Bo played soft music on the radio, thankfully not Achy Breaky Heart or Pachelbel’s Canon. Too many memories, good and bad, clung to both. Too many to deal with right now.
All too soon the ride ended in Richmond. Quickest ten hours in Lucky’s life. He stayed in the Durango while Bo retrieved the keys for his new, hopefully short-term abode.
Bo’s smile didn’t produce The Dimple when he opened the door of the small frame house, one of many in a long row of lookalikes on a tree-lined street. “Not too bad.”
Lucky dragged in one of his suitcases, containing a go-to-court suit Bo hadn’t seen him pack—clothes they might bury him in. Hope for the best, but plan for the worst. Yeah, right. Who was he kidding?
“I’ve seen worse.” Lucky’d lived in worse, with neighbors from Hell and palmetto bugs lying in wait outside the front door. Palmetto bugs. The vilest creatures on earth. Lucky eyed the baseboards for evidence of unwanted guests.
Doors opened and closed in the kitchen area. “Kitchen is a bit small, but then again, I’ve gotten spoiled.” Bo took the bag slung over Lucky’s shoulder and dropped the twenty-pound weight to the floor. “Someone went and bought me a house with a big-assed kitchen. Puts this one to shame.”
Tiny living room, tiny bedroom, tiny bathroom. And a tub too short to fit one of them comfortably, let alone two. Yeah, their house had Lucky spoiled too.
They brought in the remainder of their things, Lucky trying and failing to keep his mind in the moment and not race on ahead to tomorrow. He’d deal with tomorrow in the morning and not a moment before.
Bo hauled the cooler out of his SUV.
Oh, right. Lucky’d promised to be a better partner. He tried to take the cooler. “You drove most of the way. Take a nap while I unpack.”
“No. I’ll get this.” Not even cut open and already Bo treated him like the wounded.
“I’m not in the hospital yet. I can help.”
They stood, facing each other, each trying to carry the cooler. Bo released a harsh breath. “Fine. Ruin the surprise.” He let Lucky carry the cooler into the house and place the burden on the table, but opened the lid himself.
Inside, along with the things Lucky’d help pack, were a few items he hadn’t, like a pack of Portobello mushrooms.
For the condemned man’s last meal.
No eating or drinking after midnight. He’d make the most of the hours until then.
***
Lucky lay awake, staring at the ceiling. Outside traffic rolled up and down the street, and a neighbor liked TV loud.
Too damned noisy here. Not like the house. Bo’s attempt at snoring couldn’t match Moose’s, and no Cat Lucky perched on the end of the bed, waiting to attack his toes if Lucky dared move his foot.
This wasn’t home.
Bo rolled over and slung an arm over Lucky’s waist.
Then again, maybe home wasn’t a house.
***
They’d told him he wouldn’t run into his family, but still Lucky crept through the parking lot and into the hospital with his sunglasses on, his body language suitable for a major walk of shame he hadn’t even earned.
Bo didn’t hold his hand while Lucky checked into the hospital, but he stayed close. Nice, modern building, with lots of glass and shiny surfaces. Must be hell to keep clean.
“You can have a seat in here and fill these out.” A yawning nurse handed him a clipboard full of papers and showed them into a deserted office. He plopped down on a butt-ugly red leather couch. Bo sat more gracefully next to him, close enough to place a hand on Lucky’s back or knee every time he tensed to run.
He completed stacks and stacks of paperwork, asking everything from his medical history to what he’d had for breakfast: nothing. Then came the yes/no questions. Hadn’t he answered all these before, except for the food part, online? Forget his eyes—Lucky’s whole body began to glaze over.
Check, check, check. They’d already picked out split-tailed gowns for him, so a bit late to be asking. Half of these diseases he couldn’t even pronounce. “Here. Put your college education to use.” He handed the papers to Bo, tilted his head back, and closed his eyes. A trained pharmacist ought to be able to figure things out.
“Family history of diabetes? I can’t remember from when we did this before.”
“My younger brother.” Lucky should’ve printed out the online questionnaire.
“This part is marked ‘optional’, but do you have any religious preference?”
Lucky opened one eye. “Any that say ‘whatever you do is fine by us’? What’s yours?” Funny, he’d never asked about religion in all their time together.
