Redemption (3 page)

“Y… yes.”

“I want to make an offer.”

***

Lucky ambled down the hall and out the door, fishing his phone out of his pocket. What should he say
? Great news, I think I got us a house?
Or,
remember how we talking about living together?

Maybe he should make small talk first.
They teamed me up with Johnson to investigate a distributor who’s dishing out way too much oxycodone. Wanna shack up?

That is, if Bo took the call.

Lucky sat in the credit union parking lot for a full ten minutes before getting up the nerve to dial Bo’s number. Not wise to mention the house yet, in case the deal didn’t go through, but good news needed sharing.

The call went straight to voice mail. Lucky left his umpteenth message since Bo had checked in to rehab. “Look, I understand you’re dealing with stuff, but if we swapped places, you’d lecture me on how we’re in a relationship, and it’s your right to be there for me. But I didn’t call to guilt you or nothing, I just want to hear your voice. I… I miss you.”

If Lucky’s heart got any heavier he’d wear it in his ass.

Chapter Three

Lucky settled down, coffee in hand and attitude on slow simmer, sitting in the boss’s office first thing in the morning for the second day in a row. If Bo didn’t talk to him soon he’d go off on someone. Hey, he should go visit Rookie Landry. Take the asshole down a notch.

“Whatever happened to the leave you requested?” Walter sat back in his chair, in full-on father/confessor mode.

“It makes no sense now with Bo in rehab.”

“Oh, I see. Well, the time is available whenever you need.” All pretenses dropped. “The Mexican authorities are following up on the leads you provided. You’ve greatly aided their case.”

“Their case. Not ours.” Story of Lucky’s life. Do all the grunt work and let another agency waltz in and take the glory. If it kept Lucky out of Mexico, more power to them. “What about Southwestern?” All the contacts they’d made in Texas fell to the Southwestern Narcotics Bureau. Nobody there had pissed Lucky off lately, and Johnson came from Southwestern. Turning over a case to them didn’t hurt too much.

“They’ve made a few arrests and are watching Mangiardi’s known customers.”

“During meetings, Bo handled the financial end of things on an iPad. I’d like to get my hands on it.”

“I’m forwarding parts of your report and will make mention. Now, is there anything else you need to tell me?” Walter lifted one gravity-defying eyebrow.

He couldn’t know about the dead guy and merely asked what he’d ask any agent. The more Lucky turned the event over in his mind, the more he pictured Cruz shooting the guard. Yeah. Lucky’s shot went wide, hadn’t it? Fuck. “No. I’ll let you know if I do.”

Blood on his hands. Body on his bedroom floor. Just a dream. A stupid dream. “What about the guy I told you about? Cruz?”

“I’ve contacted the DEA, and though they had agents in the general vicinity, they deny having anyone on site.”

Liars. No fucking way was Cruz a drug dealer. He reeked of agent—to another agent.

“There’s another matter we need to discuss.” Walter snapped into business mode.

Oh, God. He’d gotten Victor’s coroner’s report.

“Your partner.”

His partner. Walter swore Bo and Lucky’s involvement didn’t matter. Must matter now. “What about him?”

“His probation is over. His record is expunged, and his pharmacist license restored with no restrictions. He’s free to leave.”

Bo could leave. Nothing kept him in Atlanta. He could go anywhere, do anything. Time to turn Atlanta into the land of opportunity. “I see. Last we talked, he’d wanted to stay on with the SNB. Are you saying you don’t want him?”
After all he’s done for this bureau?

“We’ll extend an offer, but Lucky, he won’t be eligible for undercover work again for some time.”

“Why not? He’s pretty darned good if you ask me.” Too good. Better than Lucky in ways.

“There’s no denying his skill. It’s the emotional attachment that’s a problem.” Walter held up a staying hand. “Don’t say ‘I told you so’.” He paused to take a drink of the whipped cream-topped liquid doughnut he called coffee. White foam clung to his upper lip. “While Bo’s ability to stay in character is an asset, it’s time for him to let go of Cyrus Cooper. Our official policy is to limit assignments to less than a year for this very reason. Bo’s close to that. And given the circumstances of what happened in Mexico, he needs time to adjust.”

Warnings went off in Lucky’s head:
Danger! Boss about to say something you won’t like!

Walter took a deep breath and released it slowly. “He’ll be offered the position you used to fill—auditing pharma companies.”

Ah, hell.

