Corruption (2 page)

“What the hell do you think you’re doing here?” Lucky asked, though without much heat. He bent and scratched its furry ear.
In the kitchen, the refrigerator hummed and a clock ticked off the seconds, adding to the sense of isolation in his obviously empty place. The feline he
called “Cat Lucky” added his own gristmill harmony, butting his head against Human Lucky’s hand. After a moment of cat
spoiling, Lucky traipsed through his house, clicking on lights and checking in closets. He stopped at his bedroom door. Holy shit. Someone had definitely
violated his personal space.

The quilt on his bed hung perfectly even. The pillows, dressed in matching cases, sat propped against the headboard. A dragon sculpture, a gift his lover
gave him meant to offer protection, perched on his nightstand.

He sucked in a deep breath and exhaled in a steady rush as he catalogued missing items. No coffee cups lined his dresser top, and not a single pair of
jeans obstructed his path across the floor. A Harley Davidson brochure kept the dragon company. Damn. He’d been missing that flier for months. A
quick duck into the bathroom showed a towel draped from the rack for possibly the first time since he’d moved in. Wasn’t that what the
shower curtain rod was for? Or the floor? A wicker basket he’d never noticed before held folded washcloths, and a bath mat took up space beside
the tub. He didn’t recognize the rug either. Nice, though. And might keep him from busting his ass the next time he got out of the shower.

He didn’t mind a clean house, but he didn’t like the subtle reminder of his slob nature. For years his lack of domestic abilities
hadn’t mattered. No one darkened his door without a survey clipboard, a case full of Girl Scout cookies, or a trick or treat bag in hand.

Dare he hope his intruder left gifts in the kitchen too?

The cat followed him from room to room, stropping against Lucky’s ankles. He’d never figured himself a cat person, since his crazy
schedule of being gone for weeks at a time didn’t allow much time for pets. Technically, the fur ball belonged to Mrs. Griggs, but he laid claim
to Lucky whenever possible. The critter wasn’t too much trouble, and it provided company. Lucky might wait a while before shooing the furry
intruder back outside.

Superstitions lived in weak minds. That didn’t stop a shudder. Even science left mysteries too often unexplained. Every time Lucky set eyes on
the cat he recalled a poor little girl he’d met last spring, who’d captured his heart and then broke it by dying from tainted medicine.
Either the cat was a pain in the ass stalker who wouldn’t take no for an answer, or a message from Stephanie, sent from beyond the grave. Either
way, Lucky put the gun away to open a can of tuna. “Don’t you dare tell anyone about this,” he said, placing the can on the
floor and adding an ear scratch for good measure. “Mrs. Griggs probably already fed you, didn’t she?”

The cat made “
grwwwwnnnn, grwwwwnnnnn, grwwwwwnnnn
,” noises, face buried in the tuna can.

Now to feed the human. A fresh jug of milk sat in the refrigerator, a message in black marker reading: “Use a glass! And yes, I’ll
know!” A plastic container marked “Spaghetti,” sat beside the milk, lettered in the same neat print.

Nothing said, “I got tired of waiting and went home” like a plateful of refrigerated spaghetti and a spotless house. But
there’d been no need calling and getting Bo riled up over what didn’t even amount to a flesh wound. Two seconds later, he would have
charged to the hospital to hover and fuss. And nothing said, “We’re more than coworkers” than hovering and fussing when the
boss showed up to ask a million questions.

Not quite as good as the freshly created meal of Lucky’s dreams, but reheated leftovers beat fending for himself. The microwave turned the
contents of the container from a congealed mess to a late supper in five minutes. The scent of tomato sauce and herbs conjured images of a dark-haired man
in an apron, flitting between the stove and the sink. Damn the woman in red for taking bad shit. And damn the son-of-a-bitch who’d supplied her.
Lucky could be lying in bed right now in a fucked-out stupor instead of eating alone with only a cat for company. And his right hand, later.

He ate in silence, save for the occasional slide of the can over linoleum as the cat pushed the tuna tin around the floor, attempting to get every little
nibble. After eating, Lucky gently but firmly showed the cat the way out. The darned thing snored, and there were much better ways to wake up in the
morning than to tuna-scented cat kisses.

Shedding his clothes down the hallway to the bathroom, Lucky stopped mid-motion and returned to pick up the offending garments. “I
can’t even walk through your house without tripping,” he muttered in an approximation of his lover’s tenor. In his own deeper
tones, he added, “And I won’t get laid until the lecture’s over.”

