“Find me a cocky asshole who needs taking down a few notches.” After further consideration, he amended, “Better make that several.”
An hour later Lucky limped out of the gym clutching his side, hella sore, dog tired, but he’d left the other guys worse off.
His doctor might scream at him for over exerting, Bo might fuss at him for not following doctor’s orders, but at the end of the day, he still had it.
But what was he going to do with it?
***
Too late now to go back to work, might as well go on home. He picked up his cell phone to text Bo about his plans, only to find a message from Bo:“Taking boys to store for more school supplies and to pick up pizza. Be home soon.”
The boys. No way could he go home and scream and yell like he wanted to, and he couldn’t exactly ask Bo to fuck him hard and fast on the living room floor, his normal coping mechanism.
It should be him taking Ty to buy notebooks and whatnot, not Bo. Only, Ty wouldn’t talk to Lucky and Bo was uncle too, right?
One day. He’d have to work on the whole family thing.
The Chastain Pharmaceutical fuck-up had to be addressed. Bo and Johnson didn’t need this shit. They’d left nothing to chance. What the hell had DEA found that they hadn’t?
Bo’s SUV sat in the yard when he arrived, and Lucky paused at the front door, breathing deep to release tension.
He eased the front door open with a wince, expecting Moose to flatten him and drool on his face. Nothing.
No need for the dog to greet him with three other people to get pats from.
Cat Lucky eyed Lucky from the back of the couch, blinked once, then closed his eyes and went back to sleep.
“Good to see you too,” Lucky grumbled.
He managed to put on a relatively happy face over dinner, trying not to piss Ty off too much, and to think of other things to say to Todd than, “So, are you looking forward to college?” and otherwise silently telling Bo things weren’t okay. Bo raised a brow but said nothing until the boys were settled on the couch, watching a sit-com.
“Hey, Lucky. Could you help me move something in the garage?”
“Um… yeah, sure.” What the hell could Bo want to move? Nothing much out there but the Harley.
The moment he stepped into the garage, Bo closed the door, folded his arms across his chest, and glared at Lucky with narrowed eyes. “You left work to go to the gym, which means you found someone to kick the shit out of, and you didn’t come back. We’ll talk later about how badly you might have hurt yourself. I mean, the doctors cut you open…” Bo closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “Sorry. Like I said, we’ll address that later.” He stepped forward and enveloped Lucky in a hug. “Sorry, sorry. Now’s not the time.”
Lucky relaxed into the embrace, bringing his arms up to encircle Bo’s waist and breathing in the man’s scent, right now mingled with pizza smell, though Bo only served the pizza and ate salad himself.
“Tell me what’s wrong,” Bo whispered against Lucky’s neck.
Bo knew him well—both a blessing and a curse. Lucky pulled back enough to see Bo’s eyes and emptied his lungs in a harsh exhale. “I don’t know where to start. Today’s been a shitty day.”
Worried creases furrowed Bo’s brow. “Then start at the beginning.” He kept a hand on Lucky’s shoulder, warm and comforting. “Has this got to do with what we read on Chastain this morning?”
With a quick nod, Lucky steeled his nerves to tell Bo the whole story. “I asked Walter what the DEA found that we didn’t.”
“And?”
“He didn’t know, but he’s trying to find out. Bo, you and Rett did an outstanding job. There was nothing for anyone to find.”
Bo hung his head. “I wondered about that, going through things in my mind over and over. We went by the damned book!”
Of course he did. Lucky was the one known for bending rules until they broke. “I just don’t get it. But it wouldn’t be the first time someone from DEA decided to discredit me.” Several examples came to mind, most from his early days with the bureau.
“You think this is personal? About you?”
Lucky shrugged. “Unless they got something against Chastain.”
