by Eden Winters
Lucky agreed. He’d been brought up to take care of his elders, and if Walter was his second father, that made Mrs. Smith his second mother.
“You trust them to stay at the house alone?” Two teenagers weren’t the safest bet to act responsible without adult supervision. Hell, even with adult supervision Lucky had managed his share of trouble at their age.
Bo nodded. “Todd’s got a good head on his shoulders, and for all his bluster, Ty’s a pretty good kid. Just hurt and confused right now. They’ll be okay until we get there.” He hunkered down in the chair next to Lucky. “Finish eating and close your eyes. We might have a long wait ahead of us.”
A yawn creaked Lucky’s jaw. “What about you?”
“I ate my lunch in the car. The carrots looked good though.”
Lucky wrinkled his nose when Bo bit into the last orange stick. “If you say so.”
“You, eat, then rest.”
Lucky bounced a knee, pent-up frustration raining down.
The bag offered up a cup of potato salad and a spoon. Lucky ate. Resting might be impossible. Thoughts he’d successfully blocked returned with a vengeance. What would happen if Walter didn’t recover? Ever since Lucky first met the man, Walter had carried around a few pounds of extra weight—more than a few—and that he knew of, Walter never exercised.
Why hadn’t Lucky invited him on a run? He tried picturing the boss in a track suit. Okay, maybe a walk? Helped Mrs. Smith keep an eye on his diet? Lord knew the boss heaped enough sugar, caramel, and whipped cream into the liquid doughnut he called coffee. Lucky accepted early on with the bureau that Walter had been around forever and always would be. The place couldn’t possibly run without him.
Had Lucky been so busy with his own problems and his family that he’d not noticed something off about his mentor? He’d nearly lost one father this year, he didn’t want to lose the man he’d looked up to long before he’d been willing to admit it.
Most likely a heart attack, the paramedics said. Easy enough to believe given Walter’s physical condition. Still, doubt niggled in the back of Lucky’s mind.
The assholes at the main office had been urging Walter to retire. Maybe instead of being pissed off, he should’ve been trying to convince the boss to take things easier.
Bo didn’t suggest they go home, had even assured him they didn’t have to, knowing Lucky would want to stay without asking.
Doctors and nurses came and went through the double doors leading to where they’d taken Walter.
Each time one came out, Lucky’s heart missed a beat, until they ambled on past and he could breathe again.
Sooner or later, though, someone would come, and possibly say things Lucky didn’t want to hear.
He gave a heaving sigh, eyes stinging, recalling Walter and the bits and pieces he’d understood. “His breathing was down to six times per minute when we got here. Then dropped to four.” He raised his head from Bo’s comfortable shoulder to view Bo’s reaction. With his pharmacy background, the words might mean more to him than Lucky.
“Four!” Bo’s eyes went wide. “Oh, my God.”
The words were really bad, then. “They couldn’t figure out why the drop but shot him full of Narcan.”
Bo nodded. “If the problem was a lack of oxygen, then it ought to do the trick.”
God, let the drugs work. Narcan, naloxone, what agents gave to narcotics overdose cases. More than a few people still walked the earth due to the medicine’s ability to reverse the effects of oxycodone or heroin overdose.
The opioid antidote even saved Bo’s life once.
“Bo?” Lucky pushed past a boulder in his throat.
“Yes?” Bo clutched Lucky’s hand.
Lucky pulled in a deep breath, stalling for time. Admitting the next part made the words too real, too hard to deny. “He didn’t have enough oxygen for a pretty good while. They said his oxygen stats were in the sixties, whatever that means.”
“Sats. Oxygen saturation levels.” Bo closed his eyes, his squeeze on Lucky’s fingers nearly painful. “Possible brain damage.”
“Fuck.” Lucky wasn’t much of a praying man, but he’d certainly been talking to the man upstairs today.
“It’s probably too early yet to tell.” Bo opened his eyes, the stubborn lift to his chin Lucky knew too well.
“That’s what the paramedic said.” Lucky sniffed and wiped at his eyes with his free hand. “The nurses won’t let me see him.”
