Few cars sat in the police station parking lot at barely past sunrise. The pink horizon gave way to blue skies, dotted with a cloud or two, the day shaping up to be a warm one.
With any luck, Lucky would soon be snug in a bed, and not alone, sleeping and loving his way through the heat. But no, he couldn’t lose himself in the wonders of sex and block out all the painful shit in his life.
No need to keep secrets anymore. The whole family would soon know what happened to Bristol. The whole fucked up story.
His perch by Bo’s Durango, sitting parked near the door, gave him clear view of anyone coming or leaving. No chance of Bo getting away without saying goodbye.
A uniformed officer nodded on his way to the steps leading to the station’s front door, a fast food bag in his hand wafting the drool-inducing scent of sausage. Probably a biscuit, nice and fluffy, like Mom used to make, slathered with butter and filled with meat, eggs, and cheese.
Lucky’s rumbling belly protested until another officer, reeking of cigarette smoke, trotted by slightly out of breath. Shift change, and he’d been here most of the night, except for a brief visit to an all-night urgent care clinic to check any damage he might have done.
Scrapes. Bruises. Soreness. He’d live.
Cigarette Man climbed the steps and held the door while Bo strolled out and made a beeline for Lucky. Bo. Finally. And alone.
After a quick left to right perusal, Lucky grabbed the man he’d been within reach of for the last few hours but unable to touch.
“Aaaak!” Bo struggled all of three seconds.
Nothing shut the man up quicker than a tongue to the mouth. After a moment, Bo answered passion with passion, slamming Lucky against the side of his Durango.
Oh, hell yes. Lucky ground against his man. Five minutes, all he needed—or less. Nights like last night made him want to hold on and never let go. But he had to. “What’s your plans for the next few hours?” he stepped back enough to ask.
“I heard you needed a ride to your parents’ house.” Bo jutted his chin out. “I’m driving you.”
Stubborn looked good on the man. Lucky ought to argue, put his foot down. Bo had to be worn completely out and in need of a few hours’ sleep. He couldn’t be up to a visit to Redneckville. Being bone-weary himself took the fight out of Lucky. Maybe he should sleep first, but no, he needed to be with his family. If they’d have him.
And he needed to be with Bo. Bo acting as driver also meant no more undercover—for now.
Damned if giving statements didn’t become more time consuming each time. Seven fucking A.M. Not the hour of day to come calling unannounced.
“Okay. You win.” Arguing with a smart man like Bo used up energy Lucky’d rather keep.
The Dimple peeked out of Bo’s cheek and disappeared. Yup, probably too tired to pull off a megawatt smile. “What? You’re giving in so easily? I didn’t even have to employ any of your mother’s techniques to pull you into line.”
Double-teamed. He’d keep an eye on his partner around his mother. Charlotte too. “Just remember, there’s more Lucklighters where we’re going. Lots of ‘em.”
“I’ll take my chances. Now get in the truck.” Bo jogged around the hood and got in the driver’s side.
Lucky crawled into the passenger seat, buckled himself in, and called his Mom’s cell phone. “Mama. I need to see you. Can I come by?” Please say yes! Please say yes!
Silence. Not good. Finally, his mother answered, “Yes, I suppose I’ve kept things from your father long enough. Charlotte’s been begging me to let her talk to him. I reckon it’s time.”
“Okay, see you soon.” Lucky ended the call. “Here’s the address, or close enough.” He punched a store near the farm into Bo’s navigation system. Even satellites couldn’t find the Lucklighter farm.
Bo gave Lucky’s hand a squeeze and pulled out onto the road. “I heard you went to urgent care last night. Everything okay?”
“Yep. Just banged up a little.”
“Good. Seeing you hit the ground like to have made my heart stop, let me tell you. It was all I could do not to say ‘fuck the case’ and come running out to check on you.”
“Same happened to me when I heard shots.” And envisioned Bo lying in a pool of blood. The no-fraternization rule at work made more and more sense. Distracted agents became liabilities, or worse, dead agents.
One side of Bo’s mouth quirked up. “Aren’t we a pair?”
“A pair of what?”
They passed a club Lucky used to haunt with Victor. No need pointing out such a landmark to Bo. Twenty minutes later stores and office buildings gave way to green fields and black barns of tobacco farms.
With each mile Lucky’s heart pounded harder. Almost home.
