Another stinking alley. One of many in the bad part of Atlanta, reeking of trash and piss. Either rats or big-assed palmetto bugs scuttled along the ground. Lucky’s shiver wasn’t all due to a nippy spring evening.
Light mist chilled his face. He stuck close to the shadows, inching away from safety and closer to who the fuck knew. The nasty fug crept into his mouth and took up residence on his tongue. His throbbing ankle worked overtime to convince him he’d gotten too old for this shit.
Damned gimpy-assed leg. Lucky’s heart pounded, and sucking air like a vacuum didn’t fill his lungs with enough oxygen.
After this case, he’d have to put in more time running, to hell with the bitching ankle. And working out. And doing whatever else came to mind so a mere two-mile run didn’t leave him huffing and puffing.
The alleyway ended. He flattened his back against the wall, whipped his head far enough to the left to peer around the corner, and pulled back. Yup. The white panel van. Though the van hid the perps from view, the bumps and bangs gave their whereabouts away.
Six-feet-plus of pissed off fellow agent faced him in all her muscled glory, pressed against the far wall and scarcely breathing hard. Showoff. One look at Loretta Johnson and the perps might shit their pants.
They might laugh at him—for a minute. Small dogs bit hard.
Gun held close to his face, Lucky made a crisscross sign to his partner with his free hand. Johnson nodded. Nice having her play for the good guys. If not for the matching SNB logo on their shirts, he’d be scared of her too.
In a few seconds, some two-bit drug dealers were going to get hit with a whole lot of what they had coming. “If they make me late getting home…” Johnson muttered.
Oh no. Don’t ever keep Mama Bear out too late to feed her kid.
Lucky unlocked his knees and bounced out a count. On three, he darted to the left and around the back of the van. Johnson took the front. The van’s headlights projected her shadow to giant proportions on the wall behind her.
“Southeastern Narcotics Bureau. Hands on your head!” she barked.
One of the suspects smiled the slick, oily smile of a slime ball. He turned to Johnson with his hands out to his sides. “What have we here?”
His buddy, in the middle of picking up a big blue tote, did as told. Smart man. Making Slime Ball Dumbass the boss, and the flunky with his hands on his head, too much gut, and not enough hair, Idiot Number One.
Idiot Number Two jumped out of the van. From this angle, the asshole couldn’t see the red dot on his back. Yup. As much as Lucky hated teamwork, having a weapon trained on an enemy’s back worked for him.
And they hadn’t yet spotted Lucky, adding “Stupid” to their job titles.
Dumbass took a step forward. “You wouldn’t shoot an unarmed man, would you?”
Johnson’s evil grin didn’t faze the guy, but it scared the shit out of Lucky.
Lucky’s musclebound protégé had once knocked his sorry ass to the ground. This guy, who’d probably never lifted anything heavier than a case of beer, wouldn’t be a problem.
The shit-for-brains took another step. “No, I don’t believe you’ll shoot.”
Johnson kept an eye on Dumbass, leaving Lucky free to watch Idiot One and Idiot Two. The first, not given to fighting, now lay stretched out on the ground. “Stop, Ramon. He means business,” the guy shouted. Repeated arrests left a man well trained, and twenty bucks said his record beat Lucky’s. And how nice of him to provide a name.
“Shut the fuck up!” Dumbass shot back.
“Smile, you’re on my body cam…” Hell, the sound of Johnson’s booming voice alone ought to put the fear of God into all three targets.
Idiot Number Two reached into the van and pulled out a gun.
Go on, you sonofabitch. Aim at her. Give us a reason to take you down. Body cams came in handy for proving the need for use of force.
And still Dumbass approached, sporting his red back dot. The dot, shuffling from the alleyway, and heavy breathing announced the arrival of the cavalry—slow asses.
Okay, Lucky and Johnson secured the scene, with a man on a balcony above and another in plain sight across the street. The boss could ream Lucky out later for not waiting until backup arrived to approach their marks.
Johnson put extra snarl into her words. “Your buddy there has three seconds to drop the gun, or I’ll drop you both.” Dumbass hadn’t yet realized the danger. The woman standing before him didn’t need a gun to put him down.
And call her a helpless female at your own risk. Right before your ass hit the ground.
The asshole walked up and snatched the gun from her hand. She let him.
He scowled. “Hey, no bullets.”
Johnson smiled and folded her arms across her body-armor-covered chest. “You’re right. I won’t shoot you. But my partner might.” She nodded toward Lucky.