“Shh…” Bo rubbed a hand down Lucky’s back. “I’m sure they’re only allowing family right now.”
“I—”
An approaching nurse cut off Lucky’s confession. “Mr. Smith?”
Bo started to answer. Lucky elbowed him. “Yes, ma’am.”
“You can see your father now.” She aimed an apologetic lip twitch at Bo. “I’m sorry, but family only.”
Lucky lifted his and Bo’s clasped hands. “He’s my husband.”
Her mouth and eyes went round. “Oh! Then follow me, please.”
One thing kept Lucky from racing down the hall: not knowing where they’d put Walter.
The nurse finally opened a door and ushered Bo and Lucky inside. “The doctor will be here soon.”
Tubes protruded from Walter’s arms, and a mask hid most of his face. The visible parts of his skin now held more of a pinkish hue.
The tiny form of Lucille Smith sat by Walter’s bedside, holding his hand, appearing more fragile than Lucky remembered.
He placed a hand on her shoulder. She reached up and wrapped her fingers around his, softly sobbing.
Bo grabbed tissues from a box on the nearby table, knelt down beside her, and murmured words of comfort.
Lucky couldn’t form words. A knife plunged into his heart and twisted. Chances were she’d already talked to the doctor, knew things Lucky didn’t. May he never have to watch over a loved one, helpless to do anything, not knowing if they’d live or die.
Or, heaven forbid, have Bo sit at his bedside. Thinking hurt too much. He held on as much for his own comfort as for Mrs. Smith’s.
Each breath Walter took kept him in the world a little longer.
Then again, Lucky might be watching a loved one die now.
The door clicked open and a doctor entered the room. Lucky nodded every now and then, letting Bo ask the questions and translate medicalese to real speak.
Walter might never wake up. They’d ruled out heart attack, but something sure as hell went wrong.
And Lucky had never told the old man how much he loved him.
Chapter Seven
Lucky sat on the ugly couch in his counselor’s office. “Fuck my life,” he said. He’d long since given up on making nice and keeping conversation civil. If you couldn’t speak your mind to someone paid to listen, who else?
Besides, limiting his language to PG-13 level at home for the sake of his nephews seemed to build up obscenities until he’d have to disappear somewhere and explode in an unwitnessed fit of swearing.
Dr. Libby Drake sat in her usual chair, never flinching no matter what came out of his mouth. “When we last met, you’d reconciled with your family, your sister planned to move closer, and you spoke of proposing to your boyfriend. What’s happened in that time to bring you down?”
What indeed? “My parents barely tolerate each other, I really could use my sister right now but she’s in Spokane selling her house, one of my nephews hates me, and my boyfriend keeps saying no.”
“How does that make you feel?”
Feelings. Lucky used to hate feelings, avoiding them at all costs. Feelings weren’t all bad, they had their place, but right now he’d like to switch off his swirling emotions for a while, turn his brain to neutral.
He couldn’t. He’d tried.
“There’s this man, my boss. I think we talked about him a couple times.” Or a couple dozen.
The edges of Dr. Libby’s lips curled upward. “I believe we have. Your mentor, correct?”
“Yes… ma’am.
” There went Bo again, with the long-distance imaginary elbow to Lucky’s side. He released his breath slowly, trying to push out the tension as she’d once taught him. “He… He’s in the hospital.”
She returned her features to blank-face. “Nothing serious, I hope.”
Lucky dragged his hands over his cheeks, chafing his palms on two days’ worth of stubble. “The doctors don’t know. With his age and weight, everybody figured he’d had a heart attack, but they ruled that out. His oxygen level plunged for some unknown reason, and now he’s unresponsive.” His eyes burned. “They say… they say he might have brain damage.” Speaking the words made them more real, and the pain didn’t lessen with time.
On some level he’d known the boss might retire someday, but not like this. He closed his eyes, picturing Walter in the ambulance, the pale blue cast to his skin. He’d seen skin like that on overdose victims, but nothing had been found in Walter’s system to cause the problem.
