Lucky waited until Bo started snoring to wriggle out from under his arm and slip from the room. He settled on the back deck, Moose playing footstool, and texted: Charlotte?
I’m here. Barely.
How could he say this? Are you okay? Are Mom and Dad okay?
Lucky stared at his phone’s screen. Seconds stretched into minutes. Too many minutes. Maybe Charlotte went to sleep.
Lucky nearly dropped his buzzing phone before managing to answer the call. “H… Hello?”
“We talk on the phone now, Rich. I’m numb, Mom’s doing as well as can be expected and putting on a front ‘because we haven’t told Dad, Dallas, or Daytona about Bristol yet.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Why are you sorry? You didn’t put a gun to Bristol’s head and make him do illegal shit.”
Anger. Loud and clear. Lucky’s therapist once told him about the stages of grief: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. The venom in Charlotte’s voice said she’d passed denial a few miles back.
“Still, I’m sorry. I’ve given y’all nothing but grief. At least you had a few good years with him.”
“Bullshit. Do you have any idea how much my boys look up to you? You’ve accomplished more starting with less than anyone I know. Less support, less understanding. You’ve built yourself when no one ever even mentioned there were building blocks.” More softly, she said, “Just knowing you’re there and have my back is helping me get through this. Mom too.”
“Reckon I should talk to her?”
“She’s still in denial. The doctor prescribed sedatives for her. I’d wait a few days.”
“I want her to know I love her. Daddy too. I’m here for them.” Or as much as they’d let him be.
“She knows, Rich. She knows. But no mother should ever have to lose a kid. She’s taking it hard, as she did when we got word about you.”
Ouch. More deserved guilt. “Will you let me know if she needs anything? If you need anything?”
“You gave us Daddy, that’s enough.”
“Still, I wish I was there.” If Bo and Walter let him he’d haul ass right now.
“Me too, Rich. I’m sure there’s things I’m not allowed to know yet, but you’ll get the whole story, won’t you?”
“I’ll do my damnedest.”
“And your damnedest beats anyone else’s. I love you, brother. I’m so glad I can say that out loud, and not in a text or e-mail.”
“I love you too.”
“Goodnight. Get some rest.”
Lucky gazed up at the stars and breathed in the night air. Soon summer would bring heat and mosquitos. And hopefully, a day for reckoning for whoever supplied Bristol with carfentanil.
He couldn’t be with his parents right now, or the rest of his family, but the family he’d chosen for himself lay asleep inside the house.
Too late to be a better son or brother. Not too late to be a good partner.
***
“What are you doing?” Did Bo realize how adorable he looked, partially covered by a sheet and rubbing sleep from his eyes?
“What does it look like I’m doing?” Lucky sat the tray on the nightstand. He’d gotten the toast a bit dark, but blackberry jam hid the worst of the burn.
“You made me breakfast?”
“Yep.” Even if he’d gotten tea leaves all over the kitchen floor trying to shove them into one of those little tea ball thingies. Breakfast didn’t require grilling outside and amounted to pretty much all Lucky’d learned to cook indoors.
“You didn’t have to. You should be lying in bed with me taking care of you. How’re you feeling?” Bo ran his fingers lightly up Lucky’s T-shirt, over the spot where he’d been cut open.
Bo had The Dimple, Lucky had The Scar. “All right, I reckon. Now hush and eat, ‘fore it gets cold.”
Bo eyed the tray and then Lucky. “What did you do?”
“What do you mean?”
“Why’re you trying to butter me up?”
Oh! What a great idea. Butter. Or cooking oil. He’d soak Bo until his skin gleamed…
“Lucky? Your mind plunged into the gutter, didn’t it?”
Ever since he’d healed enough to consider sex, Lucky’s mind stayed in the gutter. “But butter might be fun.”
“Yeah, and hell to wash out of the sheets. So, if you don’t have ulterior motives, I guess it’s okay to eat this.” Bo propped his back against the headboard, placed the tray on his knees, and took a bite of scrambled eyes. “Oh, this is good. Where’s yours?”
“I ate mine while cooking.” And to destroy the evidence of a few scorched eggs. Okay, more than a few, but nothing destroyed food evidence like their own personal four-legged garbage disposal. Thank God Lucky got the severely burnt toast out in the backyard without setting off the smoke alarm.