The guy spun, his face a perfect visual of Oh shit! “Get him!”
Idiot Two raised his gun while Idiot One cowered on the pavement, and Dumbass made the biggest target he possibly could.
Three shots. Three men lying twitching on the ground. Not as permanent as a gun, but a Taser had its place in the great scheme of things.
And didn’t require nearly as much red tape.
***
Whether the case ended successful or a total fuckup, Lucky still hated all the damned paperwork. But typing up reports gave him a good excuse to stay in his cube, or rather, his side of the cube. He flicked a glance to the unlived-in looking desk across the way. A closed laptop, a pen holder with four matching, department-issued black ink pens, and a Christmas cactus trailing shoots down the side of a filing cabinet. No human.
Lucky’s desk stayed piled high with papers, files, and mostly-empty Starbucks cups. Five cups meant Friday. His current brew sat closest to his laptop. Several times in the past, he’d grabbed the wrong one. Brrr… Week old coffee.
He leaned back in the chair he alone in the department managed to tame, one hand on the desk to steady himself lest the Hell Bitch throw him. She’d tried before. Lordy, she’d tried. Succeeded a time or two. But if a chair threw him without video evidence on social media, it never really happened in his book.
He shifted his gaze back to the clean side of the cube. Where was Bo anyway? He’d better not have snuck back to spring a surprise. Only twenty minutes left to be home free, if no one called Lucky into the boss’s office to ambush him with cake and off-key singing. Officially, he’d grow a year older tomorrow, but the department never seemed to care. They’d celebrate whenever they felt like.
So far this year, no one had embarrassed him with cake and ice cream, expecting him to play along and act cheerful. People going all out on birthdays. Why? He’d counted the days until he’d turned sixteen and got his driver’s license. Then he marked the calendar pages until eighteen, when he was deemed legally, if somewhat inaccurately, an adult.
Then he couldn’t wait until twenty-one to go clubbing and survive getting carded. Then he’d counted days until he’d done his time and become a free man.
Now, years rolled around faster and faster. He’d never expected to reach thirty-eight. Yeah, birthdays. Screw ‘em.
“Look, I need a favor.” A Loretta Johnson-shaped shadow fell on Lucky’s desk. No one else dared come here but Walter and Bo, and Walter didn’t scare easily no matter how hard Lucky tried. Bo simply rolled his eyes and growled.
Loretta? She ignored Lucky’s bluster. Lucky whooshed out a breath and gave his latest trainee his best evil eye. “What do you want?”
She either didn’t know or didn’t care what kind of violence awaited when Lucky wanted privacy, one of many reasons he’d set up shop in an out of the way cubicle rather than share space with a bunch of perfectly trained lapdogs.
“I’m supposed to see a contact tonight and need backup.” She used the one argument guaranteed to sway Lucky every time: “Walter said you were the best man for the job.”
“And he’s right. Where and when?”
The corner of her mouth twitched, but she didn’t smile or gloat. “Tonight, nine o’clock at The Raging Stallion.”
Lucky’s frown shifted to a scowl. “A gay bar?” Besides being the best man for the job, he’d probably be the only one in the department besides Bo who’d make it five feet past the front door without someone figuring out they didn’t belong.
Johnson folded her arms over her chest. “You got a problem?”
Of course not, and he’d been out to Johnson for a while, but still, a gay bar? He’d not gone to The Stallion in years. “Nope, no problem.” No problem but going to one of the South’s hottest pickup joints without his off-the-clock partner.
He’d probably get hit on, since his lack of socially redeeming qualities didn’t show until he started talking. Not like he wanted the attention. A man hotter than any club boy waited at home… or rather, lurked somewhere. Bo’s first undercover assignment since he’d gotten out of rehab hadn’t left him much time to call home.
Lucky ought to be with Bo, should anything go wrong. Asshole Keith better not let anything happen to him, or he’d answer to Lucky’s fist.
“I’m waiting,” Johnson said, bringing Lucky back to the here and now. She stood at the entrance to his cube, tapping her foot.
“Oh, all right.” He powered down his laptop, stuck it into his case, and stopped himself. Taking work home from the office? Oh, the horrors. The bag fit perfectly beneath his desk, where no one ever cared to look, not even housekeeping. They’d learned to stay away from his desk a long time ago.
He followed Johnson to the parking garage, stopping by her Jeep to see her safely inside. She smiled. “Better watch it or the rumor might get ‘round that you’re one of them there Southern gentlemen.” She cawed at her joke and wiped a tear from her eye. “Meet me at my place in an hour.” She looked him from head to feet. “And put on something club-worthy, okay?”
