her mouth.

  “Um… Have you forgotten? We have a distribution center to evaluate today.”

  “Wha…?” Oh, yeah, right. Work wasn’t about to stop because Lucky had his head up his ass. It never had before either. “Yeah. Give me a second.” He shoved the doctor’s report in his desk drawer and slammed the drawer on his fingers. “Shit! Motherfuck!” He shook his wounded digits. That hurt!

  “Hmm… two cuss words in five seconds. Nice. But nowhere near your record. Now get your ass in gear. We’re burning daylight.”

  In a perfect world, Bo would pop in about now, allowing Lucky to rant and rave, whimper and cry, or whatever else might happen when he showed the paper.

  Although the last few months had come close, Lucky’d never lived in a perfect world. He tapped out assignments for the rookies under his care and sent them off in an e-mail. Heh. How to spoil a whole lot of people’s day with one simple “send”.

  He tried to pretend he didn’t have to rush to keep up with Johnson’s longer strides. At the reception desk, Lisa smiled and waved.

  Lucky never should have eased up on his natural growly personality around her. Now she acted like he deserved a good morning smile. Or maybe she’d intended the smile for Johnson and missed.

  Either way, Lisa wasn’t too bad a person and didn’t blab around work about how many times she and her husband had attended cookouts at his house—courtesy of Bo’s invitations—bringing along her curtain climbing, drool puddle of a crumb snatcher.

  Cute li’l bugger. And if faced with death or saying those words out loud, he’d take death. Hell, he’d survived the grim reaper before.

  The moment they stepped in the elevator and the doors closed, Johnson scowled down at Lucky. “Spill.”

  Lucky cradled his cup to his chest. “Spill good coffee? Sacrilege!”

  Johnson tapped to toe of, not her normal uncomfortable-looking uniform shoes, but a pair of sturdy work boots roughly the size of Lucky’s car. She’d replaced her SNB golf shirt with a blue button-down, paired with the same type of navy pants hanging in Lucky’s closet. Lucky wore faded blue jeans, tennis shoes, and a vintage Molly Hatchet T-shirt.

  “You better have a good reason for forgetting our appointment today.” Johnson punched the button for the basement parking garage.

  Since when did the employee get to call out the boss?

  She planted one hand on her hip, holding her coffee cup with the other. “You been walking around here in a daze since your birthday, and I’m not going away so you’d better answer me. What’s wrong?”

  Oh, yeah. Since the employee topped him by a good six plus inches and came dangerously close to Lucky in the attitude department. And she gave a shit, which entitled her to some slack. Not much, but some.

  “I don’t want to talk about it.” Lucky added enough bark to scare off most coworkers. But not all.

  “Did I ask you what you wanted?”

  The door opened on two rookies. Spending the day researching illegal websites might keep the young’uns out of Lucky’s hair for a while.

  Heading out into the city with Johnson saved lives today.

  “You’re late again.” Lucky tried to glare without appearing to look up. Why did everyone have to be taller than him?

  But to Lucky’s credit, at least he hadn’t said, “You’re late again, asswipes.” A few words of prayer from Walter every month or so kept Lucky’s tongue somewhat in check. If he’d known getting promoted meant being professional, he might have told Walter to find the nearest bureaucrat and sho
ve the promotion up their ass.

  But then the promotion might have gone to the king of all assholes, namely Keith. And his and Bo’s money-eating mortgage needed feeding.

  Hmmm… Did “King Asswipe” count as unprofessional? He’d have to check. But if he stayed here giving rookies a hard time he didn’t have to spill his guts to Johnson.

  Johnson grabbed his arm and yanked him off the elevator. “C’mon. You won’t talk to me, but you’ll growl at the newbies.” She pressed a hand to her chest as best she could while still clutching her coffee cup. “I’m so hurt.”

  Not hurt enough to slow down on the way to her Jeep. Between the poofy hair she wore natural today and legs nearly as long as Lucky’s body, Johnson didn’t fit too well in Lucky’s Camaro, which meant she liked to drive.

  He didn’t hate her driving, but why let on? So much more entertaining to criticize her sharp turns and sudden braking to keep from plowing some idiot who hadn’t left home in time and demanded anyone else get out of the way.