A dozen different compounds produced the same effect, untraceable without the most sophisticated tests. But where would Walter have come into contact with illicit drugs? Mrs. Smith already gave the doctors all Walter’s prescriptions. Nothing in those bottles caused such a reaction.
“I’m so sorry, Lucky.” The doctor frowned, a line forming between her brows. “He’s like a father to you, isn’t he?”
“Yes, ma’am.” He didn’t need her sympathy right now. In fact, he didn’t need anything at all, except a kind ear.
“If you feel the need, I could write you a prescription.”
Drugs. They did good in the world, and bad. How easy would it be to take what she offered, dampen the pain? No.
Lucky got up from the couch. He needed someone to listen. Not someone. One person. And not Dr. Libby. “I’m sorry, Doc, I need to go.”
“Wait a minute! Where are you going?” She trotted along behind him, high heeled shoes clipping across the floor.
“There’s someone I need to see.” Why had he even come here, told a stranger who couldn’t care less about Walter?
He rushed out to the parking lot and hopped into his Camaro, checking the time on his phone. Good, he had a few moments. Breathing deeply in and out, he counted to ten, then repeated the process.
He needed to talk to someone who cared as much as he did. Bo should be getting out of his own counseling appointment in about a half hour. Better to wait in the car than be expected to talk to someone without a vested interest in his problems.
She’d offered him drugs. As if.
He flinched from his thoughts when the passenger door opened and Bo climbed inside.
Lucky checked the time. “You’re out early.”
“Not as early as you,” Bo replied. “Did you tell your doctor about Walter?”
Lucky nodded. “You?”
Bo barely dipped his chin, eyes downcast. No, that wouldn’t do. He usually distanced himself physically when life gut-punched him, but he wouldn’t hide his mind by looking away.
Lucky placed his hand alongside Bo’s jaw, lifting until their gazes met.
“It’ll be okay,” Bo said, at the same time Lucky told him, “It’ll be all right.”
They stared at each other across the console, the misery in Bo’s eyes probably matching Lucky’s own. He grabbed Bo and held tight.
Maybe he didn’t need to talk at all.
The first time they’d held each other was to cry after Bo confessed his father’s sins and pulled away, like he often did when he most needed comfort. Somewhere along the line he’d stopped running, let Lucky in a little, then a lot. Like a moment ago, though, sometimes Lucky had to reach out, draw Bo back in.
But now, like Lucky, Bo had begun to turn to “them” in times of trouble. The two of them alone had seriously fucked up their lives. Together? Together they made the best of whatever situation they faced. Sometimes Bo comforted Lucky, sometimes Lucky comforted Bo, but they were always there for each other, no matter what.
Maybe Bo was right and they didn’t need a piece of paper to show their dedication to each other, though claiming Bo as his husband got them both in to see Walter.
As he straightened, reluctantly pulling away from Bo, sunlight glinted against something shiny. He whipped around, staring at the dark blue van parked across the street. The windows were closed, hiding the occupant behind a shield of tinted glass.
No mistaking; he’d seen a camera.
A camera. Capturing a hug between him and Bo.
Only a few years ago, he’d have panicked at someone catching proof of his and Bo’s relationship. Now? Screw them. Nothing in the world mattered more than Bo.
God save the idiot if Lucky ever found out who dared take pictures.
And why.
***
No matter what time of day, one of O’Donoghue’s flunkies seemed to be watching Lucky’s every move, though he’d still not found the owner of the van. Lucky hopped up from his desk, darted past the partition into the corridor and growled. Rookie Rogers shot a panicked look over his shoulder and disappeared around a corner.
“Lucky?” Bo glanced up from his desk.
“Third time today that jerkoff passed by.” Lucky stared down the hall, daring the redheaded sonofabitch to turn around.
“Have you ever considered that maybe he just went to the break room?”
Lucky twisted his neck to face Bo while still looming large in the cubicle entrance. “You know as good as I do that everyone in the department avoids coming this way.” Lucky’d worked hard on a suitably nasty reputation to keep others at bay.