What? His normal jeans and an only-slightly-wrinkled button down weren’t good enough? He’d at least worn an official SNB shirt last night for the bust—mostly because he hadn’t gotten around to doing laundry. Still grumbling, he stumbled over to his restored Camaro and joined the masses leaving Atlanta during rush hour.
Finally he arrived at his and Bo’s front yard, straw spread over the lawn to keep seed in place until grass started growing. No matter how hard they worked, the Harrison-Schollenberger residence made a poor cousin next to the better kept neighborhood houses.
Paint peeled from the shutters, and weeds came up through cracks in the driveway. Fix one thing and two more broke. Their smart investment turned into a never-ending work in progress.
He eased into the driveway and tried the clicker to raise the garage door. Nada. Crap. When he’d paid to have the thing fixed, it should’ve stayed fixed.
Fluttering curtains in the front window of the house next door gave away the neighbor’s nosiness. Lucky sauntered up three steps to the front door. Screw ‘em if they wanted a show.
Cat Lucky stared back from the living room window, likely planning evil for the neighbor’s dog.
Lucky unlocked and pushed the front door. The door pushed back. He tried again. The door slammed before he could wriggle through.
“Damn it, Moose! Let me in!” Once more he pushed… and crashed to the floor. He sealed his lips into a tight line a split second before the world’s biggest puppy swiped its tongue across his face. Yuck! Dog drool!
He jumped up and entered the code before the alarm went off.
A bucket of dog food kept Moose happy in the backyard while Lucky showered and shimmied into a pair of jeans. Hey, they weren’t nearly so tight the last time he’d tried them on. Not “I can hit high notes” tight, but body-hugging to the point of revealing his assets.
Next came a T-shirt snug enough to show off all the time put in working on his upper body. Shit-kicker boots completed the outfit, along with a light jacket. The nights still managed to be a bit cool this early in the year, giving him a perfect place to hide his gun.
He squirmed a bit in his car to get comfy with the seam of his Levi’s cramping his junk, and readjusted himself several times on his way to Johnson’s apartment.
She wriggled her way out of the building to a chorus of catcalls from a group of twenty-something guys milling around the doorway. Wearing a skin-tight dress wouldn’t slow her down much if she decided to make one of them an example for respecting women.
One particularly stupid bastard grabbed his crotch. “Oh, baby. Come see what I got for you.”
Quicker than Lucky could open his door to come to her defense, Johnson had the jerkoff dangling by his shirt collar. She slowly lowered him back down. “Learn how to talk to a lady and maybe you won’t always have to use your right hand for company.”
The guy brushed himself off and slunk away, the hoots and hollers from his friends a warning to all.
She finished her strut to the car in peace, the now much wiser punks leaving at high speed.
“You were too easy on him.” Lucky would’ve pounded some heads.
Johnson buckled herself into the passenger seat. “If he tries his bullshit again, I’ll dislocate his shoulder. Let’s get going.”
He hadn’t gone hunting at The Stallion since setting up house with Bo, long enough for the overaggressive horn dogs he’d taken swings at to forget him in a fog of alcohol and other rejections.
“So, what’s the deal?” No cases involving The Stallion had come across his desk, but Johnson acted more as Lucky’s assistant now than a trainee. Walter could have given her something.
“If anyone asks,” Johnson said, “we’re coworkers, and I’m taking you out for your birthday.”
Lucky cut his eyes in her direction. “And?” Surely Walter and the work crew wouldn’t go this far to embarrass him with cake and singing.
“And, I’m treating you to a private dance from my contact. You go into the back with him, he dances, you tip him, and he’ll give you a list of names. Easy enough, right?”
Lucky had his share of private dances back in the day, and none compared to music played from his ancient stereo and Bo shaking his moneymaker for an audience of one.
But having another man half-naked and rubbing against him? On company time? Well, he’d keep telling himself it was all part of the job. He didn’t have to touch except to tip the guy.
At the club, Johnson slid him a few bills. “For the tip. Let’s go have some fun.” He caught her at the door. “My treat,” she said, yanking Lucky closer and flashing the bouncer a toothy grin. “It’s my friend’s birthday!”
If the bouncer stared any harder, Lucky might have to charge the guy fifty bucks, then arrest himself for prostitution.
The musclebound guard brushed Lucky’s ass when he passed. “Happy Birthday!”
Asshole. Lucky glared, the bouncer laughed.
