Finally he arrived at his and Bo’s front yard, straw spread over the lawn to keep seed in place until grass started growing. No matter how hard they worked, the Harrison-Schollenberger residence made a poor cousin next to the better kept neighborhood houses.
Paint peeled from the shutters, and weeds came up through cracks in the driveway. Fix one thing and two more broke. Their smart investment turned into a never-ending work in progress.
He eased into the driveway and tried the clicker to raise the garage door. Nada. Crap. When he’d paid to have the thing fixed, it should’ve stayed fixed.
Fluttering curtains in the front window of the house next door gave away the neighbor’s nosiness. Lucky sauntered up three steps to the front door. Screw ‘em if they wanted a show.
Cat Lucky stared back from the living room window, likely planning evil for the neighbor’s dog.
Lucky unlocked and pushed the front door. The door pushed back. He tried again. The door slammed before he could wriggle through.
“Damn it, Moose! Let me in!” Once more he pushed… and crashed to the floor. He sealed his lips into a tight line a split second before the world’s biggest puppy swiped its tongue across his face. Yuck! Dog drool!
He jumped up and entered the code before the alarm went off.
A bucket of dog food kept Moose happy in the backyard while Lucky showered and shimmied into a pair of jeans. Hey, they weren’t nearly so tight the last time he’d tried them on. Not “I can hit high notes” tight, but body-hugging to the point of revealing his assets.
Next came a T-shirt snug enough to show off all the time put in working on his upper body. Shit-kicker boots completed the outfit, along with a light jacket. The nights still managed to be a bit cool this early in the year, giving him a perfect place to hide his gun.
He squirmed a bit in his car to get comfy with the seam of his Levi’s cramping his junk, and readjusted himself several times on his way to Johnson’s apartment.
She wriggled her way out of the building to a chorus of catcalls from a group of twenty-something guys milling around the doorway. Wearing a skin-tight dress wouldn’t slow her down much if she decided to make one of them an example for respecting women.
One particularly stupid bastard grabbed his crotch. “Oh, baby. Come see what I got for you.”
Quicker than Lucky could open his door to come to her defense, Johnson had the jerkoff dangling by his shirt collar. She slowly lowered him back down. “Learn how to talk to a lady and maybe you won’t always have to use your right hand for company.”
The guy brushed himself off and slunk away, the hoots and hollers from his friends a warning to all.
She finished her strut to the car in peace, the now much wiser punks leaving at high speed.
“You were too easy on him.” Lucky would’ve pounded some heads.
Johnson buckled herself into the passenger seat. “If he tries his bullshit again, I’ll dislocate his shoulder. Let’s get going.”
He hadn’t gone hunting at The Stallion since setting up house with Bo, long enough for the overaggressive horn dogs he’d taken swings at to forget him in a fog of alcohol and other rejections.
“So, what’s the deal?” No cases involving The Stallion had come across his desk, but Johnson acted more as Lucky’s assistant now than a trainee. Walter could have given her something.
“If anyone asks,” Johnson said, “we’re coworkers, and I’m taking you out for your birthday.”
Lucky cut his eyes in her direction. “And?” Surely Walter and the work crew wouldn’t go this far to embarrass him with cake and singing.
“And, I’m treating you to a private dance from my contact. You go into the back with him, he dances, you tip him, and he’ll give you a list of names. Easy enough, right?”
Lucky had his share of private dances back in the day, and none compared to music played from his ancient stereo and Bo shaking his moneymaker for an audience of one.
But having another man half-naked and rubbing against him? On company time? Well, he’d keep telling himself it was all part of the job. He didn’t have to touch except to tip the guy.
At the club, Johnson slid him a few bills. “For the tip. Let’s go have some fun.” He caught her at the door. “My treat,” she said, yanking Lucky closer and flashing the bouncer a toothy grin. “It’s my friend’s birthday!”
If the bouncer stared any harder, Lucky might have to charge the guy fifty bucks, then arrest himself for prostitution.
The musclebound guard brushed Lucky’s ass when he passed. “Happy Birthday!”
Asshole. Lucky glared, the bouncer laughed.
Hand between Lucky’s shoulder blades, Johnson steered him inside the converted cotton mill and toward the bar. “Two Coors Lights, please.”
