Reunion: Diversion Six

by Eden Winters

  Wow. The woman getting ready to beat some ass over Lucky? Nice. “It’s not like that. You came to the department after it happened, but you’ve probably figured out by now I haven’t always been called Simon Harrison.”

  “Yup.” She said nothing more on the way back to the office, and Lucky didn’t feel the need to offer info. If she wanted to know something, she’d ask.

  Johnson pulled the Jeep under the SNB building, killed the engine, and reclined back in her seat, facing Lucky. “There’s probably not one single SNB agent who hasn’t heard of Lucky Lucklighter. If you’re really trying to lay low, excuse me, but you’re doing a piss poor job.”

  True. “The only folks who don’t know I’m still around are mine. They were told I died in the line of duty over two years ago.”

  “I’m going out on a limb here, but don’t you think if they knew you were alive, it might help your chances of seeing them again? Or did you do something boneheaded and deserve their disapproval?”

  Ouch. Direct hit. “Oh, I did my share of stupid shit, but being a dumbass on occasion never seemed to bother them before. Then I got arrested and they stopped talking to me. Never said why exactly.” Pick a reason, any reason. He’d given them plenty.

  “Then I shall torture them until they confess. Where do they live?” Johnson cracked her knuckles.

  “They didn’t do any more than I deserved.”

  “Are you feeling guilty about not coughing up your liver?”

  “No, I’m feeling scared as shit because I am.” There. He’d barfed up his secrets.

  “Oh. I suppose you’d shoot me for telling folks at work what a great guy you are, wouldn’t you?”

  “Yes. And don’t even start that rumor.” If people got wind of Lucky doing a good deed, he’d never hear the end of it. And the rookies wouldn’t be nearly scared enough.

  Johnson softened her voice. “What can I do to help?”

  “Bo’s still dealing with shit from our case in Mexico. He’s strong, but some things he can’t manage alone. Would you look out for him?”

  “You make it sound like you’re not coming back.”

  “The doctor says it’s a possibility. A small one, but still there.” And this time when he died, Walter Smith and his millions of connections couldn’t simply pull strings and bring Lucky back to life again.

  Johnson yanked the name tag off her shirt and tossed the label onto the back seat. She and Lucky shared the same housekeeping techniques. “Bo knows the risks, right?”

  “Yeah. I’m giving him power of attorney and doing anything else I can to take care of him.”

  “You really love him, don’t you?” She relaxed her rigid stance.

  Lucky glared. “Let’s not get mushy.”

  Johnson slapped a hand down on the steering wheel. “Oh, my God! You do! The great Lucky Lucklighter done gone got himself totally wrapped around Bo Schollenberger’s little finger.”

  No use denying. “Don’t get used to saying my given name.”

  “Yeah, right, sorry. Lucky Harrison. You know, if you married him you could change your name to his and ensure he’s taken care of.”

  She had to go and say the M word. “I… um… tried. He said no.” And the word cut as deeply now as when Bo first turned him down.

  “What? You’re kidding me, right? Mind if I ask why?”

  Lucky put extra growl into his reply. “Since when has my minding ever stopped you?”

  “Never has, never will.”

  “He said he didn’t want me to ask because I thought I had to.” Half the marriages back home were a matter of have to. Rednecks and shotgun weddings went together like pickup trucks and “hold my beer and watch this.” With the same bad results more often than not, like in Charlotte’s case.

  Johnson tossed her hat into the back to join the label. “Not the most romantic proposal in the world. Doesn’t he know how much you love him?”

  She needed to lay off the L word. Hard enough confessing feelings to Bo. To a coworker? Uh-uh. Not happening.

  “The fact that Walter hasn’t had to rip me a new one for chewing out a rookie since Bo moved in ought to tell him a lot.” Not that Lucky hadn’t wanted to rip some stupid jerk a new asshole. But like when he’d been a kid, if he got in trouble at school, he’d catch double hell at home.

