Redemption (19 page)

Bo lifted his shoulder in a half-shrug. “If you want to.”

Lucky rolled out of bed and yanked his phone out of his jeans pocket. Bo gave him a sleepy smile. Perfect. Lucky snapped twice.

“Can I see?” Bo held his hand out.

“Sure.” Lucky hopped back on the bed and turned the phone around.

“But that’s just my face.” A wrinkle appeared between Bo’s furrowed brows.

“I’ve got one hell of a memory.” Lucky dropped the phone onto the night stand and put his hands to better use.

Beep! Beep! Beep! Beep!

Bo wriggled over Lucky and hauled ass down the hall. “Oh, fuck it all to hell!”

“What?” Lucky charged into the kitchen on Bo’s heels.

Bo yanked a blackened casserole dish out of the oven with mittened hands. “I should have set the timer!”

Lucky threw a towel over the blaring smoke alarm.

“Fuck! Fuck! FUCK!” Bo shrieked. “I can’t do fucking anything right!” He shifted the dish to one hand, opened the back door, and lobbed the food, dish, and potholders into the yard.

Oh crap. Not good. “Bo, calm down!”

“Don’t you tell me to fucking calm down.” Bo danced around the kitchen. Lucky’s morning coffee cup sailed through the air and shattered against a wall. Damn, he’d liked that cup.

“Bo, please, you gotta stop. This isn’t good for you!” Think! What had Dr. Drake said? A flash of white darted to the bedroom, followed by a black and white shadow.

“Shit.” Bo ran into the bedroom. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Moose, Cat Lucky, I didn’t mean to scare you.”

Give him space. Yeah, that’s what Dr. Drake had said. While Bo crooned to scared pets, Lucky cleaned up coffee cup fragments. The casserole was a goner.

Lucky had never been much of a cuddler, but with Bo, physical contact came naturally. Conscious thought didn’t figure into the placement of their bodies, and they always seemed to end up with someone’s head on someone else’s shoulder, a leg thrown across a leg, or one or the other of them spooned against the other’s back.

Until recently when Bo only snuggled in his sleep.

No, not snuggling. Clinging. In the storm of life, Bo created a safe haven, no matter how fucked up Lucky might feel at the time. The way Bo clung back, maybe Lucky returned the favor.

He lay awake, fingers laced with Bo’s, focusing on the steady in/out of his partner’s breathing. Visions of dead bodies slowly faded away. At least the nightmares weren’t as frequent now. Must be Bo’s calming influence.

They’d met right before the Ryerson assignment, two years ago. If all went well they’d soon live together, and God willing, make a life.

Lucky waited, but the annoying twisty feelings in his gut didn’t come, the way they normally did when he thought about forever.

Somewhere he’d taken a wrong turn in life, but it couldn’t be all bad—it led him to Bo.

But now a fork divided Bo’s road.

May he choose whatever kept him with Lucky.

Chapter Fourteen

Lucky sat on a stepladder in the garage of his new house, watching the locksmith change the locks. The guy needed to get a move on. Lucky could only blame so much lost time on traffic, and he had a lot left to do. Though in his state of mind, did Bo even notice when Lucky got home?

Damn. Too much to think about. Bo should be here, traipsing through the house and making decisions—decisions Lucky wasn’t qualified to make. What did he know about refrigerators, other than they kept beer cold?

He accepted the keys and garage door openers from the worker and watched him leave.

Locks done. Now to fix the holes in the sheetrock and the broken bathroom tiles, or stop by the hardware store and price a ceiling fan. And look into replacing cracked window panes. Re-grouting. Cleaning. Landscaping. Where to begin?

Damn. He’d gotten in over his head this time.

What he needed was Bo. How the hell was Lucky supposed to match paint with the couch? White walls worked fine for him. But they got dirty. Quick. But Bo was at the storage building, sorting through his packed belongings.

Who else could Lucky call? Someone who owed him one big-assed favor.

Hell, Johnson wanted to be his friend? Lucky called.

***

“My vote would be to tell him what you’re up to, but I understand, under the circumstances.” Under her breath, Johnson muttered, “It’ll be a bad surprise if you mess this up.”

“What did you say?”

“Oh, nothing. Now, what do we tackle first?” She’d dressed the part of painter’s assistant, in faded overalls and a green-spattered T-shirt.

“That’s just it. So much needs doing. I ain’t got the first idea where to start.”