Maybe he should call Bo and explain why he’d been late. Nah, wouldn’t do to appear overeager. Especially if the object of his desires
happened to be sleeping.

He showered, keeping his bandaged shoulder out of the water, imagining Bo’s chestnut locks blackening under the shower’s spray, and his
mahogany eyes, further darkened by lust, gazing down with wicked intent. He rubbed a soapy hand down his chest, hefting the weight of his cock. Bo knew
exactly how to grip him, how hard and fast to stroke. But Bo wasn’t here. Lucky would have to make do, working himself to the one-two beat of an
imaginary body rutting against him.

“Soon,” he promised himself. “Soon.”

Wait! Was that a knock? A quick turn of the shower knobs silenced the water’s spray, leaving a warm swirl of fog. Silence. Towel wrapped around
his waist, Lucky gave up hoping and locked up.
Yowl!
How did Cat Lucky know it was bedtime, even though the clock said six a.m.? Maybe if Lucky were
quiet… Halfway down the hall, another yowl stopped him in his tracks. Gone for a few hours, and the moment he got home he’s wrapped
around a furry paw again.

“All right,” Lucky grumbled, stomping back down the hall to the front door. “But just ‘cause Bo ain’t
here. Don’t even think you’re invited in when my bed’s already full.”

He pulled the door open and Cat Lucky pranced down the hall, head and tail held high. Kitchen light off, coffee pot set, front door locked. Human Lucky
interpreted the meowing from the bedroom to mean, “Come lay down and be my cat bed!”

“Yes, your lordship.” Lucky trudged down the hall to his room. Before settling into bed, he punched his way through the office phone
tree to the department’s uncaring voice mail. “I’m calling in ‘shot’. I’ll be in sometime after
noon.” Let the gossip begin.

Chapter 2

A few sleepless hours, a blur of a commute, an overenthusiastic greeting from a perky blonde receptionist… yup, all the signs of morning, or
rather, afternoon. Decaf Starbucks coffee in one hand, a cup of green tea in the other in case he ran into Bo, Lucky turned and nearly slammed into a
co-worker.

“Got a drinking problem?” Keith sneered, eyeing the two cups.

“I bring my own so I don’t have to drink the stump water you call coffee,” Lucky snapped. No need mentioning the other cup
wasn’t for him. Often enough in the past, he’d toted in a double-shot of Starbucks, albeit the full caffeine kind, before Mr. Healthy
Bo switched him to decaf.

Keith’s disdainful glare fell on Lucky’s scuffed second-best jacket. “Nice jacket. Been shopping in dumpsters
again?”

Walter Smith, the giant who ruled the Southeastern Narcotics Bureau’s Department of Diversion Prevention and Control, traipsed up the hallway,
face lighting up when his bifocaled gaze fell on Lucky.
Saved by the boss, fuckwad.
Five people. Only five people’s opinions mattered.
Walter Smith used to slide between one and five on a regular basis, but he never dropped completely off the list. Now Bo permanently occupied the number
one spot. Walter presently came in at number two. “I’d hoped you’d be here today, Lucky,” said the man
who’d freed him from prison and given him purpose in life, “although I wouldn’t have blamed you for taking the day
off.”

“Awww, it’s only a scratch.” Lucky gave Keith his smuggest grin. “But I did lose a perfectly good
jacket.”

“Still, you were shot,” Walter persisted.

Keith raised his brows but kept quiet.
Take that, asshole.

“After you’re settled, I’d like to see you in my office, please.”

Once Walter’s office door closed behind his broad back, an evil leer twisted Keith’s face. “Let me guess, you were cleaning
your gun and it went off, right?” He pantomimed jacking his cock, then stalked off, denying Lucky a snappy comeback.

“Don’t you have some filing to do?” Lucky snarled at the frozen-in-place receptionist before sauntering down the hall. “No good
motherfucking Keith,” he mumbled, “no good motherfucking afternoon, no good motherfucking… what day is it
anyway?” Damn, but he missed his butter-soft leather jacket, now filling an evidence bag at a precinct. “No good motherfucking
jacket, no good motherfucking crackheads.” Or whatever the fuck the woman took. Down the corridor, he ambled past the cubes of his fellow agents,
past the mailroom, past a bank of filing cabinets to the double cube he shared with the department’s newest addition. Both desks stood empty. As
Lucky’d made it a point to arrive after lunch, chances were Bo wouldn’t be in. If he wasn’t at his desk at twelve forty-five,
he wasn’t going to show.

