Bo stopped scribbling to ask a question here and there, leaving Lucky free to tune out. He’d gotten the important stuff. Best case? Him and Dad both lived. Worse case? Some programmer at SNB added yet another profile to the company’s website.
Maybe they’d use a picture this time, for some agent ten years from now to look at and worry about job hazards.
Poked, prodded, blood drawn, weighed. Blood pressure checked.
All the while Lucky let his mind go anywhere but a few hours into the future. Hard to do while lying on a gurney with his ass hanging out of a thin cotton gown.
Bo smoothed the blanket covering Lucky. “I wish the doctor wasn’t so nice.”
“Why?”
“So I won’t feel so bad about whipping his ass if he doesn’t treat you right.” It came out like,“If you die, the doctor’s toast.”Lucky wasn’t the only one who’d been raised redneck. “I’ll be right here waiting for you.” Must be a trick of the light, the extra sheen in Bo’s eyes.
To hell with anyone else’s opinion. Lucky brought Bo’s hand to his mouth and kissed the knuckles. The closest nurse giggled and busied herself elsewhere. Lucky sucked a finger.
“Lucky!” Bo yanked back.
Yup. Shocked beat worried. Fear and pity didn’t belong in Bo’s eyes, especially if Lucky might never see Bo’s eyes again.
Stop being such a wuss! Even Walter said this wasn’t a dangerous procedure.
“I love you,” Lucky said. “You really should’ve married me. You look so good in black.” Though hopefully, Bo wouldn’t wear funeral black anytime soon. “Especially leather. Especially leather assless chaps.”
“I’ll only wear those for you.” Bo mouthed, “I love you.” The gurney moved, and Bo stood in the middle of the hallway, arms wrapped around himself, until a pair of double doors closed, shutting him off.
Tight bands wound around Lucky’s chest. Air. Oh, God. He needed air!
“Mr. Harrison? Is something wrong?” a masked man asked.
Losing his shit in front of people couldn’t happen. Lucky willed his wildly pounding heart to calm. Curtains cut the room in half. “What’s behind the curtains?” And did he really want to know?
“Someone who’s going to owe you his life.” The man wrapped tubes over Lucky’s ears and inserted two prongs on the joined middle into Lucky’s nostrils. Oxygen flowed into his nose.
Lucky stared at the curtain, straining for any sound over the whooshes and beeps coming from his side of the room.
Dad. Damn, how his heart still ached for the man who’d thrown him up in the air and caught him as a child, who’d taught him how to drive: first a four-wheeler, and later a dirt bike, tractor, and farm truck.
Dad, who’d sit in front of the TV every Sunday afternoon during racing season to watch NASCAR, one of the few times he took a break from work during daylight hours.
The man who’d taught Lucky the value of a hard day’s work, and inspired him to find an easier way to make a living, even if illegal. And now that rock of a man needed Lucky. About time Lucky stepped up to the plate, even anonymously.
He barely noticed the IV hookup shoved into his hand, all the monitors now pulsing with his heartbeat, recording his blood pressure. This was the closest he’d physically been to family in years, except for Charlotte.
No. Not true. Bo waited somewhere outside the room, probably pacing or checking in with the boss. More than likely he ran his fingers through his hair, frown lines bunched on his forehead.
That’s not how Lucky chose to picture him. Better memories filled his head. Him and Bo lying in bed on a lazy Sunday morning, sunlight streaming through the window while they sipped coffee or tea and talked. In the brightness Bo’s freckles stood out, and The Dimple formed on his cheek when he smiled at some ridiculous thing Lucky said.
How Lucky loved The Dimple. And every single freckle.
“Mr. Harrison? It’s time to go to sleep. This will take about a minute to work.” The man behind the mask inserted a needle into a tube in the IV bag and pushed the plunger. “Count backwards from one hundred.
“One hundred, ninety-nine, ninety-eight, nin…” The world tilted.
***
Beeps, blips, footsteps. Lucky let out a moan.
“Mr. Harrison? Mr. Harrison, you’re in recovery and doing well. I’ll be back to take you to ICU.” Same voice. More face without the mask. Young guy, mid to late twenties. Copper hair.
