As soon as Walter recovered. And O’Donoghue and his minions slunk off back to where they’d come from.
And he restored Chastain’s, and his own, good name.
Most people coming and going were too busy to notice them—talking on cellphones, chatting with those they walked with, or, in the case of one young woman, herding a passel of young ‘uns.
An older woman eyed their hands, then their faces, averted her eyes, and scurried away.
One man shot them a dirty look. “Really? There are families here.”
Lucky snarled, “We are family,” and kept on going.
If Asshat didn’t want to see two men holding hands, he shouldn’t look. Or better yet, stay in his own damned house where he could convince himself that the rest of the world needed to conform to his own narrow-minded thinking.
Bo stroked a hand down Lucky’s back. “Some people are rude. There’s nothing you can do about it.”
What? Bo saying such while the man could hear them? Bo’s manners had definitely rubbed off on Lucky. Seemed like Lucky returned the favor with a dose of speaking his mind.
Walter lay in bed, much like he’d been on Lucky’s last visit. His color looked good. Breathing even.
Breathing. Walter, on the floor, lips blue, struggling for breath.
Much like Bo had looked in Mexico when he’d overdosed.
Overdosed.
All symptoms pointed to overdose.
Someone had drugged Walter, nearly killing him.
God have mercy on the mutherfuckers, because Lucky wouldn’t.
Walter snuffled a few times and his eyes popped open. For a moment the gesture didn’t register. Then…
“Walter!” Lucky rushed closer.
Walter glanced from Lucky to Bo and a slight smile crawled across his face. “Bo. Lucky.” His voice came out hoarse, but Lucky heard his own name.
Yes! Nothing ever sounded better.
He clasped Walter’s reaching hand between his own. His eyes burned. “You’re awake!” And aware. While he’d love to ask the boss a million questions, he’d have to go slow. No telling how much, if anything, Walter remembered.
Bo squeezing Lucky’s shoulder gave him strength. He held his mentor’s hand, soaking up the warmth of his lover at his back. He’d spoken true to the jerk in the lobby: theywerefamily.
“H… how’s things at… at…” Walter’s brow furrowed.
“Work?” Bo supplied.
Walter’s worried frown eased. “Yes. Work.”
“Okay.” Walter didn’t need to know about O’Donoghue’s takeover attempt. But man, Lucky’d love to see the fuckwad’s face when he dropped the bomb about Walter’s progress.
Only… What would happen if O’Donoghue knew about Walter recovering? It wasn’t likely for O’Donoghue to come check on the man he tried to replace.
“How are you feeling?”
“I’ve been better.” Walter’s words held a touch of a slur. That he spoke at all meant he wasn’t brain damaged, right?
“Do you remember what happened?”