Hand between Lucky’s shoulder blades, Johnson steered him inside the converted cotton mill and toward the bar. “Two Coors Lights, please.”
The place hadn’t changed much. Same blend of stale booze and a hundred competing colognes. Same dirty floor he’d never walk barefoot across. Same low light so you couldn’t see what your dance partner looked like until you woke up the next morning and tried chew your arm off and escape.
Johnson handed him a glass. “Act like you’re here for a good time.”
Lucky took a sip and sputtered. She’d certainly learned well about ordering drinks to blend in, like she’d been taught while training in undercover ops, but… “Light beer?”
Blending in wasn’t happening with a woman whose fluffy hair and heels put her close to seven feet tall. Did she ever get mistaken for a drag queen? And would Lucky survive asking the question? Even in jest?
The baddest woman in the club meandered through the crowd, Lucky in tow. Lesser beings parted to give her room. One glower and two twinks backed away from the table she’d set sights on and scurried off.
She pulled out a chair. “Wait here. I’ll be right back.”
Lucky claimed the seat facing the door. Whatever came his way better look out. No sneaking up. He idly patted the gun hidden beneath his jacket.
Johnson took off before he could stop her, leaving him with his beer for company. At one time, he’d have scoped out a likely fuck buddy, someone to share a few meaningless but sweaty moments and then part company with a smile and no names exchanged. How times had changed.
Now he’d trade all the bodies thrashing on the dance floor for an evening with one particular man. He pulsed fuck-off vibes at a couple of men who dared make eye contact. Not interested. Wasn’t a single one of ‘em could hold a candle to Bo.
Where was Bo tonight? What was he doing? Had he remembered Lucky’s birthday? He hadn’t sent a card or gift, but his undercover assignment limited contact with the real world. And Lucky had growled enough at him in the past for making a big deal of the day.
But maybe the whole birthday thing wasn’t so bad. Especially not when Bo went to great lengths to make Lucky feel special. Breakfast in bed, with bacon. Followed by hot sex. Oh well, maybe next year.
Crap! The overly-groomed moron who ignored a perfectly aimed scowl and slid into Johnson’s chair might have been the same persistent bastard Lucky’d punched out during his last visit to the club.
Shit-for-Brains had the nerve to smile. “Mind if I join you?”
Wow. Teeth bleached to blinding whiteness needed a “sunglasses required” warning. “Would saying ‘go the hell away’ make you leave?” Oh, geez. The guy reeked of some kind of hoity-toity imported beer, cigarettes, and over-inflated ego.
“Oh, don’t be like that.” The shithead wasn’t planning to take no for an answer, and settled more fully in the chair.
Lucky sighed. “I guess not.”
The world’s most unwanted pest grinned and leaned over the table. “What? You think I’m an ax murderer or something?”
He liked living dangerously, huh? Lucky turned on his best evil leer. “Of course not. What’s the chance of two ax murders meeting up at the same table, in the same club, on the same night?”
The grin vanished off the man’s face for a moment. Then he laughed and shook a finger in Lucky’s direction. If he did that again he’d pull back a nub. “Oh, you are a kidder, aren’t you?”
Now to employ his best serious face, saved for important lies. “Not really. But the way I see it, he had it coming. See, he approached me in a bar and wouldn’t leave me alone.” Lucky leaned in, putting himself nose to nose with the pain in the ass. “I got off on a technicality.”
The chair flew backwards. Wow! Someone pull the guy over for speeding. He nearly knocked Johnson over getting away.
Johnson grabbed the chair before it hit the floor. “What’s his problem?”
Lucky shrugged. “I dunno. I told him I’m with you, and you’re the jealous type. Then he hauled ass.”
She narrowed her eyes, silently calling bullshit, but she let the matter drop and sat down across from Lucky, wriggling a bit to bend in her form-fitting dress. “I’ve got you all set up. Go down that hallway,” she said, pointing with a red talon, “and turn left—”
“I know where the back rooms are.” Let her figure out for herself how he knew.
“Okay. Room seven.” Johnson’s smirk grew frightening. “Have fun with Rex!”
Rex, huh? Why’d Lucky need to know the guy’s name? Get in, let him do his thing, shove a tip in a thong, get the list, and get out. Be home by ten.
And do what? Watch the cat and dog chase each other around the living room? Go to bed alone, or rather with only four-legged company?
Lucky sighed, killed his beer, and slammed his glass down on the table. Time to go to work. He found room seven easily enough, slipped inside, and parked his ass in a comfy chair at the back of the closet-sized space. The indirect lighting might even raise a dancer’s looks from a possible six to an eight, or maybe an eight and a half.