And then the surroundings grew more and more familiar. “That’s where I went to high school,” he pointed out. Nothing like the massive school buildings in Atlanta. Might as well give his partner the grand tour. “And over there’s the feed and seed. I went there a lot with my dad when I was a kid.” The twinge in Lucky’s chest had nothing to do with his surgery. The post office and a handful of businesses rounded out the wide spot in the road Lucky used to dream of leaving.
He rolled down his window, letting fresh air wake him. “We don’t have Starbucks, but stop at the convenience store, m’kay?” Coffee. Even decaf, might make him feel human again.
Not one damned thing seemed to have changed since Lucky last came home over twelve years ago. He left, and life continued without him at the same molasses pace.
Birds chirped in the trees when he got out of the car, and he caught a slight whiff of honeysuckle and freshly-mown hay. Home. He’d come home.
“You all right?” Bo placed a hand on Lucky’s shoulder, snapping him out of his daze.
“Just tired, I reckon. You?”
“Same. But not too tired to be here when you need me.”
No, Bo would never be too tired, too busy, too sick, to have Lucky’s back. He made a great partner, both on and off the job. Would asking Bo to marry him here and now count as being under duress?
The words sat on Lucky’s tongue, but Bo deserved hearts and flowers and some grand romantic gesture.
“C’mon. Let’s get you some coffee.” Bo ushered Lucky into the store, holding onto Lucky’s arm, but Lucky lacked the energy to say anything about being treated like an invalid.
He dawdled at the coffee pot, excitement and fear pouring through him in equal measure. Mama accepted Lucky back, but Dad? Stubborn didn’t begin to describe him. When he dug his heels in, nothing changed his mind. And Mama wouldn’t go against Daddy.
“You’re stalling, aren’t you?” Bo didn’t accuse, merely pointed out the obvious. “I’m here with you. No matter what. But things never turn out as bad as we fear.”
Yeah. Lucky’d remember to say those words when they ventured to Arkansas to reconnect with Bo’s folks.
He plodded back to the car on autopilot, buckled himself into the passenger seat, and sipped coffee while pointing out rights and lefts. “There’s where I wrecked my four-wheeler, and across the road I used to go fishing with my dad.”
The Lucklighter kids once waited at the end of the driveway for the school bus. “Turn off the paved road here.” Lucky pointed to a “blink and you’ll miss it” dirt road.
Packed red clay and gravel crunched under their tires. Pecan trees came into view. Many an afternoon, the Lucklighter clan gathered pecans to sell to a local farmer’s market.
The garden where he’d spent summer days weeding and picking beans, squash, and other vegetables now hid beneath tangled overgrowth. Twelve years hadn’t done the barn any favors.
White goats with red heads dotted the landscape, interspersed with white shaggy bodies, Moose’s ilk, keeping watch over the herd.
No rolls of hay stood curing in the fields. No one kept the place up with Daddy sick. Guilt overcame anxiety. What a piss-poor son he’d been. His sorry ass should be out on a tractor, cutting the field or plowing the earth for the garden.
Bo stopped his Durango before the house came into sight, lifted Lucky’s chin with his hand, and connected their lips.
Lucky latched on like a dying man, the last few hours slamming home: grief, guilt, terror of Bo being hurt, and for the next few hours he’d cling tightly to denial regarding the new facts he’d learned about Bristol.
He soaked in the comfort of Bo cradling his skull in one hand, the love surrounding the man who put up with all his bullshit. When the kiss ended, he rested his forehead against his partner’s.
For good, bad, better, and worse, this man would always be a part of him. And in return, Lucky had given away something of himself he’d never get back. Didn’t want back.
“You ready?” Bo asked one thousand years too soon.
“As I’ll ever be.”
In true Southern fashion, Bo smiled and replied, “I heard that.”
Fate awaited.
So did the Lucklighters.
***
The old swing Lucky and Charlotte used to sit in as kids still hung from the front porch. Roses scented the air.
The old frame two-story farmhouse flaked white paint. Brilliant red geraniums bloomed on either side of the steps. The same blue curtains hung in the window of Lucky’s old upstairs bedroom—a room conveniently located close to a massive oak tree.
So many times he’d slipped out the window, shimmied down the tree, and got into a little late-night mischief. If the hayloft could talk…
Two tabby cats met Lucky on the path up to the front door. “Mroow?” One stropped against his leg and he bent to scratch a furry ear, his incision halting him in mid-motion. Bending. Not a good idea.