Except for Bo, who kinda lived there, and the intimidating woman strolling casually down the hallway. “Rogers just ran into me, literally. I saw him coming from this way. What did you do to him?” she asked offhandedly, merely making conversation. “If you punched him, did you get in a lick for me? Bastard took my parking spot this morning.”
“Lucky didn’t hit him, but I think it was a close thing,” Bo said, resuming his typing.
Lucky and Johnson shared a look. “I’m sure he deserved it,” Johnson said, fist-bumping Lucky.
Bo looked up again. “You know, you two are starting to turn into the same person.”
Johnson didn’t argue, so neither did Lucky. Turning into Johnson wouldn’t be so bad, as long as he got to keep… well… his johnson.
A flash of copper drew his attention. Rogers ducked around the corner.
Lucky stalked him, tuning out the twin shouts of, “Lucky!” He caught Rogers by the stairwell. “Where you going in such an all-fired hurry?” Leaning an arm against the wall effectively cut off the man’s escape. “Why are you following me?”
Rogers gulped, Adam’s apple bobbing. “I… I…”
“Harrison!”
Lucky winced at the below.
“I want to see you in my office. Now.”
Damned O’Donoghue.
Rogers squeaked once and ran.
Lucky stormed down the hall and into the office O’Donoghue had claimed, slamming his hand down on O’Donoghue’s desk. “Call off your dogs.”
O’Donoghue rolled his eyes upward and dropped into his chair. “What’s got your shorts in a knot, Harrison?”
Lucky leaned down, putting himself nose to nose with the asshole he’d rather punch than talk to. “I know you’ve been putting your men up to watching me. I’ve done nothing to deserve it. Call them off.”
The man on loan from the DEA for God only knew why leaned back and rested his folded hands on his lap. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” The soul of a predator stared at Lucky from green-flecked blue eyes.
Older than Lucky, the guy kept himself fit, with a wiry build and a New York cop accent he turned on and off at will. Five o’clock shadow darkened his cheeks, even at ten in the morning. Gray accented straight, dishwater blond hair.
Lisa came in, pushing a cart full of boxes. She blanched when she saw Lucky. “Bad time?”
“No. Come on in. This shouldn’t take l
ong.” O’Donoghue shot Lucky a cold glare and made shooing motions with his hand. “If you have a problem with one of your coworkers, come to me. Rogers told me about how you’ve been provoking him. I didn’t believe him, and then I saw you with my own eyes.” Rising from his desk, he took a box Lisa offered. Lisa kept her gaze averted, shoulders slumped.
“Provoking him? He’s been following me!”
O’Donoghue narrowed his gaze. “Paranoid much? Why would he do that? Now get back to work, and I’m warning you, you’d better be on your best behavior.”
He dismissed Lucky with a turned back, opened a desk drawer and loaded the contents into a cardboard carton. What? Was he leaving? Hallelujah! But his leaving wouldn’t explain Lisa’s dejected look.
Lucky rested a hand on the door and wasted his most sinister glower. “Keep them away from me or I’ll deal with them like I would any other stalker.” He charged out of the room without a backward glance.
Bo sat in their cube, typing away.
“Do you know why O’Donoghue might be packing?” Bo had enough friends in the department to access any gossip.
“Packing?” Bo glanced up, fingers hovering over his keyboard.
“Yeah, he’s in his office right now, with Lisa, loading boxes.” Lucky should be elated at the asshole’s leaving, but unease settled like day old coffee in his guts, especially in light of Walter saying O’Donoghue might be in line for his job.
“You stay here, I’ll check this out.” Bo traipsed down the hallway, only to return a few seconds later, face pale and eyes flashing.
“What?” Lucky demanded. Somebody better not have said something to upset Bo. Lucky had a can of whoop-ass he’d be happy to open on anyone dumb enough to mess with his man.
Bo slumped down into his chair. “You’re not gonna like it. Hell, I don’t like it either.”
“Like what?”
Bo raised pain-filled eyes. “He’s moving into Walter’s office.”