  “Yeah. You’re downright mellow lately.” Johnson snorted. “Any day now you’ll be baking cupcakes and leaving them in the breakroom for everybody—not. You’re a hard ass, you’ve always been a hard ass, and you’ll stay a hard ass. It’s what you do. And someone’s got to call bullshit every now and then or we’ll all end up a bunch of mindless cattle, mooing along with the herd.”

  Do what? “Johnson, is that your backhanded way of telling me you appreciate me?”

  She put her nose close to his. “Lucky, no one at work but maybe me and Walter will tell you they appreciate you. They might try to look down on you, some might be afraid of you, but at the end of the day, they know damned good and well they stand a better chance of staying off the SNB’s memorial page because you’ve got their backs. Even that asshole Keith in surveillance knows when you go out on a job, you’re bringing his precious equipment back in one piece. Have you even looked at your numbers lately?”

  “What numbers?”

  “Your bureau ratings. How many assignments versus how many arrests. And how many of those arrests led to convictions because you did your homework?”

  No, he hadn’t looked. Hadn’t needed to. Up until recently, he’d been secure in being the best. Now? Not so much.

  Johnson drew back to her side of the Jeep and tapped her fingernail against the steering wheel. “Walter promoted you to training for a reason. We learn law in a classroom, the right way and the wrong way to do things, but you show us how to walk the fine line that’ll bring down suspects and get us home at night.”

  Damn. And every now and then Lucky grumbled about Walter promoting him as punishment. “What’re you saying?”

  “I’m saying that you’re one hella good agent. And with a little more training, I might turn you into a halfway decent friend.”

  “Don’t you dare say that shit to anyone. Understand?” Yeah, people hear Lucky’s name and “friend” in the same sentence, and they might start expecting those cupcakes in the breakroom.

  “Okay, now you know you’re good at those things, you can let it rest a bit. Work on something you might not be so good at.” She took on a tone she likely used when instructing her son.

  When uncomfortable, revert to habit. “But I’m the best at everything.”

  “Then why did Bo turn you down?”

  Ouch. “I told you why—”

  “He turned you down because you weren’t asking from your heart. My mama always told me the one and only reason to get married is because the other person makes your life better than it’d ever be without them. Does Bo do that for you?”

  Cooking, looking out for his health, offering to strip on weekends to ease Lucky’s mind about finances. Holding Lucky when he needed, making his redneck ass see reason. Believing in him when no one else did. Saving him from himself. “Yeah, he does.”

  “And do you do the same for him?”

  An image came to mind of Lucky at the table, waiting for Bo to put dinner out, or Bo making sure Lucky ate after a hard day. Yeah, he’d done his best to be there for Bo during bad times, but what about when times weren’t so bad? He’d cooked Bo pancakes, but only to sweeten him to pop the question. “I’m not sure.”

  “Be sure. Then ask again.” She hopped out of the Jeep and headed toward the elevator, never even looking back. Not smart. Lucky could easily take the twenty-dollar bill over her visor, and in his past felon life, one quick snatch and a shove into his pocket and her twenty became his twenty.

  But no, he’d never steal from her. She trusted him. And for once in his life, he deserved the trust. He wouldn’t do anything to hurt her. And yes, he’d take a bullet for her. Might have to, one day. H
e’d give her hell if he lived, making sure she heard every groan and whine of pain, felt properly guilty, and catered to his every whim for a while, but he’d take a bullet for her.

  As he would for Charlotte, Walter, Bo.

  He’d go through nine kinds of hell for Bo. So why couldn’t he make the man’s life better? What would it take?

  Johnson stopped and leaned against the open elevator door. Nothing left to do but go back to work, bury himself in the job and try to tune out the frantic humming of his mind.

  Johnson didn’t say a word when he stepped on the elevator, nor on the ride up and trip down the hall to the evidence room to turn over the samples. The moment Lucky’s ass hit his desk chair back in his cube, she started in. “Figure anything out?”

  “I don’t want to talk about it anymore right now.” Contemplating the fifteen-plus-year-old picture of his sister he kept on his desk didn’t give him any answers.

  “Okay, but if you need a listening ear, a kind shoulder, or someone to haul your drunk ass home should you decide to drown your sorrows, you know where I am.”