The door opened. His heart rate kicked into overdrive. His eyes adjusted, allowing him to make out a man’s shape in the gloom. The scent of leather hit his nose the moment the music started. The lights rose enough to paint the dancer’s body in shadows and light.
What the fuck? Who the hell danced to Achy Breaky Heart?
Leather cap, chaps, thong, and boots.
The dancer kept perfect time, swaying and stepping to the beat, head down, with the hat hiding most of his face.
Oil and a smattering of dark hair glimmered on his muscular chest. He wasn’t too bulky, didn’t worship at the altar of barbells, but his sleek body fit right in with Lucky’s ideal. A swimmer or runner’s build.
Something about the movements… Nah, couldn’t be.
But yet, the curve of his biceps, the neatly trimmed chest hair. Lucky’s heartbeat sped up.
The first verse of the song wound down and the chorus began. Holding his hat in place with one hand, the guy whirled, putting the world’s finest bubble butt, framed by black leather, up close and personal with Lucky’s face.
It didn’t matter how or why. Questions could come later. Lucky raised his hands to caress Bo’s taut flesh.
“No touching,” Rex hissed over his shoulder.
Okay, maybe only no touching for the customer, because the biker’s wet dream come to life whirled and straddled Lucky’s thigh, thrusting his hips and grinding. He brought his chest within kissing distance of Lucky’s lips and backed off.
Lucky shifted in the chair. Damn his tight-assed blue jeans, choking the life out of his bound-up cock. His cock wanted out of the jeans, out of the chair, and into “Rex”.
Bo added fuel to the fire by rubbing his hand over Lucky’s crotch. A few more rubs would solve the problem.
“How long’s it been?” Bo nipped Lucky’s earlobe.
“Five weeks, three days, fourteen hours.”
“Liar.”
“Seems like longer.” More like forever since Lucky had rolled over in the night to find Bo beside him. Forever and a whole lot of sleepless nights.
Bo nuzzled Lucky’s neck. “Agreed.”
Lucky owed Johnson dinner. His car. His firstborn. Whatever she wanted for giving him the perfect gift.
Bo. Even if he only looked, couldn’t touch, and definitely wouldn’t get to take the man home.
The song ended. Bo unwound himself from Lucky, sweat sheened, and waited by the chair. Waited for what?
Oh. Lucky tucked the money from Johnson into Bo’s thong, adding extra contact with his fingers. No touching, hell!
Bo bent at the waist and barely skimmed his lips over Lucky’s cheek while slipping a piece of paper into his hand. What?
Oh. The list. So, Bo wasn’t only a birthday gift, but Johnson’s contact. Lucky stood, so close he could bring Bo to his chest with little effort.
“Meet me out back in thirty minutes.” Like putting on a shirt, Bo rearranged his thong, donned his “Rex the Stripper” persona and swaggered out of the room.
Lucky uncramped his dick, waited a few minutes for his raging hard-on to subside, and made his way back into the bar. Johnson shooed away a few barflies and handed him another beer. “You get the list?”
Lucky nodded.
“Did you enjoy your birthday present?” She grinned.
What should he say? While he loved seeing his partner, even if for a few minutes, it wouldn’t do to make too much of her efforts. Lucky was the woman’s boss after all. “It was okay.” Better than okay. Fan-damn-tastic.
Johnson stood. “Good. Now, let’s have some fun while we’re here. Dance with me.”
Lucky stared at her outstretched hand. Dance? Him? And her? When she could pick him up and twirl him like he weighed nothing?
“I’ll take that dance.” A woman nearly as tall and sturdy as Johnson clasped her hand.
Johnson shrugged, pooched her lip out at Lucky, and settled on the dance floor with her new admirer—an admirer who’d be disappointed if she expected more than a dance.
As far as Lucky knew, Johnson liked men who didn’t deserve her, preferably small and blond, with Mama and Daddy issues.
Lucky pulled his cellphone out every few minutes to check the time. Bo strutted onto the tightly-packed dance floor and wriggled out some dancing room.
He’d added chains to his outfit and a fake dragon tattoo trailing down his arm. Folks gave him space and turned to stare. Other Stallion dancers mingled, a young one sashaying his way over to Lucky.
Lucky peered around the guy to get a better look at Bo. Who wanted a young’un when a full-grown man danced so provocatively a few feet away?
