Redemption (20 page)

Bo shrugged. “She’s my doctor.”

“Not anymore.”

Bo opened his eyes; amber fire blazed in their brown depths. “Walter says I have to go to her. I
need
to go.”

“Not to
her
. There’re specialists in what you’re going through. We’ll find you one.” And if Walter objected, he’d deal with Lucky.

“You don’t believe her.” Bo’s disbelieving tone threatened to rip Lucky’s heart right out.

“No, I don’t.”

“I do.”

Oh, Lordy. Time to push, without going too far. “Prove it.”

“What?”

“You heard me. Prove it.”

Bo stared around the living room. “Here? Now?”

“No. We’ll go down to the gym.”

After several moments of open-mouthed staring, Bo clacked his teeth shut. “Okay, but don’t say I didn’t warn you. It’s your funeral.”

“Funny, Johnson said the same thing. And it won’t be.” Lucky pulled out his cell phone. “I’m gonna round us up a spotter.” Let him be doing the right thing.

“Who?” Bo raised one eyebrow, lines forming between his brows. Yeah, his inner Cyrus wouldn’t let just any old body see what he thought of as a weakness.

“Johnson.”

Bo’s second eyebrow joined the first in reaching for his hairline. “She any good?”

Now was not the time to tell Bo how close Lucky’d come to getting his ass kicked. “Street fighter. No formal training, but she’s okay.”

The gears grinding in Bo’s brain were nearly audible. His jaw twitched and he studied his hands. Testing the bounds of his control had to be his decision.

Lucky blindly charged in, and damn the consequences. Bo weighed matters.

If he hadn’t been trained to notice the smallest of details, Lucky might’ve missed the slight dip of Bo’s chin. “Do it.”

Hallelujah! Lucky scrolled through his meager list of contacts and found “Johnson.”

She picked up on the second ring. “What you done got yourself into now?”

“How the fuck are you too?” Lucky had to remember her line if he ever connected with his brothers again.

His brothers. If only Dallas was there. He’d always said and done the right things, like Charlotte. And he’d be by Lucky’s side, ripping up carpet and painting walls.

Lucky took a deep breath and let it out slowly. He’d make do with what he had: Johnson. “Are you busy?”

“If by ‘busy’ do you mean ‘doing the nasty’?”

Ewww… Way too much information. “You could lie and say ‘nothing much’.”

“All right, all right! So I’m watching my toenail polish dry and shining a laser pointer on the floor for the cat to chase. Spoilsport. Whatcha want?”

“I need you to help me settle a bet.”

“Oh? Who we going after?”

“That’s okay. I wouldn’t want to take you away from your exciting life.” She was too much fun to mess with.

“No! Please do! You’re taking my advice, aren’t you?”

“Bo and I are gonna go a few rounds in the ring. We want you there… in case.” Never in a million years would he admit it had been her idea, and a good one.

“Have you mentioned this to his therapist, by any chance?”

“His
therapist
is a dipstick.”

Lucky imagined Johnson nodding in that sage way of hers. “When and where?”

Good question on the when. “Let me make a call and get back to you.” Lucky hung up and dialed again.

A gruff voice answered, “Sonny’s Gym.”

“I need a ring.”

“We open at one today.”

Lucky glanced at his bare wrist. Right. He couldn’t seem to hang on to a watch to save his life. He pulled his phone away from his ear to check the time: 10:30. “If I pay you extra, can you open at twelve?”

“No can do. One o’clock.”

Lucky scrutinized Bo. They didn’t need an audience. He muttered, “Fuck you,” after he hung up the phone. He called Johnson. “I didn’t get a ring.”

“What gym did you call?”

“Sonny’s.”

“Give me five minutes.” Two minutes later his phone rang. Damn, that was fast. “Can you make it at twelve thirty?”

“Yeah. But how’d you get a ‘yes’ when I got a ‘no’?”

“I played on the guy’s sympathies, about how a poor, PTSD-suffering ex-Marine needs to work off a fuck-ton of stress.”

Lucky pictured the cellphone addicted slacker who minded the door at Sonny’s. “And that worked?” Well, duh.

“His brother was a Marine. Sometimes you catch more flies with honey, dude. Didn’t your mama ever tell you that?”

Damn but Lucky hated owing her one. “We’ll see you there.” He disconnected the call.

Bo lay on the couch, staring at the ceiling. Now if only he’d decide what color to paint it.

“C’mon, Bo. We got somewhere to go. Let Moose out in the backyard. We’ll get a bite to eat on the way.”

