Getting Lucky

by Daryl Banner

  “Oh. Bad date? Or were you stood up?”

  “I even lied to my mom and said I couldn’t make it to a family dinner tonight.” I winced. “So … I guess I’ll be open for drinks.”

  “Fantastic. We both have a problem to drown in a pitcher of yeasty beer.” A little chuckle burst through the phone. “You know, this is the sort of thing I’d expect to hear from Quinton. Not you.”

  “So you’re calling me a horny bastard whose every decision is led by his pant-banana?”

  “Only literally. See you later, James.”

  “I’ll text you after my family dinner, Dunc.”

  When I hung up, I tossed my phone to the side, then put my fingers to my temples to massage an approaching headache into submission. I hadn’t eaten anything yet, but wasn’t so sure that I could if I tried. My stomach was tied in a knot, and my heart felt weighted with invisible stones.

  What was I supposed to do with myself? The weekly forecast was droning in one ear, and the air conditioning was humming softly in the other. And between my ears, no matter how I tried to distract myself, all thoughts led to Lucky.

  Or whatever his real name is.

  My mother didn’t text back, which was common, as she sort of treated her phone like some alien relic that only needed to be tended to once a day, if that. Likely, she won’t be aware of my change in plans until I rang her doorbell. It wouldn’t matter much; my arrival was just a matter of an extra set of dishes and silverware on the table. Regardless of how many guests my mother had to cook for, she cooked enough for twenty.

  After a glance at my watch, I jumped off the bed, clicked off the TV, and grabbed my bag. I only had minutes until noon, after which I’d be charged a late fee.

  Of course, when I got to the front desk, it turned out to be not so easy as I thought.

  “Cancellations must be made twenty-four hours in advance, sir,” explained the front desk clerk—a snooty stick of a bald man with a marshmallow white beard and tiny bifocals. It was the third time he repeated himself, and his tone never changed, like a robot.

  My tone was about to change. “I’m here every other weekend. I am a loyal customer of yours.” Yep. I was turning into one of those guys. “Where’s the blonde clerk from last night? She knows me.”

  “She worked the graveyard shift and left an hour ago.”

  “Well, that’s too bad, because she would have helped me. She knows I’m a regular. You’re just …” I waved my hands unhelpfully at him, unable to produce the word for exactly what he was being.

  “I’m so sorry,” he droned, sounding anything but. “It’s simply our policy. My hands are tied.”

  “Like hell they’re tied,” I spat back. “Look. My plans changed. It’s before noon. If you have to charge me a cancellation fee, late fee, or whatever the hell, fine. Do that. But I shouldn’t have to pay for a room I’m not even going to be sleeping in tonight.”

  “It’s 12:02 PM,” he recited.

  I clenched shut my eyes. I was not going to lose my cool. “I … realize that it’s after noon now. However, when you and I began discussing my checking out, it was ten ‘til, and I had plenty of time to go through your cute little process, which really should’ve just consisted of me turning in my key and then fucking off.”

  “Cancellations must be made twenty-four hours—”

  “I HEARD YOU THE FIRST TIME, YOU TWAT!”

  The man could not be any less fazed by my outburst. He had clearly had a chewing-out dozens of times in his time here at the Royal Flush. He didn’t even flinch. He just waited for me to make my next request, complaint, or outright demand.

  I sighed, all the rage escaping with my breath. This isn’t his fault, I reminded myself. Lucky’s sudden departure isn’t his fault. No hotel would accommodate this request. Ever. He’s not the jerk. You are.

  “If it would satisfy you,” he decided to say, after all the crap he just put both of us through, “I may be able to offer you a credit for a future stay, if I can get one of the managers out of the office to override my system. It will be valid for one night’s stay.”

  The way he said the word “managers” told me everything. This marshmallow-bearded man was as lowly and disgruntled as I was on my worst day at the bank. He had to do the shit job of dealing with dickheads like me while his managers, half his age and twice his salary, sat in an office watching YouTube videos of cats playing badminton all day. We were kin, he and I.