The way-too-young dancer pouted and skulked off. Bo commanded attention, dancing with Johnson and her partner, then traipsing off to light up someone else’s world.
Someone’s “Woot!” snapped Lucky’s attention to Bo grabbing the back of a chair and lowering himself down over a laughing man’s lap. Totally in his element. Owning the moment. Had he lied to Lucky about hating stripping while earning his way through college?
Bo glanced up and winked, his smile falling for a moment.
Still his Bo. Holy shit! Lucky’s lover, turning on other men on while making eye contact with him nearly got him off.
Thirty minutes finally ended. He shot down the hall. The timeclock by the backdoor held a few dozen cards, one for “Rex, T.” Hardy har har. Trust Bo to use the nickname he’d hung on Lucky for his stripper name.
Lucky slipped out the back into an alley. Heh. Seemed like old times. Him, Bo, an alley, the scent of barbecue from the restaurant across the street, and a heavy bass beat.
The door screeched open. “I don’t have long. Sooner or later, someone will figure out I lied about cops staking out this alley.” Bo smashed his lips down and invaded Lucky’s mouth with his tongue.
Lucky’s “Mppph” of surprise melted into a satisfied hum. He rubbed his hardening cock on Bo through a layer of denim. The black leather thong barely kept Bo’s bulge in check.
Both his hands full of firm ass, Lucky finally got to hold his man the way he’d wanted to.
Bo slammed Lucky against the wall, dropped to his knees and fumbled with the zipper on Lucky’s jeans. Moist heat. Bo’s tongue. The familiar rhythm of two lovers with years of practice. And yet every tongue stroke, every little bit of suction, every moan, seemed sweet and wonderful and new.
Lucky plopped Bo’s hat on his own head and worked his fingers through Bo’s hair.
Bo here, sucking him off, working undercover, and doing all right.
It had been a long time. Too long. “I’m gonna blow.” Lucky gritted his teeth.
Bo pulled off and rose to his feet. “Not yet, you’re not.”
Oh. Commanding. Yes.
Bo grasped Lucky’s wrists and pinned them against the rough brick wall. Oh damn. The heat in his eyes…
And the Bo Lucky knew whispered, “Is this okay?”
“Oh hell, yeah.” Mouth to mouth, body to body. Held in place, like Lucky often wished for.
He registered the snick of cuffs a moment before the metal grasped his wrists. What the fuck? Bo grinned, raised Lucky’s arms up high, and hooked the chain on something, freeing his hands so he could stroke Lucky’s straining flesh.
Bo grabbed Lucky’s shoulder and spun him around. Lucky kissed the wall, and night air brushed his bare ass. How had Bo gotten his jeans down so fast? The hat tumbled to the ground.
The club’s thumpa, thumpa beat pounded the wall pressed so tightly against Lucky’s chest. The muscles in his arms strained, and the cuffs tightened on his wrists.
Restrained. Completely at Bo’s mercy.
Fucking A.
Cellophane ripped, a sound Lucky never wanted to hear again. But when Bo sank into a character, he sank deep, like he now sank his slick fingers into Lucky. Hell yeah!
Lucky pushed back as much as possible, but the handcuffs and unyielding brick kept him upright when Bo slid inside.
He closed his eyes. Nothing gentle, nothing sweet. Brutal. Honest. Two men completely caught up in the moment and each other.
The whole department suddenly showing up wouldn’t change a thing. No way to stop. Too amazing to end.
Bo wrapped his mouth around Lucky’s shoulder muscle. Snapping his hips faster, he moaned low, a familiar sound sending shock waves through Lucky.
Lucky bucked back, urging his partner on. Hard, fast, rough.
Sex.
With the hottest man on the planet.
Perfect.
Bo stiffened and jerked. Nothing else existed. Lucky. Bo. The throbbing of Bo’s release deep within.
And the wondrous pressure inside vanished.
Bo turned him and knelt. Lucky stood with his back to the wall once more, his cock engulfed in heat, Bo gripping his thighs and making good use of the leverage. Oh, God yes! Lucky let go with a shout. Pulse after pulse, straight into Bo’s mouth. Who cared who heard his cries?
Bo rose, wrapped his arms around Lucky, and held on. Lucky collapsed against the solid comfort of Bo’s chest, the steady ka-thump, ka-thump of Bo’s heart keeping time with the thumping from the club.
He swayed a bit while Bo tucked his sensitized cock back into his now-way-too-tight jeans.
Without a word, Bo retrieved and returned his fallen hat to his head. “I know it’s not until tomorrow, but Happy Birthday. I’m sorry I’m not home to spoil you.” A few clicks and the cuffs dropped free.