Bo answered without looking up. “Catholic mom, heathen dad.”
Oh really? “What’s that make you?
“A Cathen. Now, do you want to answer this question? You don’t have to.” Bo’s tensed jaw didn’t mean angry this time. More like worried or scared shitless.
Lucky’s snark—his own method of dealing with scared shitless—should’ve at least gotten a rise out of Bo. Anything beat him being so stressed out. “Mama raised us Baptist. Dad raised us redneck.”
No smile. No raised brow. “That makes you a Baptneck. I’ll check ‘other.’”
They sat quietly for a few minutes, except for the scratching of Bo’s pen on the paper and the occasion person passing by in the hallway.
And overall, the freaky-assed, nose-searing antiseptic stench of hospital cleaner.
After a while a man in a white coat entered, smile too wide to be the angel of death he might turn out to be. He marched straight to Bo. “Mr. Harrison? I’m Dr. Wheeler.”
At a nudge from Bo, Lucky took the doctor’s hand. “I’m Harrison.” Right now. No telling who he’d be next week—if he still ranked among the living.
The man spewed out doctor jargon for the next five minutes, Lucky nodding and throwing out an “uh-huh” or “you don’t say” whenever the doctor paused to let him get a word in.
Bo stopped scribbling to ask a question here and there, leaving Lucky free to tune out. He’d gotten the important stuff. Best case? Him and Dad both lived. Worse case? Some programmer at SNB added yet another profile to the company’s website.
Maybe they’d use a picture this time, for some agent ten years from now to look at and worry about job hazards.
Poked, prodded, blood drawn, weighed. Blood pressure checked.
All the while Lucky let his mind go anywhere but a few hours into the future. Hard to do while lying on a gurney with his ass hanging out of a thin cotton gown.
Bo smoothed the blanket covering Lucky. “I wish the doctor wasn’t so nice.”
“Why?”
“So I won’t feel so bad about whipping his ass if he doesn’t treat you right.” It came out like, “If you die, the doctor’s toast.” Lucky wasn’t the only one who’d been raised redneck. “I’ll be right here waiting for you.” Must be a trick of the light, the extra sheen in Bo’s eyes.
To hell with anyone else’s opinion. Lucky brought Bo’s hand to his mouth and kissed the knuckles. The closest nurse giggled and busied herself elsewhere. Lucky sucked a finger.
“Lucky!” Bo yanked back.
Yup. Shocked beat worried. Fear and pity didn’t belong in Bo’s eyes, especially if Lucky might never see Bo’s eyes again.
Stop being such a wuss! Even Walter said this wasn’t a dangerous procedure.
“I love you,” Lucky said. “You really should’ve married me. You look so good in black.” Though hopefully, Bo wouldn’t wear funeral black anytime soon. “Especially leather. Especially leather assless chaps.”
“I’ll only wear those for you.” Bo mouthed, “I love you.” The gurney moved, and Bo stood in the middle of the hallway, arms wrapped around himself, until a pair of double doors closed, shutting him off.
Tight bands wound around Lucky’s chest. Air. Oh, God. He needed air!
“Mr. Harrison? Is something wrong?” a masked man asked.
Losing his shit in front of people couldn’t happen. Lucky willed his wildly pounding heart to calm. Curtains cut the room in half. “What’s behind the curtains?” And did he really want to know?
“Someone who’s going to owe you his life.” The man wrapped tubes over Lucky’s ears and inserted two prongs on the joined middle into Lucky’s nostrils. Oxygen flowed into his nose.
Lucky stared at the curtain, straining for any sound over the whooshes and beeps coming from his side of the room.
Dad. Damn, how his heart still ached for the man who’d thrown him up in the air and caught him as a child, who’d taught him how to drive: first a four-wheeler, and later a dirt bike, tractor, and farm truck.
Dad, who’d sit in front of the TV every Sunday afternoon during racing season to watch NASCAR, one of the few times he took a break from work during daylight hours.
The man who’d taught Lucky the value of a hard day’s work, and inspired him to find an easier way to make a living, even if illegal. And now that rock of a man needed Lucky. About time Lucky stepped up to the plate, even anonymously.
He barely noticed the IV hookup shoved into his hand, all the monitors now pulsing with his heartbeat, recording his blood pressure. This was the closest he’d physically been to family in years, except for Charlotte.