  “I’m …” I couldn’t bring myself to apologize. Instead, I plucked a mint from the dish on the counter. “I’m taking one of these.”

  “They’re free,” he felt it necessary to state.

  What a passive-aggressive little shit he was.

  I felt someone’s presence behind me. I turned, figuring it was just the next person in line. I was even ready to warn them about what they were about to face, the words sitting on my tongue.

  Until I realized I was staring at dice.

  On a t-shirt.

  My t-shirt.

  The sight of him paralyzed me. A bolt of emotion chased its way through my body and struck hard somewhere in my gut.

  “L-Lucky?” I finally managed to get out.

  His face was hard as stone, but his eyes were bright. Was he nervous? Excited? Neither? I couldn’t tell.

  He lifted a paper bag between our faces. “I got us breakfast,” he announced.

  I couldn’t move. I might not have even been able to breathe. I genuinely think I was still trying to convince myself that this was actually happening and I wasn’t still asleep in my hotel room.

  The desk clerk leaned forward, his eyes darting between the two of us, and asked, “Still going to be needing that credit, sir?”

  Chapter 8

  LUCKY

  My heart was halfway up my throat when James and I sat right in the middle of the king size bed in his room and ate my cheap-ass roadside taco truck breakfast burritos.

  I knew how to make a buck or two last.

  My adrenaline was pumping because for a hot second, I really thought James was going to tell me to go fuck myself, and then I’d be on my own with two useless burritos I totally wouldn’t have bought had I been alone. These burritos were my ticket back onto his radar. With each bite of sausage, egg, and potato, I won another tiny bit of him over. Hopefully I hadn’t screwed things up.

  For the record, I’d never bought food for anyone before. Every single cent I made or happened upon went to my own stomach or to a cheap necessity at the thrift store.

  I wondered if he knew that, with every single bite he took. Or if he was just inwardly complaining about the grittiness of the wonky tortillas the truck used, but telling himself to be polite.

  I couldn’t help myself. “You like your burrito or what?”

  He jumped. My words literally startled him. “What?”

  “Your burrito.” I felt self-conscious, which turned me into a dick. “You look like you sat on a cactus. What the hell’s with you?”

  I had such a fascinating way of winning over people’s hearts.

  “I-It’s great,” he finally got out. “I like it.”

  “Great?” I blinked. “You like it? That’s it?”

  His eyes bugged out. “What am I supposed to say? It’s … It’s super tasty. Spicy enough. Sincerely. Best taco I ever ate.”

  “Burrito,” I corrected him firmly. “A couple tacos would have been half the price and a quarter the size.”

  Really, I should get awards for how sensitive and loving I am.

  He swallowed his bite. “Best burrito I’ve ever eaten. Really. The egg is so fluffy and … and just …” He couldn’t seem to settle on the right adjective. Then he wrinkled his face and changed directions. “I … I actually thought you’d gone. I thought you left me.”

  It was my turn to inwardly squirm. I shrugged, playing off his concern, and looked off. He didn’t have to know the whole story. “Nah, no way. There’s a taco truck a couple blocks that way.” I pointed. “I just wante
d to get us a decent-ass breakfast while they were open. They’re cheap as hell, and better than Taco Bell.”

  “That rhymed,” teased James awkwardly. “It should totally be their slogan. Cheap as hell, and better than … than T-Taco …” He gave up, then shifted his eyes uncomfortably and took another big bite.

  I stared at my burrito, still chewing. After swallowing hard—my throat having tightened up—I looked up at him. “I’m glad I … uh, caught you before you left.”

  James nodded back stiffly. “Glad you did, too.”

  I eyed him uncertainly, but he turned his attention to the TV, his eyes shimmering in the sunlight from the windows behind him. After another bite of my burrito, I nodded at him. “So were you only planning to stay until today? Or … what?”

  “No. I …” He shifted uncomfortably. “I’m staying until Sunday, actually. That was my original plan. Staying until tomorrow.” He glanced at me. “I have to get back Monday, so I can’t stay past that. Y’know. Because I have work at the—”

  “Bank,” I finished for him.