  “Try not to trade paint with my car on your way out of here.” He hopped into the passenger seat, one hand protecting his precious coffee.

  “You’ll tell me what’s got your panties in a twist eventually, so you might as well go ahead now.” Johnson made a big show of buckling in and glowering until Lucky followed suit.

  He would tell her. Probably. At some point. Maybe a crumb of truth would hold her off. “I’m still working things out in my head.”

  She cut a sharp glance his way when she stopped the Jeep to turn left out of the parking garage. “You’re not shitting me, are you? You’re actually planning to tell me without me having to take you to the gym and punch it out of you?” A quick jerk of the steering wheel and her flooring the gas pedal put them in traffic.

  “Sooner or later, I’ll have to.” Hard not to notice her boss missing for a few weeks, especially a particularly mouthy one. Things might even get quiet without Lucky’s daily presence.

  “Okay. Take your time. As long as I know by the end of today.” She slammed on the brakes to avoid a Toyota cutting into her lane, held her arm out the window, and extended her middle finger. Not fair her not having to behave professionally. Then again, maybe she’d be willing to be unprofessional on Lucky’s behalf. Yeah, could work.

  He contemplated his cup so long his coffee almost got cold. Not too cold to drink, but cooler than he liked.

  Coffee never got too cold to drink. Except for gawd-awful ice coffee. Brrr… Some people had no respect for good caffeine.

  Lucky sighed. How he missed caffeine. He didn’t miss sleepless nights of tossing and turning, but decaf didn’t knock the early morning cobwebs out of his brain.

  Johnson parked her car on a side street, about a block and a half from their destination. “You ready?”

  “I’m always ready. You go ‘round the front, I’ll take the back. We meet in the middle.” He reached into the back seat, grabbed a Longhorns ball cap, and slapped it on his head.

  Longhorns. Someone should tell Johnson she wasn’t in Texas anymore. She put on a roomier cap, a peel and press name tag for her shirt, and grabbed a toolbox.

  And the part of lowlife thug went to Lucky, a role he’d been born to play.

  To the place’s credit, the twelve-foot-high, razor wire-topped chain link fence didn’t invite trespassers, but why have a fence at all if the two-foot gap in the trucker’s gate let Lucky slither right through? Someone had a reaming coming once Lucky took a few pictures and turned in his report.

  One lone camera monitored the gate. Hmm. Gravel, right where he needed. Now to test his aim.

  Pop, pop, crash! Walter might have something to say about Lucky taking the camera out, but the absentee owners of this warehouse paid good money and did ask for a thorough assessment of their weaknesses.

  “Careful what you wish for,” his boss often said.

  He rounded the corner toward the loading docks. Two guys lounging against a pickup truck nodded his way and went back to smoking and talking. Dumb asses. He’d lay good money it wasn’t even their break time.

  Climbing onto the loading dock took a little effort, especially when he tried his best to get noticed. And not even a camera to dodge. No challenge at all. He might as well have stayed back at the office. This slack-assed place didn’t deserve a man of his skills. He should’ve sent a rookie.

  At least the door required a key card. Rigging the damned thing wasn’t worth the effort. He flattened himself against the wall and waited.

  Soon enough, a trio of guys stumbled out the door, yelling greetings to the two by the truck. Lucky bumped into the last guy. “Oh, sorry.”

  “Watch where you’re going, asshole.” The guy took off after his buddies, minus his access badge.

  Three minutes from street to inside the building. Not Lucky’s best time, but… oh, who cared anymore if it took three minutes or three years? Too easy. Please! Would someone give him a challenge already? When breaking into buildings got boring, it was time for a more exciting job.

  Man, did these people have something against lighting? How did order pickers see in the warehouse? Camera to the left, facing down the first aisle, camera to the right facing the last aisle. Lucky sauntered down the middle with his hands in his pockets, whistling past carton-laden racks filled with everything from headache remedies to cough syrups.

  “What took you so long?” Johnson lounged at the far end of the aisle, arms folded over her chest.

  Lucky grinned. “Paused to take a break. Meet any resistance?”