Barely out of kittenhood, neither of these critters knew him, though the gray tabby lying on the front porch might. “Don’t tell Cat Lucky I cheated on him and tried to give his scritches to other cats, okay?” Lucky muttered.
Bo stood off to the side, saying nothing about Lucky’s cowardly attempt to buy time. Sooner or later, he’d have to knock on the door and face whatever came his way.
The entryway seemed so much bigger from the porch, the old timey screen door in bad need of new screen. The moment of truth. He sucked in a deep breath. Sweat trickled down his face, due to more than a sweltering summer day.
Bo sidled closer and gave Lucky a smile.
With Bo at his side, he’d face down a hundred drug lords. Or family.
Lucky opened the screen and rapped on the front door. The scent of coffee teased his nose. Once more he knocked. His pounding heart kept time with the beat.
Bo clutched his hand, an anchor to hold fast to.
Curtains fluttered in the living room window. The door screeched open a few seconds later.
Lucky stared into eyes so much like his own. Folks called him the spitting image of his father, but his eyes? He’d gotten those from Mom.
Her worn apron spoke of the many meals she’d cooked, and the scent of bacon clung to her like a living advertisement for breakfast.
She launched herself in his direction. Lucky wrapped his arms around her, steadied her trembling. “Oh God, Richmond. My son. My son.” Her back and forward swaying took him with her.
This woman gave him life, raised him, loved him, tucked him in at night, punished him when necessary—not nearly enough—and though she went silent for a while, eventually accepted the prospect of Lucky never bringing home a wife.
Home. He’d finally come home.
“I’m so sorry for… so many things,” she choked out.
A hand too large to be his mother’s found the middle of Lucky’s back. He absorbed support from his lover and tears from his mother. As long as she stayed, he’d hug her, whisper, “It’s okay, Mama. I’m here now. Everything’ll be just fine.”
All too soon, his mother stepped back, wiping her face with her apron. “Look at me, keeping y’all on the front porch. Come in, come in.” She held the door open.
Taking a deep breath, Lucky entered a house he’d never dared hope to set foot in again. Family pictures lined the walls in the foyer, many of him and his siblings as kids. His Mama and Daddy’s wedding photo no longer hung in the same place it’d been for all of his time here.
And there, instead, hogging a wall by itself…
Oh, dear God!
An eleven by twenty-inch picture frame, the largest on the walls, displayed a photo of him, along with the newspaper write-up of how he’d died saving a fellow agent.
His knees buckled. Bo’s arm around his waist kept him standing.
Mom stood at his other side. “We’re so proud of you for turning your life around. And deeply ashamed of ourselves.” She stared at a worn spot on the throw rug at her feet.
Lucky nodded toward the picture. “You can take that down now. I’m not dead.”
His mother raised her head, but didn’t meet his eyes. “But you did save a man’s life.”
Words lodged in Lucky’s throat.
Bo answered for him. “Yes, he did. Mine.”
Strange being back here. Lucky never noticed the distinct smell of the old home place before, a combination of lemon-scented wood cleaner and an underlying hint of old house. And over all… bacon.
But something wasn’t quite right. His Mama shouldn’t be looking so guilty.
The acrid scent of something burnt hit his nose. “Mama? You got something on the stove?”
“Oh, Lord!” Mama threw her hands up and darted to the left, through the living room, and into the kitchen.
The closed door on the other side of the foyer caught Lucky’s attention. His parents’ room. More than likely, one oak panel separated him from his father, the same way a thin curtain had in the hospital.
He might prove to be a nasty surprise if Charlotte hadn’t talked to the old man yet. Lucky’d often stomped up the stairs to his room, but today he put his hand on Bo’s back and urged him toward the kitchen, stepping lightly. “Welcome to the farm.”
“You still like your coffee black and sweet, right?” Mama shoved a mug nearly as old as Lucky into his hand the moment he entered the kitchen.
“Yes, ma’am, but I drink decaf now, with stevia.” Though a cup of sugary-sweet full-caf might keep him going a while longer.
“I’m afraid we don’t have decaf. Or stevia.” She took the mug back. “Can I get you something else? Sweet tea?”
Lucky wouldn’t mention tea being caffeinated and full of sugar too. “Tell you what. Got any fresh milk? The store-bought stuff ain’t the real thing.”
His mother gave a sniff and smiled. “Sure do. Old Bossy gave us a gallon this morning.”