After the thrill and action of being a biker enforcer for a drug smuggling ring, shaking hands and sitting in board rooms would bore Bo to tears. It bored Lucky, but then again, Lucky hadn’t had a choice in the matter. “And what if he says no?”

Walter let out a sigh and rubbed his nose beneath his glasses. “Then he’ll be given the highest recommendation when he leaves.”

Prickles dances up Lucky’s spine. “What about me?”

“You’ll train, work, sharing cases with Bo occasionally, as much as policy allows known couples to collaborate—if he stays.”

“Known couples?” Walter was okay, but “known couple”
implied common knowledge. Now wasn’t the time for a company-wide announcement.

“While you haven’t flaunted your relationship, my knowing means the SNB knows.”

“Oh.” Fuck. Big wheels in Virginia or where-the-hell-ever snooping into Lucky and Bo’s personal business. Not cool.

“Now, as I was saying, you weren’t as deeply undercover as Bo, and not for as long. You’ll be clear for assignment again in six months, providing you pass the psychiatric evaluation.”

A man had to be missing a few marbles to pretend to be someone else and rub elbows with criminals. What did the psych eval prove? That Lucky was crazy enough for the job? “Any idea when he’s coming back?” Bo might not talk to Lucky, but Walter must stay in the loop. Unease gnawed at Lucky’s insides.

“He didn’t tell you?” Walter’s bushy eyebrows reached for his hairline.

“He’s not talking to me. Says he needs time to get his head together.”

Walter donned his best “favorite uncle” smile. “Give him time. Now, did you take care of that Human Resources issue?”

“Yeah. 401K stuff. I’m looking into buying a house.” The words slipped out.

“Wonderful.” Walter clapped his huge hands together. “When do you close?”

“Not sure. I placed the bid this week. If the bank takes my offer, I’ll have a lot of work to do.” A
lot
of work. “It’s a fixer upper.”

“Nothing worthwhile is ever easy, is it?” Walter smiled.

Was boss man talking about the house or Bo? Uh-oh. He’d mentioned buying a house after letting the man in on the secret about him and Bo. Lucky said “I”. Walter heard “we”.

“Well, when you need time off, I’ll reinstate your leave.”

At least Walter had the good graces not to smirk or pry. “Thanks. I’ll keep you posted.” What if Bo changed his mind? What would Lucky do with all the unneeded square footage and the amazing kitchen he’d never use?

Walter squeezed his hands together so tightly the knuckles whitened.

Oh shit. Change of subject coming. “What?”

“I received a reply regarding Victor Mangiardi’s coroner’s report.”

Lucky gripped the padded leather chair arms. If he hadn’t been sitting his weak knees would have dropped him. “And?” This “is he or isn’t he?” shit got old. Time to find out for sure.

A moan escaped on Walter’s sigh. “It was the single politest ‘go fuck yourself’ letter I’ve ever received.”

“Wait! What?”

“They told me in no uncertain terms that those records are sealed.”

“What does that mean?”

“That we’ll need a court order to see the file.” Walter formed his lips into a hard line. “I’m sorry.”

Fucking hell.
Is he or isn’t he? Somebody please give an answer.
“So in other words, we’ll never find out for sure if he hanged himself, someone else did the job, or he’s still alive.”

“I’m afraid not.”

Well, didn’t that just beat all? “Am I supposed to traipse through life looking over my shoulder?”

“No, Lucky. Because the entire bureau has your back.”

Bo, yeah. Johnson, yeah. Walter, yeah. Dickwad Keith and anyone else he’d pissed off? Fuck. Lucky might as well bend over and kiss his own ass goodbye right now.

And after all this waiting, all the promises, he still didn’t know for sure what happened to Victor Mangiardi.

Might never know.

***

“Here you go!” Johnson stomped into Lucky’s house, lugging another thermos. “How ya feeling?”

The shakes stopped, and Lucky managed at least five hours of uninterrupted sleep on most non-nightmare nights. “Okay.”

“Exercise helps. How often do you work out?” She set the thermos on the counter.

The prison routine Lucky swore by had dwindled to twice a week. “Not nearly enough.” Why the hell did she keep coming around when he did everything in his power to run her off?

“Need more tea?”

“Sure.” Damn her for being right about the tea—and for putting up with his crap.

“This house makes a pig sty look good.”

“Nobody asked you to come here.”