Lucky rubbed circulation back into his wrists. “What about…”
Bo placed a finger over Lucky’s lips, gave him a sad smile, and disappeared into the club, twirling his handcuffs and whistling.
Time to go, folks. Show’s over. Lucky crumpled back against the wall, rubbing his abused wrists and still feeling the rasp of bricks against his chest.
Gradually, his racing heartbeat slowed, and he recovered a few of his senses. Too cold to stand in a dark alley wishing Bo would come back.
He plodded to the car. Alone.
Damn it.
Johnson leaned against the Camaro. Her smile fell when he approached. “Did I do a bad thing?”
He couldn’t blame her for arranging his few minutes with his lover. She’d never understand how badly leaving without Bo hurt. Unlocking the car and sliding behind the steering wheel kept Lucky from having to answer.
Johnson settled in beside him and glanced out the side window. “Clear on my side.”
Lucky pulled out of the parking lot and aimed the car downtown.
For too many years he and Bo had slaved away for the Southeastern Narcotics Bureau, going undercover, putting themselves at risk for the greater good. The job started as a death wish. Lucky wouldn’t have cared if a drug dealer’s bullet put him out of his misery. Why did he deserve to live?
After a while he got his thrills from taking down the bad guys. Being smarter. Proving his worth to himself, if no one else. Then he’d met Bo. Let his guard down. Let Bo in. Now his former adrenaline rush kept him up at night. What if something happened to him? To Bo? They’d made a life together. Bought a house.
Hell, they were as good as married.
Married. Crap. A few years ago, such a commitment wouldn’t even have crossed his mind. Who would’ve thought marriage equality would ever come to the South and open doors for men like him to get all legal?
Marriage. Lucky’s parents’ marriage had lasted over forty years, and they seemed to be happy. At least they’d been the last time Lucky laid eyes on them. Walter and his wife married fifty years ago and still doted on each other. His sister’s marriage crashed and burned, but she’d married young, while still gullible enough to believe a lowlife shithead’s promises.
But Bo and Lucky. Married?
Johnson broke the quiet. “You okay?”
Not at the moment. “I’m not sure.”
“Well, if I did wrong by bringing you, I’m sorry.”
“Was he really your contact all along?” How far had she gone to bring Lucky and Bo together?
“No. I originally met with a guy named Ricky, but he worried he’d been made, so we brought Bo in.”
“What the fuck?” Lucky whipped his head to the right at a red light. “You put Bo in danger?”
Johnson snorted. “He may have gone through a rough patch with the whole Mangiardi case, but you know as well as I do there’s no better undercover agent in the bureau. Besides, he’s been tending bar here for weeks as part of his own case.”
Yeah, Lucky did know. He’d been the best undercover agent not so long ago. Not anymore. Bo became one with whomever he pretended to be, and barely managed to separate the two after assignment. Which made him good at his job, but might wind up taking his sanity. “You didn’t see him after Stephan shot him up with drugs for weeks.” The vision of a broken Bo still haunted Lucky’s dreams on occasion. “I worry he went back undercover too soon.”
Johnson patted Lucky’s thigh. “Of course you do. You love him. But Walter’s not the type to send someone out who’s not ready.”
Yeah. Lucky loved Bo, and Walter never deliberately endangered his team. And he wouldn’t have sent Bo out against his will. “You didn’t see him, Rett. What it did to him.” The image never strayed far from Lucky’s mind. Bo, a defeated man, doubting himself and all he’d tried to accomplish.
“It’s not like he took drugs on his own. Motherfuckers made him. And remember, I saw the bastard who hurt him, Lucky. Took all my self-control not to tase his sorry ass right then and there. Or worse.”
Damned Stephan Fucking Mangiardi! Lucky used to want to bring him back from the dead to kill him all over again. Now he’d bring the bastard back and let Johnson go all South Texas on him. “What mattered to Bo was starting over on his sobriety.”
“He still in therapy?”
If Lucky gripped the steering wheel any tighter it would have bent. “Last I heard. Not sure how that works with him on assignment.”
Johnson patted him again. “Trust him, okay?”
Lucky snorted. “I’m the one shouldn’t be trusted, remember?”
The air grew ten degrees colder. “You’re sitting here talking about a man who won’t forgive himself, and you bring up your own past? It’s gone. For both of you. You see yourselves as you used to be. No one else does.”