“Well, I wouldn’t paint without his approval. Not to be insulting, but I’m thinking of the two of you, he’s the designer.” She ran a narrow-eyed gaze over Lucky’s tattered jeans and concert shirt so faded that even Lucky’d forgotten the band name. “How about taking a handful of samples home and telling him you’re thinking of painting your duplex? Get his input.”

Why didn’t Lucky think of that? “That’ll work.”

“Of course it will. It was my idea, wasn’t it? Now, first, we clean this place and see what we got to work with. Did you bring pen and paper?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay, I’ll talk, you write.” She tromped down the hall into the back bedroom, “Hmmm-hmmming” and stroking her chin, with Lucky double-timing to keep up with her long strides. “Paint walls, paint baseboards, replace tiles, new ceiling fan and light fixture. A little sheet rock mud on that exposed corner bead.” The closet door screeched when she pulled it open. “WD-40, paint. Hey, did you see this? They never finished the floor in here. We’ll need to find matching tile, or at least a contrast.”

Damn. Lucky’d filled a whole notebook page on a guest bedroom.

“How about we start in the master suite? Get a few rooms done and you can live here while you fix up the rest.”

“Nah. I want it perfect the first time he sees it.”

Johnson whipped her head around toward Lucky. “You must really love that man.”

Yeah, he did. “He’s got enough going on right now. He doesn’t need a house to worry about too, and every time I try to talk about it, something always sidetracks me.”

The rigid set of her shoulders softened. “What’s wrong? Tell Auntie Rett all about it.” Johnson’s dark eyes took in everything. No judgment, no accusation.

She might be the closest thing to Charlotte Lucky had in Georgia. And he so needed his sister right now. She’d know what to do, what to say, how to help Bo. But she was in Spokane, with enough worries of her own raising two teenage sons. She didn’t need Lucky’s problems added to her plate.

Lucky was here. Johnson was here and offering a shoulder.

Why the hell not accept?

“He’s not himself. I dunno, it’s like he’s broken or something. He’s trying too hard to hold it together. Sometimes he cracks, then spends the next twenty minutes apologizing. All that anger and pain’s gotta come out of him or he’s gonna go crazy.” He didn’t add, “And take me with him”.

“Then get it out of him.”

“How?”

“The same way you and I did. Give him a chance to let go.”

Leave it to Johnson to suggest such a thing. Seeing Bo in destructive mode again might be the death of Lucky. “I’m not sure he’ll go for it. He’s afraid to go a round with me, thinks he might lose control and hurt me.” Saying the words somehow made the situation all the more real. What if he and Bo went head to head? What if Bo lost control and kicked Lucky’s ass? Lucky would recover. Bo might not.

“Then get a spotter. Someone you both trust to step in if needed.” She focused a far too understanding gaze on Lucky. “Think he’d trust me?”

Would he? “Yeah. He likes you.”

“Sure he does. What’s not to like?” Once again she hammered Lucky with an iron-hard stare. “But what about you?”

“What about me?”

“Do you trust me?”

Did he? Lucky never stopped to consider who he trusted and who he didn’t. Trusting no one left the question a moot point. But he did trust people: Bo, Walter, Charlotte.

Johnson stood a few feet from Lucky, her face showing no emotion.

Several times now she’d put herself out there to help him without asking for anything in return. Loretta Johnson might be the first real friend he’d made since junior high when he realized that having friends meant getting close, and he had secrets best hidden from the general population of Redneck High.

Johnson. Every bit as stubborn and pigheaded as Lucky. She’d shot her former lover to save her kid. The woman took care of business and family. Lucky respected that. He respected her. But trust her? “You haven’t crapped on me yet.”

“I save crapping for those who deserve it.” And with the finesse Lucky’d come to expect, Johnson shifted topics and got back down to business. “Now, this molding has to go…”

Cocky woman. Thank God she was on Lucky’s side.

Now to put the plan into action. And may Bo forgive him.

***

Lucky tiptoed into the house. He hadn’t meant to stay at the hardware store so late. Bo lay asleep on the couch.

Well, at least Lucky didn’t have to explain where he’d been.

***

Bo sprawled on the couch in his usual position, with a cat on his chest and a dog on the floor beside him. While the place was far from nasty, he hadn’t unpacked much—which suited Lucky’s purposes, but pissed him off at the same time. At least he’d stopped talking about getting his own place.

There’d been a time when Sunday meant sex until noon, then cleaning house—before Mexico.