No. Not true. Bo waited somewhere outside the room, probably pacing or checking in with the boss. More than likely he ran his fingers through his hair, frown lines bunched on his forehead.
That’s not how Lucky chose to picture him. Better memories filled his head. Him and Bo lying in bed on a lazy Sunday morning, sunlight streaming through the window while they sipped coffee or tea and talked. In the brightness Bo’s freckles stood out, and The Dimple formed on his cheek when he smiled at some ridiculous thing Lucky said.
How Lucky loved The Dimple. And every single freckle.
“Mr. Harrison? It’s time to go to sleep. This will take about a minute to work.” The man behind the mask inserted a needle into a tube in the IV bag and pushed the plunger. “Count backwards from one hundred.
“One hundred, ninety-nine, ninety-eight, nin…” The world tilted.
***
Beeps, blips, footsteps. Lucky let out a moan.
“Mr. Harrison? Mr. Harrison, you’re in recovery and doing well. I’ll be back to take you to ICU.” Same voice. More face without the mask. Young guy, mid to late twenties. Copper hair.
“How… How’d it go?” Who’d set fire to Lucky’s throat?
“You did great, and now your liver is hard at work regenerating.”
“My d… The other guy?”
“He’s still in surgery. Doing fine last I heard.”
Not “the patient will make a full recovery”, but good enough for now.
Another smiling face. “Hi, Mr. Harrison we’re going to ICU. Ready?”
Ready to get out of recovery, yes, but not bouncing over every bump along the way. Holy Mother of God! He grabbed his midsection.
“Sorry. We’ll give you something more for pain once we settle you in your room.” The orderly jostled him a few more times getting him on and off the elevator.
Finally the gurney ride from hell ended.
No windows to the outside, but the windows to the hallway offered a fine view of Bo, with his nose practically pressed against the glass.
So close her shoulder touched Bo’s, Charlotte dabbed at her eyes with a tissue and gave Lucky the happiest cry face in history. Yeah. He still had family. And for unknown reasons, they loved him, and he survived surgery.
But Daddy wasn’t out of the woods yet.
***
Lucky and Charlotte lay on their backs on the hilltop overlooking the farm, sun warming their cheeks. How many times had they lain there, telling each other their dreams?
His sister’s voice. Why had he missed it? She’d been here the whole time, hadn’t she? But instead of talking about being a nurse one day like she normally did, she rambled on and on about other things.
“Todd’s been accepted at Clemson and the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill. Remember how I used to want to go there? Anyways, I wanted him to stay in Spokane, but you know how kids are. Spend half their lives trying to get away from home and the other half trying to get back. Do you ever miss the farm?”
Why would Lucky miss the farm? They were still here, right?
“Anyway, at UNC he’ll be closer to Mama and Daddy. Clemson would put him closer to you. Either way he can go help them out when he doesn’t have classes.” She paused, staring up at puffy clouds. “Don’t be mad, Richie, but I told the boys about you. They were upset at first that we didn’t trust them, but now they’re happy to have Uncle Richie back. Which explains why Todd applied to Clemson. He wants to get to know you again. Says you’re the closest thing to a father he’s ever had.”
What Todd? Oh. An image came to mind of Charlotte, a few years older, holding a squirming, crying bundle, and the bundle wrapping Uncle Richie around its little finger.
She turned and put her lips to his forehead. “I love you, big brother. And I’m so proud of you. You’ve turned out to be one helluva man.”
Strange. Who in their right mind would consider Lucky a father figure? He shifted into a more comfortable position and faded back to sleep.
***
A hand. Holding his. Quiet humming. The comforting scent of Bo’s cologne. Bo’s thumb stroking the back of Lucky’s hand.
Gentle kisses across this forehead. A soft, “Told you you’d be all right and wouldn’t die.”
Not dying. A good thing. The man holding Lucky’s hand made life worth living.
He lived. No more making decisions under the gun. “Have you changed your mind yet about marrying me, since I’m still alive and all?” Sleep dragged him down without an answer.
***
Sleep, wake up, feel like shit, get meds, go back to sleep. At times Lucky awoke to Bo’s face, sometimes to a nurse’s. Several times to Charlotte’s. They talked, smiled, whatever, but Lucky faded out without really hearing.