  “Bank.” He sighed. “If I could, I’d totally just stay here.”

  I lifted an eyebrow. “Really?”

  “Yeah. I’d spend a whole week here if I could. Hell, maybe I should,” he said suddenly, straightening his spine. Then, just as fast, he slouched again. “Nah. I don’t have enough vacation days.”

  “Vacation?” I took another bite and spoke through it, mouth full. “You get paid vacation?”

  He shrugged. “Only three weeks a year. Kinda shitty, since I’ve been with the company for ten years. I oughta be making so much more than I am by now.”

  “Hmm. You still make more than I do an hour,” I teased flatly.

  James didn’t laugh, instead choosing to eye me, as if my words were a complaint, or a mockery, or a request for his pity.

  And we know how I feel about pity.

  “Anyway,” I went on, ignoring his expression, “I can get out of your hair if you want. No big deal. I just thought the least I could do to repay you for letting me crash here last night—and for the ice cream and dinner—is share some breakfast with you.”

  James shook his head at once. “You don’t have to get out of my hair. I … I like you in my hair.” He flinched, crinkling his face cutely. “Uh, no. That came out wrong.”

  I gave him shit for that. “You want me in your hair?”

  “I meant …” He took a breath, then faced me. “I meant that, if you aren’t up to anything today, I wouldn’t mind at all if you … wanted to hang with me. Because I want to hang with you. I have fun with you. And you can stay here again tonight. Free bed. And you owe me absolutely nothing.”

  I couldn’t watch him while he said all of that. I didn’t want the twinge of giddiness inside me to show on my face.

  That was all exactly what I wanted to hear.

  Because I really want to spend more time around him.

  He wiggled the remaining half of his burrito. “That’s including breakfast, which I am paying you back for.”

  That made me look up. “No. You’re not paying me back.”

  “You need the money a hundred times more than I do. Let’s not have any disillusions about this. I can afford it.”

  I was getting pissed. “Stop looking at me like a homeless little shit. My money’s worth just as much as yours.”

  “I’m not! And I didn’t say it wasn’t! I just …” He swallowed uncomfortably. “I just think you need the money more. Like I said, I can afford it.”

  “So can I,” I shot back. “Just because I don’t work at a bank like you do doesn’t mean I can’t make money.”

  “But—”

  “Why can’t you fucking accept my buying these for us?”

  “You kidding me? I’m supposed to just accept someone who barely has enough to feed themselves buying me breakfast?” His voice was raised with disbelief. “You think that’s supposed to sit well with me at night when I’m sleeping in my big comfy bed?”

  I was on my feet the next instant. “I wanted to do something fuckin’ nice for you, alright?” I was definitely shouting. “Just like you did for me. You think my money’s no good?”

  “Of course your … money … is good!” He ran a hand through his hair, then met my eyes. “Just as good as anyone else’s,” he added more calmly. “It’s just that—”

  “Accept it,” I barked.

  “Accept what?”

  “My gift back to you. Breakfast.” I wiggled the stupid burrito I still held in my fist. “No paying me back. No pity money. I want you to treat me like the human fucking being I was last night. I just want …” My steam ran out already. The rest of my words fell out almost politely. “I just want to be that dude you hung out with in the arcade. Normal. Not someone you coddled.”

  He studied me for a while. Then he replied, “You don’t look like a dude who needs any coddling.”

  “I’m not.”

  “You’ve really taken care of yourself.” His eyes drew down my body. “It’s … It’s really a miracle that you’re not spending all your money on crack, or pot, or … something.” He screwed up his face suddenly and glanced back up at my eyes. “I mean, I’m assuming not. You look clean. You don’t look like a user.”

  I wasn’t a user. I never used a drug in my life, even when I lived in Northpoint and had three different friends I could have bought from. But he didn’t need to know that. “I’ve taken care of myself,” I answered instead.

  “Sorry if I …” He shook his head, then looked down at the burrito in his hand, as if mulling over something.