Bo didn’t argue, he rose off the couch and plodded to the bedroom. Looked like he was heading to his own execution, the way he hung his head and shuffled his feet.

Lucky gave him a few minutes alone before joining him in the bedroom to grab his workout clothes.

***

Bo stood on the sidewalk, arms slack at his sides.

The last time they’d come here together Bo had been a rookie, Lucky his trainer, and they’d met a few days earlier. And yet, even then Bo hadn’t gazed at Lucky with such suspicion. Yeah, familiarity didn’t often endear people to Lucky, but damn it all to hell, his lover shouldn’t act scared shitless.

He sidled up to Bo in case the guy tried to bolt. “It’s good to get out of the house for a while, ain’t it?”

Bo grunted in reply.

Under pain of death Lucky wouldn’t mention the few extra pounds around Bo’s middle, or the lack of running in at least a month, unless he counted trying to keep up with the dog during morning walks.

Bo once worshipped at the altar of clean living. Now? Granted, Lucky never found bacon in cupcakes and brownies, but sugar and white flour used to be on Bo’s no-no list.

If one thing could possibly break Lucky’s heart more than Bo up and leaving, it’d be Bo leaving mentally while his body remained behind and went through the motions of living.

Bo shoved his hands into the pockets of his sweats and preceded Lucky into the building. The same texting asshole sat on a stool behind the front desk, thumbs working double-time on the keypad of an iPhone.

“You got a half hour before we open to the public,” he mumbled without taking his eyes off his phone. There wasn’t enough violence in this man’s life for him to be so trusting. Didn’t he watch any crime dramas on TV? Hell, didn’t he even watch South Bend Springs, for crying out loud? His Marine brother needed to give the guy a good talking to.

Lucky strode on past, Bo shuffling along in his wake. Just like last time, no helmets, no guards, just gloves, and only to appease Bo’s fears. Lucky stretched, then bounced in place. Bo stood in the corner of the ring, staring at his gloves.

“You haven’t forgotten what those gloves or for, have you? Or your promise to one day stomp my ass?” Was it too much to ask for Lucky to be doing the right thing for once in his life?

If the beaten down man standing so forlorn in the ring was who Bo’d be from here on out, Lucky had his back. But damned if he wouldn’t mourn the partner who gave as good as he got.
It takes time
, he heard in his mind, in a chorus of voices: Charlotte’s, Johnson’s, Walter’s, and Mrs. Griggs’. And damned if they weren’t all right.

But facing fears worked a whole lot quicker.

He acknowledged Johnson with a nod when she crept in, took her place ringside, and held up a whistle. “Okay, here’s the rules. You hear this whistle, you get to your corner.” In an eerie reminder of Lucky’s mother’s old threat, she added, “Don’t make me come in there.”

Lucky finished his warmup and picked a spot on the mat to stand his ground.

“Why do you want to do this?” Bo asked.

Yeah, offering to be a punching bag was a reckless thing to do. A shiver of fear raced up Lucky’s spine. Bo held a height and weight advantage, and when channeling Cyrus, attitude too. But whatever happened the day Bo had hit his boyfriend wasn’t a part of the Bo Lucky knew. Lucky might hurt like a motherfucker in a few minutes, but he was betting his body on Bo staying Bo.

“Because we both need the workout. Now, hit or be hit.” Lucky faked with his left and ducked, expecting a retaliatory swing.

Bo stood stock still. “I don’t want to fight you.”

The blackness in Bo needed a way out. “Then don’t fight me.” Lucky edged his way over, weight on his toes. He leaned up and whispered into Bo’s ear, “Pretend I’m Stephan Mangiardi.”

“I can’t.”

“Why can’t you?”

For the first time in recent memory, the old pissed off fire from their early days burned in Bo’s eyes. He trembled. “Because then I’d kill you.”

Lucky met the challenge with a lift of his chin. “Go on.”

“No. I might hurt you.”

“You won’t.” And if beating Lucky black and blue helped the man deal, the punishment would be worth the pain. Now to get him riled up enough to fight back.

For a long moment they stood inches apart, chests rising and falling with their heavy breathing. And then Bo swung.

His fist passed close enough to catch Lucky in the breeze. Lucky danced away. Clumsy. “You can do better than that.”

Bo swung again, a look of sheer determination on his face.

Lucky ducked and covered.
Smack!
A left hook caught him in the jaw, hard enough to rattle teeth and brains.

Hitting the mat and rolling saved Lucky from another hard blow. He rose to his feet on shaky legs. Damn! The man wasn’t playing.