He woke to a darkened room and froze. Every instinct pinged of danger. The lights from the monitors cast a faint glow over the face of a man who couldn’t possibly be there.
This better be a dream brought on by mighty good drugs.
If he had to dream about drug lords, at least Nestor Sauceda might not kill him outright. If he’d wanted Lucky dead, he’d had a million chances.
“What chu doin’ here?” Lucky managed to get out.
“Would you believe I was in the neighborhood and stopped by?” Nestor stood ramrod straight by the bed, the faint light catching the white in his hair.
“No.”
Nestor laughed. “Still the same cynical Lucky. I’m here because you asked a question, and although our mutual friend couldn’t answer directly, we both know you. If you didn’t hear straight from us, you’d pick any answer apart and not believe. So here I am.”
Conscious thought tried to crawl through the murky, drug-induced fuzz in Lucky’s head. “Wha?”
“You asked if Victor delivered drugs to your younger brother.”
Oh, yeah.
“He’s quite displeased you even had to ask, but I reminded him who you are. He said, and I quote, ‘Tell the suspicious sonofabitch he should know I’d never harm his family.’”
“If he didn’t, who did?” Lucky forced out.
“It happened a long time ago, so other than the card your brother saved, the evidence is gone. However, as a favor to you, I’ll use our resources to help find out.”
“Happened years ago. How’ll you do that?”
Lucky barely felt the hand on his shoulder through his opioid-induced haze. “You have your sources, we have ours.”
“Have I ever told you you’re scary as hell?” Oh, crap. Drugs made Lucky’s uncouth mouth even worse.
Nestor laughed. “Coming from you, I’ll take that as a compliment.”
What the fuck ever.
“I won’t stay long, you’re recovering, but even without the question I wanted to check in on you. I’m sure you expect me to say I’m surprised at your selfless act, but I’m not in the least. You try so hard not to be, but you’re a good man, Richmond Lucklighter.”
Lucky managed enough energy to shoot back, “Don’t even start that rumor.”
Nestor’s laugh became a snort. “Don’t worry. Your secret’s safe with me, and I’ve made a career out of keeping secrets.”
“How’d Walter get in touch with you?”
“He has his ways, though I’d not expected him to use them this soon, and not for this reason.”
“Huh?”
Nestor patted Lucky’s hand—the one not sporting a needle. “The job offer still holds, if ever you decide to take it. We can use a man like you.”
International drug task force. A chance to kick drug trafficker ass on a global scale—without Bo. “Not hap’nin. I’m where I belong.”
“For now. But if you ever reconsider…” Nestor shrugged and slipped out the door.
Lucky’s eyelids grew heavy. Sleep, glorious sleep, called to him.
***
“How are you feeling?” Bo sat at Lucky’s bedside, cellphone in hand. Probably hunting down pokies or pookies or whatthehellevers.
“Like someone cut me in half and forgot to put me back together.” And if Lucky could move now, he’d kick the ass of the nurse who’d made him get out of bed and shuffle ten miles uphill to the bathroom. Of course, the jury hadn’t yet decided the worst of two evils: having to walk to the bathroom to pee or having a tube shoved up his dick. He coughed. Oh, dear God!
And may he please live the rest of his life without crossing paths with another drainage tube.
Bo shot to his feet. “Are you okay? Want me to get the nurse?”
“Nah,” Lucky choked out. “I’ll be okay.” Maybe. One day. A million years from now.
“Can I get you anything?”
Bo’s eager puppy act wore Lucky out. “No. But I gotta tell ya, I had the strangest dream.”
“What kind of dream?”
“I dreamed Nestor showed up and told me Victor didn’t send those drugs to Daytona.”
All the color left Bo’s face. He nodded toward the side table. Rett’s sunflowers sat next to Charlotte’s whatever-they-were, and a long-stemmed red rose from Bo with the dragon keychain hanging beneath.
All were dwarfed but a huge arrangement of orange blossoms. Orange blossoms? Where had Nestor gotten orange blossoms? The scent filled Lucky’s nostrils, taking him back in time to a house in Florida, surrounded by orange trees.
Victor’s vacation home, where Lucky opened the windows to let the sweetness perfume the house.
Oh shit. Not a dream.