But…
He twisted as much as the gnawing in his gut allowed. “Gah!”
Bo pressed a button and a wonderful nurse with the great meds shot into the room and rushed to the bedside. “What happened?”
Bo spoke. Lucky couldn’t. “He tried to jump out of bed.”
“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck!” Lucky clutched the bed railings tighter.
The nurse fiddled with something and set about checking Lucky’s bandages.
Oh, sweet relief! Lucky sighed and settled back on the bed.
“What about her?” The nurse nodded toward the reclining chair.
Oh crap! “Mama?”
A moan. Bo holding out his arm. Fingers clutching Bo’s hand.
And then…
The world faded to black.
***
“Why did he let us think he was dead?” The outrage in his mother’s voice made pretending to be passed out his best option.
Adulthood hadn’t dimmed Lucky’s fear of Mama taking on “The Tone.”
And Bo’s voice held the proper amount of fear. “I should wait and let him tell you this…”
“You’ll tell me right this minute!” Memory served up a mental image of Mama Lucklighter, hands on her hips, ripping one of her young’uns a new asshole about something or other they’d done.
She hadn’t fussed nearly enough at her oldest.
But, oh hell. Time to spill the whole ugly truth or die for real.
On the one hand, Bo might tell the story better, leave out the parts Mama didn’t need to know. On the other hand, even a coward couldn’t make someone else deal with the family. Not a family of hotheads like the Lucklighters. And not someone Lucky loved.
“Mama?”
She jabbed a finger into Bo’s chest, much like Lila did to the redhead. “That’s my son! I have the right—” Oh, Lord. On a roll and no stopping her now. But Lucky’d try.
“Mom!”
She-bears with cubs had nothing on Southern mothers in full protective mode. She stepped forward, rising on her toes to stare Bo down. “Who are you and what are you doing here? What’s going on? Why did you keep my son from me?”
Bo stepped back and flattened himself against a wall. Trust him to be too polite to fight back. He should learn from dealing with Charlotte about fierce Lucklighter women.
Lucky braced his incision, took a deep breath, and bellowed, “Sheila Annette Lucklighter!” There. Nothing got a Southerner’s attention better than all three names—a Southern mother’s weapon of choice for generations.
Even if the effort nearly killed him.
Bo and Mama both whipped their heads toward Lucky, the “Oh thank God!” in Bo’s eyes screaming louder than words.
The woman Lucky hadn’t seen in way too many years bore down on him like an avenging angel and stopped mere inches from the bed. More wrinkles, strands of gray. Still Mom.
One by one, tears streaked down her face.