Jab, jab, slam
, went Bo’s fists. Fuck! A blow to the shoulder knocked Lucky back against the turnbuckle.

Lucky hid a wince. “Is that all you got? My kid sister hits harder.”

Johnson squeezed the rope, muscles tense. If Lucky hollered she’d blow the whistle.

Bo never glanced her way. He came after Lucky again and again and again.

A blow to Lucky’s chest forced out an “Ooof!” Fuck! That was hard!
Shake it off, Lucklighter. Shake it off.

Forcing himself upright and schooling the panic off his face, Lucky worked his way across the mat. If Bo was in top form, Lucky would be a dead man. But even now Bo huffed and puffed, dropped his arms, giving Lucky clear shots.

Normally when Lucky came here, he taught someone a lesson. Today was about draining the wound and letting the scars heal.

“What’s wrong, you son of a bitch?” Bo shouted. “We came here to fight, now hit me!”

“Come and get me.” Lucky forced a cocky grin.

Once more fire sparked in Bo’s eyes. Left, right, left. He jabbed, he shuffled.

Still not there yet. All Bo’s internal pressure needed an outlet. “What’s wrong, gonna let a short-armed T-Rex beat you?” Lucky darted under Bo’s defense, landing a token jab.

Fuck! Not quick enough!

A right to the solar plexus spun Lucky around. He slammed into the ropes. Holy shit! That’d leave a mark. With nowhere to go, he shielded as best he could. What had he gotten himself into?

Calling Johnson in now might undo all the progress they’d made. Bo fought, letting out the poison. Lucky gritted his teeth and took a shaky step forward.

“Fight, damn it! Fight! You want a piece of me? Come and get me!” Lucky grinned and sidestepped to avoid a wild swipe.

This wouldn’t do. Bo swung blindly, with zero control. If this were an actual fight, Lucky would have taken him out, no problem. “Focus. Don’t fight blind. C’mon, you can do this.”

Bo punched, missing Lucky’s head by inches.

“You gotta try harder than that!” Once more Lucky skipped away from a swing.

Bo stopped, narrowed-eye gaze zeroing in on Lucky.

“Who taught you how to fight? A third grader?” Lucky darted through Bo’s defenses and landed a love tap. Bo swung and missed.

Lucky repeated the hit and danced away.

“Remember you asked for it.” Shoulders back, chin up, gloves raised. Now
thi
s was a fighter. Bo pulled in his fists, righted his posture, and spread his feet. There was the man who’d stomped a few biker asses.

Lucky was so in trouble now.

Right, left, right. Lucky ducked and rolled, coming up behind Bo. He aimed his glove…

Bo spun and caught Lucky in the shoulder. Lucky reeled. The ropes stopped his fall. Nice hit.

“Need me?” Loretta Johnson’s blurry face swam into view.

With a shake of his head, Lucky pushed off the ropes—and barely blocked Bo’s glove. The man wasn’t playing.

Bo danced a few paces away.

Lucky studied his partner, the subtle shifts that’d give away his moves.

Jab, jab, jab.
Oh, nice! Lucky hadn’t seen that move coming. He snuck in a jab of his own.

Bo swung.

Lucky brought up his forearms to shield his face. Down on his ass he went. The blow rattled his spine. Why had he agreed to this? Oh yeah. To save Bo. Was it too late to work on a plan B? He took his time climbing to his feet to buy extra seconds. His lungs burned.

One move had brought Bo down before. Maybe a wild kick would work again. Lucky dropped to the mat and struck out at Bo’s legs.

Bo jumped away. He wobbled, but didn’t fall. And he came back, grabbed Lucky by the shoulders, and yanked him onto his toes. “Fight back, motherfucker! Stop holding back. You want me to let go? Well, you need to meet me halfway.”

Lucky punched. And missed.

Bo lunged, landed a blow, and retreated. The cold calculation on his face promised pain.

Pow
! Then
pop, pop, pop
. Bo crowded Lucky, too close to land a blow.

Only then did Lucky hear the litany, “No, no, no, no, no.” Bo’s cheek brushed Lucky’s, wet with more than sweat. “No, no, no, no, no. I was clean, I was in control! The muthafucking bastard!”

The blows lessened, the curses became sobs. Bo wrapped his sweaty arms around Lucky and buried his face in Lucky’s neck. “That wasn’t supposed to happen. Damn it! I’m in control! Me! Nobody had the right to do that to me! Nobody!”

Lucky held on.

Poison flowed out of Bo on tears and curses. He crushed Lucky to his chest. “I worked so hard to stay off the shit. Stephan Mangiardi came along and fucked it all up.”