  A sudden glint in his eyes told me he’d made a decision, and then he brought the burrito to his mouth and took a big, ferocious chomp. A strip of tortilla hung from his lip.

  While chewing, he lifted his chin and met my eyes. “A mighty fine breakfast you provided, Lucky.”

  Figuring that was as much of an apology as I was going to get, I took a bite out of my own burrito and, mouth full, I nodded at him. “Now say thank you, damn it.”

  The strength in my voice seemed to resonate with him. His face went serious. His eyes locked powerfully on mine, sparkling like gems in the sunlight and drowsy with desire.

  Yeah, desire. I knew without a doubt that he wanted me to stay and that he was relieved as hell when I showed my happy ass up in that lobby, stopping him from checking out.

  But I’d be lying if I said this was a one-way street of attention. To be blunt, it was a particularly great feeling to be with a good-looking, smart, well-off guy I actually clicked with who wanted me around—and whose company I genuinely enjoyed.

  A lot.

  He finally obliged me. “Th-Thank you, damn it.”

  I smirked at his literalism. “Now say you won’t pay me back.”

  At that, he hesitated. “I …” He sighed. “I won’t pay you back.” Then he squinted at me and added, “But lunch and dinner are on me. As well as breakfast in the morning.”

  I shrugged, playing nonchalant. “Fine.”

  Then we sat back down on his bed and finished our burritos in a slightly less awkward silence. I’d almost call it pleasant.

  Especially since I caught him fighting off a smile.

  * * *

  An hour later, we were back down in the casinos, and it was like we picked up right where we left off the night before. We spent the whole damned day hopping from one casino to the next. James showed me all his favorite slot machines, and I kept shoving him out of the way to give them a try. He seemed downright giddy, laughing at anything remotely funny that came out of my mouth. I caught myself chuckling more times a minute than I had in months. We grabbed some lunch outside of the casino at a diner down the street that I knew of. With every bite of his burger, James kept groaning in ecstasy, insisting it was the best damned burger he’d ever tasted. I chuckled as I ate mine, and then while we worked on the fries, I learned about his passion for Chopin.

  Like, he was insanely into the piano genius
of Chopin. James knew every damned nocturne, waltz, and sonata by number. He had seen concerts where big-time pianists would play Chopin on a stage in front of a huge audience. James would feel like he was at the damned opera. He’d dress up all fancy for those concerts, but was sad because none of his friends would go with him anymore.

  “I managed to get Duncan to go with me once,” he went on. “Oh, uh, Duncan is a friend of mine. He teaches math at a private school. Oh, and also English now, apparently. Just learned that. Anyway, the totally uncultured bastard fell the hell asleep halfway through Nocturne Number 6 in G minor. Who falls asleep during Nocturne Number 6 in G minor?? He never went with me again, needless to say. The prick.”

  I popped a fry into my mouth and shrugged. “Sounds cool. I’d totally go to one of those if I could.”

  James lifted an eyebrow. “Don’t mess with my feelings, now.”

  “I’m serious. I like fancy music and shit,” I said, sounding like the most “uncultured” motherfucker he’d ever met.

  He squinted suspiciously at me for a moment, then accepted my answer with a nod. “Alright, then. It’s a date.”

  I smirked and dropped my gaze to the basket of fries, which had two sad ones left. His saying that made me feel a little pinch of bitterness, however. Why would he say something like that while knowing that tomorrow he was going to run back to his life and forget I even exist?

  It was well into the night by the time we returned to his room. We had dinner at some fancy pizzeria I’d never drop a dime on, considering the cost for just a single slice of pepperoni. But as it was on James, of course he insisted we ate our fill. And we did—plus breadsticks. After spending only half an hour in the arcade contending with the loud Saturday night crowd, we decided to call it a night, opting instead to hang out back up in the room and watch whatever was on the hotel movie channel.

  I traded my jeans for the red shorts he gave me, then peeled off my shirt and got comfortable on the bed. Yeah, I noticed when James pretty much froze in place at the sight of my shirtless body. It wasn’t lost on me the night before either when his eyes drank every ounce of me like a tall glass of whiskey.