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… three 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 shove 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. “You 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?”
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. He’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.