Johnson bent down and put them nose to nose. Showoff. Hard to get an upper hand when she towered over him. “Sooner or later, we need to get something straight. Just because you like to get all growly and keep people away don’t mean that shit flies with me, got it? I got seven older brothers and sisters, and I’m the runt. Me still being live and kicking should give you an idea of how well I learned to fight.”

The runt? Sheesh. Family dinners must’ve been like feeding time at Gatorland. “Think you could hold your own against me?”

“I don’t
think
so, I
know
so.”

Oh yeah? “You know the gym down from work? Sonny’s?”

“Yeah.”

“Ever been there?”

“A time or two.”

His daddy taught him to never to hit a woman, but this one likely hit back twice as hard. Could Loretta Johnson beat him in the ring?

Johnson bent and stroked Cat Lucky’s back. “If I win, you’ll drink your tea and pot liquor like a good little boy and stop giving me so much shit.”

“Why are you helping me?”

“I done told you. You’re the lesser of the evils at work. And besides, if Bo thinks you’re worth the time of day, you must be.”

Cold sweat broke out on Lucky’s forehead. “How well do you know Bo?”
What do you know about me and him?

“We were in classes together, remember? We got to know each other while training. He’s a good agent, friendly too, which is more than I can say for some others.”

Whew. Lucky’s secret was safe—for now. Though he no longer had to worry about his relationship getting him or Bo fired, it still might stir up a hornets’ nest at work if he parked a picture of Bo on his desk and held the guy’s hand at the company picnic.

“Oh, and he has questionable taste in men.” Johnson gave him a cocky smile.

“What do you mean by that?” They’d been discreet, hadn’t they? At least Lucky had.

“Look, I was in class with the guy for weeks, and went out with him on assignments. He didn’t look at the woman in danger of toppling over from a bad case of triple Ds.” Johnson toyed with the thermos lid. “Oh, and he kept an eye on a certain shrimp in class. You figure it out.”

Baiting him. She knew nothing for sure and tossed out innuendo hoping he’d bite.

“I’m his trainer. Of course he looked at me.” Lucky never gave up without a fight.

Johnson peeled her lips back to show every gleaming tooth in her head. “You give me the stink eye every time I dare park my butt in your partner’s chair.”

I do?

“You both got it bad.”

Blackmail wasn’t intended, but “You’re one to talk” slipped out before he could stop it.

Her smile fell. “You’ve been watching me.”

Instead of smart-assed remarks, he opened his mouth and out came, “Wanna talk about it?” Yeah, he’d noticed the woman flirting and patting the ass of a certain DEA assistant.

“Nothing much to say.” She blew out a cheek-bulging breath. “I came up here from Texas, Phillip was down from Jersey, and we had rooms at the same hotel. Sometimes we’d end up at the bar. One night we had a few too many and woke up the next morning in the same bed. You gonna tell Walter?”

“Nothing to tell. He works for DEA, so it isn’t a problem. He
isn’t
a problem, is he?”

This time her sigh must have traveled up from her toes. “It started out as friends with benefits. I mean, look at him. Born and raised to money. Daddy wanted him to be a lawyer. And me? Papa worked as a mill foreman and Mama taught school. But with eight kids, two incomes didn’t go far. Not to mention Phillip’s parents don’t like me.”

“Racist bigots?” Yeah, those still existed, but as a Southern-raised gay man, Lucky’d spent too much time punching bigots in the face to look down on someone else for a little thing like skin color.

“Not necessarily. If I had money and the right last name they’d change their tune. But look at me.” She waved a hand toward her body. “I’m six feet of tattooed ghetto kid, who worked her way through community college and doesn’t have an Ivy League degree. To them I’m a gold digger and not the debutante with the rich daddy they want for their little boy.”

Lucky rarely gave a fuck about someone else’s life. Johnson’s drama made his life seem boring. “What does he say?”

“Ah, he’s young and dumb… Poor, misguided man thinks he’s in love.” Her eye roll fell short of sincere. “Another reason they don’t like me. I’m black, five years older than him, got a kid, and their son loves me.”

A kid? “You got a kid?”

“Yeah. He stays with my gran right now. As soon as I get settled here they’ll come live with me. I didn’t want to uproot them till I was sure I was staying.”

“Why are you telling me this?” Lucky had never been anyone’s idea of confidant.

“’Cause everybody needs a friend. Even a hard-assed son of a bitch like you—or me.”