Lately, Lucky’s schedule had him coming while Bo seemed to be going, which meant they hadn’t crossed paths much in the last few weeks.
Lucky tossed the cup of tea into the trash and covered the peace offering with empty Styrofoam cups off his own desk, left since who knew when. Even
housekeeping avoided Lucky’s end of the hallway. Bite a few heads off and folks learn to leave you alone. And while Bo might clean up the house,
he and Lucky carefully maintained a “we’re only coworkers” façade at work. Mr. Neat-Freak Bo Schollenberger
didn’t dare inflict his cleanliness here.

Lucky took his time assembling his notes and adding the finishing touches to his report before polishing off the dregs of his coffee and preparing for a
visit with the boss. After roughly thirty minutes of busy work, he dragged himself down the hall. Keith stood near the copier in the mail room, rolling up
his top lip when Lucky passed by.

Ignoring the resident asshole, Lucky tapped on the door to his boss’s office.

“Come in,” Walter called.

Lucky almost smiled at the friendly greeting but rearranged his mouth to something that probably looked more like the results of a severe gas cramp. No
need to let "Uncle Walt" know he wasn’t on the shit list.

Pushing the door open, Lucky peeked inside. “You wanted to see me?” He slumped down in the chair Walter pointed to with a hand roughly
twice the size of Lucky’s. “I gave you my initial report last night at the hospital, but I need to read over my typed version once more
before sending it in.” Or get Bo to check for typos, if by some miracle he appeared in the cube when Lucky got back.

Walter’s chair rasped when he leaned back. Hands folded across an ample belly, the man who’d taught Lucky to be one of the good guys
gazed over the top of his glasses. “How’s the arm?”

Crap. Idle chitchat usually led to shit Lucky didn’t want to hear. “Fine.” He flexed his shoulder to prove the point.
“Hurts some, but not too bad.”

“Good, although I’m afraid the woman who shot you added assault with a deadly weapon to her simple assault and possession
charges.”

Lucky bit the inside of his mouth and didn’t reply. Most people would have pissed him off by aiming a gun his way, but the woman last night
wasn’t in her right mind. Besides, it wasn’t the first time he’d taken a bullet. Only, last time it was a BB fired by his kid
brother, Daytona. Little twerp. But his jacket? Did she have to go and shoot his jacket?

“Please do try to take care of yourself, Lucky. While I’ve nothing against socializing with my team after working hours, I’d
prefer to meet in a restaurant, not the emergency room.”

Hardy, har, har. Yet the lack of twinkling in Walter’s eyes betrayed his true concern. If Lucky bit the big one, Walter would be one of a handful
of people who might miss him. He and Walter had enough history to achieve a bass-ackward kind of affection, and the old coot never had pushed Lucky to
share little details like aches, pains, or doubts. No, if Lucky were going to rile the boss, it wouldn’t be “I got nicked in the
arm”. He’d make it huge. A fuck-up of colossal proportions.

“Anyway,” Walter continued. “I asked you in here to talk about Bo. To be honest, we should have had this conversation weeks
ago.”

Lucky’s heart plunged off a cliff and landed hard in his stomach before bouncing back up to lodge in his throat. “Bo?” The
trainee he’d formerly referred to as “Newbie” wasn’t someone Lucky wanted to discuss across the paper-strewn
surface of the boss’s desk. “What about him?”

Piercing eyes dared Lucky to lie, and he swallowed hard. While Bo’s crimes hadn’t come close to Lucky’s, he’d still
earned himself a stint of probation to be worked off in service to the Southeastern Narcotics Bureau. Sleeping with a coworker, particularly a convicted
felon, might defy the terms of the agreement. “Is there anything you’d like to tell me?” Walter asked.

Oh shit! What now?
Drug dealers. Convicted felons. Unscrupulous doctors. Lucky stared them in the face and lied easier than most folks spoke the truth. Walter asking a direct
question was another matter entirely. But he didn’t actually ask if Lucky and Bo were fucking like bunnies, did he?

“’S far as I know he aced our last assignment,” Lucky replied. Where was Bo? If the man’s fate hung in the balance,
he should be here. “I thought he’d be in today. I’d hoped to tie up some loose ends.”

Walter regarded Lucky a minute more. The stiff set of his shoulders relaxed somewhat. “I’ve been keeping him busy. Which gives us time
to chat.”

Lucky filled his lungs and forced his fingers to remain still on the chair arms. Walter could read body language with the best of them. “Is
something wrong?”