Mom named every milk cow they’d ever owned “Bossy.” This current milker must be Bossy the fifteenth or sixteenth.
“How about you?” Mama turned her watery eyes Bo’s way.
“Milk sounds good to me.”
Probably the lesser of the evils. And Bo’s manners didn’t allow him asking for anything else, or turning down the offer completely. Southern mamas fed people as an instinct. Better to eat than be asked every five minutes, “Are you sure I can’t get you something?”
Mama darted between the cabinet, the refrigerator, and back, with a glass of milk in each hand.
Not even completely cold yet. Milk didn’t come any fresher, or with traces of cream floating on top. The refrigerator and stove were new, and somewhere along the line Mama finally got her wish of a dishwasher, but Granddaddy’s handmade white cabinet still took up one wall, and a table big enough to fit all seven Lucklighters showed the marks of time—and a few scratches from the pocketknife Lucky used to carry.
Had Mama ever found the “REL” he’d carved underneath?
A tablet computer, a new addition, sat on the counter, a recipe showing on the screen.
Traces of coffee, bacon, and vanilla taunted his nose, along with the ghostly cinnamon of a million apple pies. Sweetest smell in the world.
“You boys want some bacon?” Mama tossed out a few burned bacon strips and started over cooking more.
Mmmmm… Bacon.
“Nah, that’s all right.” Lucky’s stomach roared, calling him a liar.
Mama set her spatula on a nearby spoon rest, hanging her head. With an unfamiliar chill in her tone, she said, “I didn’t know how to tell your Daddy about you and Bristol. Charlotte’s in with him now, trying to explain. I thought it best if she talks to him.”
Really? Mama and Daddy had always told each other everything.
“I hope this ain’t a bad time, but I needed to check on how y’all are doing.” And deep down inside, the little boy in Lucky needed his parents.
Mama sniffled. “As well as can be expected, I reckon. I keep wondering where I went wrong, like I did with…” She shot Lucky an eyeful of guilt.
Lucky placed his hands on her thin shoulders. “You didn’t do one thing wrong, Mama. You raised us right. Not your fault we went our own way.”
“That’s what your sister keeps telling me. I’d never have made it these past few months without her.” She sighed. “And now you’re back. I’d always dreamed of having all my young’uns here again. Now…” Silent sobs racked her body. “After you… after they told us… oh, God, how it hurt. I’d lost you twice, the first time because of stubbornness, and then…”
Once more Lucky offered all the comfort he could. He’d shed his tears for lost years later. For now, he’d be strong. For Mama.
She rolled wet-lashed eyes upward. “Tell me. Did Bristol commit suicide? Reverend Hildebrand says suicides can’t go to Heaven.”
The sobbing began anew. Charlotte appeared in the doorway. “I done told you, Mama, it don’t say that nowhere in the Bible that I’ve seen.” She gave Lucky a one-armed hug and eased their mother from Lucky’s arms into hers. “’Sides, we have to wait for the coroner’s report.”
A world of hurt in his sister’s eyes hit Lucky so hard he staggered. He wouldn’t tell them how Bristol died. Not now. Not the time.
Charlotte made a shooing motion with her hand. “Daddy’s waiting. Go talk to him. Bo, would you mind helping me with Mama?”
Tiptoeing down the hall like he’d done when he’d stayed out late and snuck in after curfew came way too close to the anxiety-ridden trek he’d made from free man to jail cell.
Lucky stood in front of the bedroom door. Breathe in/breathe out.
He put one of his counselor’s calming exercises to use:
Name five things you hear. His own panicked breathing, a rooster crowing in the yard, his sister crooning in the kitchen, a clank like a spoon in a cup, the creak of the board beneath his feet—the same one he’d fallen victim to in his youth.
Name five things you see. Cracks in the plaster on the foyer wall, the unpainted oak of his parents’ bedroom door, the antique glass doorknob, the metal skeleton key Daytona jammed into the lock about twenty years ago and couldn’t get out. The photos hanging on the wall.
Name five things you feel. His wildly thudding heart, his fist clenched tight, the beginnings of a stress headache, the ever so slight pull from his healing incision, sweat beads sliding down his face. He wiped them away with the back of his hand. No, not sweat. Tears.
The voice he never dared dream to hear again shouted, “Well, you planning on staying out there forever or getting your ass in here?”
Oh shit. Show time.