Bo tucking in did Lucky’s heart good. How many times had Bo served him breakfast in bed, and yet this was the first time Bo got the same treatment?
Not anymore. Did the desire to please his partner mean Lucky had to be all sunshine and rainbows? No. And he’d never been anyone’s idea of perfect—not even close. But he could try harder.
Bo moaned while munching the toast and jam, doing things to Lucky’s insides.
And his outsides. One part in particular. If Bo licked his finger one more time…
He did, flashing a coy smile. Oh. The tease.
Lucky grabbed the tray and lobbed it toward the bedside table. They both winced at the crash when he missed. He’d worry about broken dishes later. About time they got rid of the “yours, mine, and ours” dinnerware anyway.
He crawled on top of Bo.
“Watch out for your incision.”
Lucky slammed his mouth down on Bo’s and stopped. No. This wasn’t going to be some whiz, whirr, thank you, sir. He pulled back enough to connect his gaze to Bo’s. He’d fallen into those brown eyes long ago, though he hadn’t even realized at the time he’d never want to escape.
“Are you sure you’re up for this? I mean, we went two rounds last night, and I need to head back to Richmond today.” Bo stroked his knuckles along Lucky’s jaw.
Don’t go noble on me now, Bo. Lucky pasted on a grin and thrust his hardening cock against Bo’s thigh. “What does the evidence tell you?”
Bo connected their lips again. “You’re wearing too many clothes,” he mumbled without breaking lip contact.
“So I am.” And Lucky would try his damnedest to get his T-shirt up and cut-off blue jeans shorts down and off without ending the kiss.
The doorbell ringing broke them apart. Who could be here be at this hour? And how’d they get through the gate—though Walter certainly hadn’t had a problem yesterday.
Couldn’t be one of the neighbors. His forceful refusal of Miss Tupperware’s plastic ware party invitation pretty much put an end to people stopping by unannounced.
“You stay here. I’ll get it.” Bo shimmied out from under Lucky.
Like hell he would. Bo wrapped himself in a robe and Lucky pulled his shorts back on, complete with .38 hidden behind his back. They stood together when Bo opened the door.
Walter waited on the porch, dressed in a shirt, tie, and jacket. “May I come in?”
Bo stepped aside. No need asking how he’d gotten through the gate. He had his ways.
Bo and Lucky trailed Walter into the living room. If he stopped by this early on a Sunday morning, before church, whatever he had to say must be urgent.
Walter sat down in the chair he’d claimed as his own. Bo and Lucky took the couch, with Lucky sliding his gun down between two cushions. “What’s this about, Boss?” Cat Lucky slunk into the room, gave Walter baleful eyes, and disappeared into the hallway out of sight.
“I received a full report from the Richmond office.”
Lucky traded glances with Bo. “And?”
“And the initial toxicology report confirmed the cause of your brother’s death. As many have suspected, he died of an opioid overdose.”
Overdose. The same way he’d tried to kill Daytona—and Lucky. “Anything else?” Focusing on the case might keep Lucky from dwelling on the loss of his brother. Bristol was an asshole, true, but also a Lucklighter.
“Richmond police removed heroin, fentanyl, and carfentanil from his basement, along with scales, glassine packets, and other related items. We’re also checking out reports of the overdose death of a young woman who might have purchased tainted heroin from him.”
“Fuck.” Lucky scrubbed a hand through his hair. “Bristol ran a full-scale packaging operation.”
“I believe you’re correct. And if you hadn’t uncovered his secrets, they might never have been known.” Moose ambled in and dropped his head down on Walter’s lap. Walter fondled his ear. He’d be brushing dog hair off his clothes later. “You had an uncle named Edward Lucklighter?”
“Yeah. Uncle Ned.”
“Were you close?”
“Not really.” Not at all.
“It’s seems your brother’s plan to profit from the deaths of others didn’t end after he tried to kill Daytona.”
Oh God. What now? “What are you saying? His obituary said Uncle Ned died of natural causes.”
“Only because no one felt the need to perform an autopsy. And since he was cremated, there’s no body to exhume and test now.” Walter’s shoulders sagged, and shadows darkened the skin beneath his eyes. “Guess who benefitted from his life insurance policy?”