  “Nah, told ‘em I came to fix the warehouse phone, and they let me in. Aren’t they supposed to escort visitors?”

  “Yup.”

  “And when I reached the security door, some guy I’ve never met before in my life winked, stuck his badge in the reader, and opened the door for me.” She removed her hat and fluffed out her hair.

  “Spot any cameras on the way in?”

  “Four. But since the guard waved me in, I’m not expecting company anytime soon.”

  “Let’s do this.” Lucky made a beeline toward the good stuff at the center of the building. With any luck, he’d stolen the right employee’s badge.

  As he’d figured, a heavy steel cage sat in the middle of the floor, filled with cardboard boxes lined up neatly on rows of racks. The cage door popped open at a swipe of the pilfered ID. Yes! Someone trusted Mr. Donald Carson enough to give him access to the restricted area.

  The guys had sauntered out back for a morning break, and likely wouldn’t return for fifteen minutes or so—more if they lacked time-telling abilities like warehouse workers from past experience.

  Boxes labeled “oxycodone” and “hydromorphone” sat on racks. Damn, those belonged in a secured vault, not a flimsy cage.

  And only one sweeping camera in here. How stupid. Time it right, duck beneath a rack while the camera panned Lucky’s way, then grab a few bottles of evidence. Johnson caught the whole thing on video from right outside the cage.

  Five, four, three. He darted from under the rack and raced toward Johnson, who opened her toolbox and placed their bounty inside. He eased the cage door shut. “Meet you back at your Jeep.” Lucky didn’t bother waiting for an answer, and the only worker he met waved and kept on walking. Moron.

  He kind of hoped a guard or someone would search Johnson’s toolbox, but didn’t hold out much hope.

  The guys out back had formed a huddle. The tell-tale scent of burning pot reached Lucky’s nose. Oh yeah. Time for the owners of this warehouse to do some major housecleaning.

  And he’d send a memo to Atlanta’s finest, arrange a possession bust.

  He dropped the stolen badge on the dock and left the same way he’d come in, snapping a few pictures and beating Johnson to the Jeep by a good two minutes.

  She huffed when she got in. “I would’ve made it here sooner, but I got cornered by the guy who winked at me. He… uh… got a bit too pushy asking for my phone number.”

  Crap. “Yo
u didn’t hit him, did you?” Walter frowned on such. Lucky should know.

  “Nah. Told him my girlfriend didn’t like me dating other people. He shut his mouth.”

  Yeah. Good line. “Did they search you?”

  “Nope.” Johnson reached into her toolbox and extracted a bottle of liquid worth about $250 on the street.

  “Don’t you hate when they go easy on us? I sort of feel guilty getting paid for so little work.” Not really, but hey, sounded good.

  “When the worst obstacle is getting ‘round a guy who thinks he’s a ladies’ man, then yeah. Too boring.” Johnson yawned for effect. “Now tell me what’s got you all preoccupied. That’s not boring at all.”

  He trusted her about as much as he trusted anybody, and more than he trusted most of the human race. “It’s about my dad.”

  “Wait, what? You mean you actually got parents? Yay! I won the bet. The betting pool says you’re a demon from the lower hells, sent here to torment rookies.”

  Oh yeah. “Lower Hell’s Demon” was so going on Lucky’s next accomplishments list for his annual review. He’d claim the demon’s union demanded he get a raise.

  Despite her attempt to lighten the mood, the dark cloud over his head settled in. “I haven’t seen my folks in about thirteen years, give or take.”

  “Their choice or yours?” She glanced over her shoulder and steered the Jeep into traffic.

  “Theirs.”

  “Do they know they’re missing out on some damned good barbecue?”

  “Who do ya think taught me to grill meat?” And raise it, on most occasions.

  “Oh. So, now dear old Dad…”

  “Needs a chunk of my liver.”

  Johnson slammed on her brakes even without an errant Toyota to blame. The guy behind her blew his horn and flipped her off. She reciprocated and flashed her SNB badge. He sped away. She gave Lucky a side-wise perusal and flexed her biceps. “So, Dad who wants nothing to do with you comes begging, and you’re considering doing what he wants. Why?”