Bo and Lucky’s relationship fell into two distinct categories: Before Mexico and After Mexico. It took nearly losing both their lives to see how good he’d had it before.

Broken. No other word for it. Lucky lived for the day when they’d enter the “We’re the hell over Mexico” or better yet, a “Mexico? Where’s that?” phase. “I got a question for you.”

Bo rolled his eyes upward. “Yes?”

“I’m thinking about sprucing the place up bit. Do a little painting. I picked up samples at the hardware store. What do you like?” Lucky dropped a handful of color cards onto Bo’s lap.

Bo held the cards in his hand, not looking at them.

“It’s just a thought.” Lucky’s heart hammered a mile a minute.
Please let him buy it.

“I’m afraid.”

What? Lucky squatted down by the couch, putting them at eye level. Moose plopped his head on Lucky’s lap and gave a soft whine. Lucky patted the dog’s head. “What are you afraid of?” He kept his voice low, the way he used to talk to skittish farm animals. A gentle hand worked better than yelling and kicking.

Cat Lucky growled at the dog and sauntered off.

Bo sat up, rested his elbows on his knees, and buried his face in his splayed palms. “Of hurting you.”

Lucky rose up on the couch arm, balancing his weight so the darned thing didn’t tip backwards. He rested his arm around Bo’s shoulders. Bo flinched, but settled back into the embrace with a sigh. “You can’t hurt me.”

“But… What if I’d taken shit out on you instead of lasagna?”

“But nothing! I’ve fallen out of trees. I’ve been hit by a tractor,”—going about two miles per hour, but still— “thrown by horses, tossed to the floor by ornery furniture, shot, slid down a kudzu vine and broke a few bones, and made it two years in the Durham Correctional Facility.” Granted, he’d found himself in the infirmary for the occasional patch-up job, but he’d recovered. “Not to mention I’m a ten year veteran of the Southeastern Narcotics Bureau.”

Challenge turned Bo’s eyes stony.

Lucky cut off any protests. “Average time spent in the bureau is five years. Art set the record with fifteen.” And he’d lived to retire—one of few.

“How about Walter?”

“He doesn’t count. I think he was born in the SNB conference room or something and been there ever since.”

“That doesn’t mean I won’t hurt you.” Bo’s faint mumble barely registered.

“You haven’t hurt me yet, have you?”

“No, but…”

“What’s it gonna take to teach you that you can’t hurt me?” Not physically, anyway.

“Nothing. There’s no way. You don’t understand what goes on in my mind. What I’m capable of. What I’ve done.”

“Whatever goes on with you, I can take. I
will
take. Don’t you get that?”

Bo stared at the wall. Not speaking. This wasn’t like him. The paint samples fluttered the floor. Where was his annoying good cheer? His “Can I get you a glass of sweet tea? Clean your house? Save the world?”

Poker face. Something else rattled around that brain of his. Time to call his bluff.

“What’s really eating you?” Lucky slid off the couch arm and to the floor, wedging his way between Bo’s knees. “Out with it.”

He held on when Bo tried to cover his face. No. Not happening. Lucky softened his tone. “How can I help you if you won’t let me?”

The twitch at the edge of Bo’s mouth wasn’t quite a smile. “Lucky Lucklighter looks out for number one. He’s not into helping people.”

“He helps you. If you let him.” Lucky placed Bo’s palm against his cheek and nuzzled into the heat. Funny, for years he’d made up any excuse to keep folks from touching him. Now he couldn’t get enough. He planted a kiss on Bo’s palm.

Bo blew out a breath. “I’m afraid of losing control.”

Yeah. The man liked his world organized. No surprises. Lucky nodded. “Go on.”

“So much of my life is out of my control. I don’t like feeling helpless, especially not when my own brain makes me do things I don’t want to.”

“What does your shrink say?”

“She says that if I didn’t want to do those things, I wouldn’t.” Bo growled the words out through gritted teeth. “And that a handful of pills will cure all ills.”

Wait! What? “You mean to tell me she thinks you can control a flashback? That it’s all in your head? Or you actually wanted to”—Bo’s flinch stopped Lucky from finishing with “you wanted to beat your boyfriend”.
And her answer to a forced drug dependency was more drugs?

Eyes squinched shut, Bo nodded. Moisture leaked out of one eye to trail down his cheek.

“I may not be some hoity-toity shrink or nothin’, but even a dumb redneck tobacco farmer calls bullshit.”