  Yes. Yes, he did. Only, his liver might not be too happy about getting drowned in booze. Neither would Bo. And he wanted to keep both of them happy.

  “What say we get this report written and get out of here?” Her leaning against Bo’s desk across the cube only reminded Lucky how badly he wanted to show Bo the paper he’d shoved into his desk drawer.

  Nice of her to change the subject. Now for a few cold, hard truths he’d have to tell the warehouse owners, let Walter decide whether to call in FDA and shut the place down, and if/when to toss them to DEA.

  Had Lucky’s heart been in his assignment he’d have found tons more to report on, but what he and Johnson found was bad enough. “Do you reckon ‘your warehouse ain’t secure for shit’ is a good enough report?” Typing up four pages wouldn’t change the meaning. The security sucked. And not in the good way he’d been missing from Bo lately. Johnson’s hip check almost put him off balance.

  “Tell you what,” she said. “I’ll take care of the paperwork and upload the video. You go talk to the boss.”

  He put up a token resistance before Johnson wrestled him out of his chair. “But I don’t need to talk to Walter.”

  “Yes, you do, to arrange a leave of absence. And I suggest you talk to Human Resources about what expenses our insurance covers for a liver donor, if your father’s insurance doesn’t foot the bill.”

  “No.” Planning made things too real.

  Johnson pointed down the hall. “Go.”

  “No.”

  “Yes. If you don’t get your ass in Walter’s office and take care of business, I’ll throw you over my shoulder, haul your scrawny ass in there, get the hell out, and lock the door.”

  Pick his battles. Yeah. He’d do what she said. Or at least pretend to. Hey, he got out of typing the report.

  He’d gone a whole three steps from the cube when his self-appointed conscience called out, “And if you even think about walking past that door, I’ll tackle you to floor, hog tie you like a Texas steer, and drag you kicking and screaming in there anyway.”

  And so he stood at the boss’s door, fist raised to knock.

  Johnson shrieked from down the hall. “I called Lisa. She’s guarding the elevator in case you try to run.”

  Damned teamwork. Lucky knocked.

  “Come in, Lucky.”

  Lucky entered the room he’d come to a million times, either to talk shop, ask advice, give a report, or get a well-deserved ass-chewing, and settled into the chair he’d permanently marked with a butt print. “How’d you know it was me?”

  “Because your trainee texted me, said you needed to talk, and insisted I keep her informed if you weren’t in my office in two minutes.” Walter reared back in his chair and rested his hands on his belly.

  Where to start? “I need some time off.”

  “How much time?”

  Lucky shrugged. “A few weeks. I’m not sure yet.”

  “You’re off probation, you don’t need to ask my permission if you have enough vacation days.”

  Nope. Getting the house ready for Bo ate all the days Lucky saved. “I need a medical leave of absence.”

  “I see.” Walter sat up straighter in his chair. “You don’t have to explain. Fill out the forms with H.R. So why are you really here?”

  Because ever since the father given to Lucky by nature disowned him, Walter filled in nicely for the role. “Because I’m trying to do the right thing, and my track record for doing the right thing ain’t too good.”

  “I don’t agree, but if you need to talk, you know I’m here for you.”

  “I haven’t seen my Dad since before I got locked up. Now he’s dying. Or rather, he might be.” Lucky paused and attempted to string words together sensibly. “My sister told me a piece of my liver could save him. Even though the old man’ll never find out what I’ve done, I got to do this.”

  Walter nodded. “It sounds to me like you’re doing the right thing.”

  Lucky buried his face in his hands. “I miss him. I miss the whole damn family.” No. he wouldn’t hide from Walter, and he dropped his hands back into his lap. “The doctor says it don’t happen often, but sometimes the donor has… complications.”

  “I’ve known both organ donors and recipients who’ve had no problems. It’s a relatively safe procedure.”

  “Yeah, but in my life, if things can go wrong, they do.” And horribly so.

  “I beg to differ with you. You’ve made a tremendous impact for the better on this bureau and your fellow agents.” Strange how Walter’s assurances almost blocked out the doctor’s dire warnings. Almost.