“Maybe not you.” Asshole Keith never let Lucky forget about starting with the SNB as a felon working off a ten-year sentence. Or being a drug lord’s plaything. What a difference time made. Back then Lucky lived his life unapologetically lawless, cruising for the next thrill. Now he watched his back every moment for the past to creep up on him.
Thirty-eight years old, almost a third of that time spent with the bureau, equaled one hundred and dead in dealer years. A combination of sheer dumb luck and stubbornness kept him alive this long. The time would soon come for him to hang up the badge.
And do what? His life didn’t suit him for many other jobs. He used to dream of driving a cross-country rig. Now, every moment away from Bo tore at his soul. Bo could always join him on the road.
No, since fulfilling his probation obligations in service to the SNB, Bo worked his ass off to prove himself, to be more than a waste of skin like his dad.
“Lucky, the light’s green,” Johnson said, pulling him out of his musings at the exact moment a horn blasted behind him.
Uh-oh. Better watch out. In his line of work, distracted could mean an obituary on the bureau’s memorial page. What if he went to work one morning and never came home? Or for that matter, if Bo never came home?
His chest ached. He couldn’t lose Bo. Life wouldn’t be worth living.
“Whatever weird shit you’ve got going on in that brain of yours needs to stop.” Johnson clutched Lucky’s shoulder, one of the few people who didn’t get growled at for touching him. “Pull over.”
Lucky wasn’t prone to following other people’s orders, but he pulled into the parking lot of an all-night grocery store and faced his passenger. “What?”
Her eyes glimmered in the low light. “What’s eating you?”
“Nothing.”
He attempted to pull his arm away, but she tightened her grip. “You know, whatever it is, you can tell me, right?”
Yes, he did. Loretta Johnson might be a coworker, he might currently be her boss, but she’d become the closest thing to a friend he’d made in years. “I’m letting my age get to me,” he said.
“Happens to us all. Let me guess, you’re wondering what will happen if you go to work one day and never come home.”
“How’d you know?”
Johnson gave him a weak smile. “I do the same thing every birthday. And I promise myself by my next birthday I’ll have made changes, gotten myself a less dangerous job. But every time I seriously consider doing something else, I remember what would happen if people like us suddenly stopped doing what we do.”
She released his shoulder. “For what it’s worth, you’re one of the good ones. I’ve been around good cops, mediocre cops, bad cops.” After a moment’s pause, she murmured, “I’ve even sent a few to prison.”
No need for her to name names. “It wasn’t easy sending your child’s father to prison, was it?”
“Was it easy for you to testify against your lover?”
Lucky didn’t talk to many people about Victor Mangiardi. “Like to have killed me.”
“But Victor didn’t threaten to hurt your kid. Tyrone’s daddy knew the first time he stepped out of line, did a favor for an old friend, that he did wrong. Every night when he left home to make some extra money, he knew the cost. When he started using, I stopped seeing him. Told him to stay the hell away from my boy.”
Lucky heard this part of the story before. She’d shot a man she’d once loved. Might still love. Had a child with.
He’d never met anyone tougher, and he’d grown up with hard-living redneck types.
“Remember the good you’re doing. Few people know the shit we’re up against every day. Will never know how many times we kiss our asses goodbye, believing we’re about to die.” Johnson made a kissing noise. “They might call us narcs or pigs, but at the end of the day, we make the world a safer place.”
A safer place. One day Lucky might get blown away, and the only thing he’d have to show for his life would be a blip on the local news, like he’d gotten the last time he died on the job.
Only next time, he probably wouldn’t get a new life and a new name.
Wait a minute! She’d wished him a happy birthday earlier, without acting. “You knew it was my birthday all along, didn’t you?”
Johnson snorted. “What kind of friend would I be if I didn’t?”
If she didn’t do or say something soon, he might give in to the urge to hug her and never let go. Or say something stupid.
She saved him from himself. “Now c’mon and get me home. I need to get out of this dress and actually breathe.”
They didn’t speak for the few short blocks to her apartment until he pulled up to the curb. What could he say? “Thanks.”
“Don’t mention it.” She held her hand out. “List, please.”
Oh. That. Lucky dug the scrap of paper out of his pocket and placed it on her palm.
He didn’t acknowledge her kissing his cheek or her soft, “Good night, and happy birthday.” She slogged up the sidewalk to her building, high heels in hand.
Somewhere in all his screw ups, Lucky must’ve done something right, because the good Lord had given him Bo, Walter, Charlotte, his nephews, and Johnson.
And damned if he’d let anything bad happen to any of them.