  One agent in particular he’d had impact on, though maybe not for the better. “I wanted to let you know what was what. They tell me I’ll be out of work for about six to eight weeks.”

  “I appreciate your telling me. I’ll reassign your cases and put off field training until you’re ready to return. As your department manager, I’ll ask that you plan your absence with me, and as a friend I’ll ask if I can do anything.”

  Not much anyone could do. “You’re a praying man, right?”

  “I am.”

  “Say one for me.” Or one hundred. Lucky needed all the help he could get.

  “I always do.”

  Of course he did. “Thanks, boss.”

  “Anytime. Might I ask what you’ll do with your pets while you’re gone?”

  “Mrs. Griggs offered to take them. The cat’ll be fine there, but I’m afraid she might find Moose a bit of a handful, so we’re taking him to a kennel.” Poor guy. Cooped up in a kennel, with no room to run and no squirrels to chase.

  Walter shook his graying head. “You’ll do no such thing! We have a large, fenced-in yard, and I quite like your dog. We’d be honored if you’d let him stay with us.” He gave a forced smile. “The local squirrels have become quite complacent, I’m afraid. They could do with a bit of exercise.”

  Wow. “Really? You don’t mind? What about your wife?”

  “She’d have my hide if I allowed that sweet creature to go to a kennel.” Walter gave Lucky his best boss face. Daring Lucky to say no?

  “It’d take a load of my… I mean, Bo’s mind.” There Lucky went, nearly blowing his hard-assed reputation again.

  “Then I’ll tell Lucy to expect him. She’ll need time to buy the pet shop out of dog toys.”

  What more could Lucky say? “Thanks, boss. Now I reckon I better get down to H.R. and find out if my insurance will cover the medical costs.”

  Creases appeared between Walter’s eyebrows. “Lucky, have you checked if your father’s insurance covers a living donor?”

  “It does, but my sister says Dad’s nearly maxed out his benefits.” Maybe Bo wouldn’t have to spend his weekends dropping trou for tips, though, if Lucky’s insurance kicked in.

  “Have you discussed financial arrangements with anyone?”

  “I can’t exactly
talk to people who believe I’m dead. My sister is the only one I’ve talked to. I’ll ask H.R. They’re probably my best bet.” They didn’t like him much, but did their job.

  “You do that. And Lucky?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Good luck.”

  Luck. A man called “Lucky” should have plenty of the stuff.

  But the world never gave a shit what Lucky wanted.

  ***

  Lucky sat in his car in the SNB parking lot, staring at a bunch of legalize from his insurance provider, printed out on five pages. Not included. Maximum allowed: $50. Not included. Not covered. Eighty percent after deductible met. Up to $100. Dear God! One-hundred dollars didn’t cover jack shit of what his prescription bill might be.

  His stomach sank.

  But money meant nothing when compared to his father’s life.

  Even if Lucky spent the rest of his own life in debt.

  Chapter Nine

  Lucky settled on the couch with his laptop, propped his feet on the conveniently footstool-shaped Moose, and started answering an online questionnaire. How damned many questions were there?

  Chigger disease? He’d never heard of half these ailments. Lifestyle questions. Had he had unprotected sex in the past six months? No, damn it. What he wouldn’t give to be bare inside of Bo.

  Was he healthy and feeling well? How much exercise did he get? Getting personal, weren’t they? The front door opened. Lucky’s furry footstool shot across the room.

  “Yah! Damn it, Moose! Sit!” Bo collapsed on the floor under a mound of fur, twisting and wriggling to evade Moose’s tongue.

  Lucky stroked his hand over Cat Lucky’s head. The cat hopped off the couch and trotted over to Bo. “Traitor.”

  Still spitting fur out of his mouth, Bo crawled from the floor and plopped down on the couch. “I owe you a kiss when my lips are less fuzzy.”

  “What’s a little dog hair among friends?” Lucky pulled his man in for a proper hello. “How’d your session go?”

  “Okay. I’m getting better at keeping my temper. I told the doctor that whenever the pets go running, I know I’m about to lose my shit and need to stop.” He snorted. “Or when my partner starts fussing over me too much.”