He gave a statement to a uniformed officer. Maybe the same one he’d spoken to at Chastain’s house. A hand wrapped around his upper arm. He jerked. The hand tightened. Lucky glanced up into Bo’s face. Bo. “So, were you the one who put a tracker on me or the one who followed me?”
“What?” Lines creased Bo’s forehead and he flipped his head toward Jimmy. “Salters called me. I was heading to the store to get Charlotte cinnamon ice cream and licorice.”
Lucky sighed. “Might as well get used to calling him Jimmy. Where’s Charlotte?”
“She’s at home with Andro, Ty, Rett, and Rone.” Rett’s timid son wouldn’t be much help during a home invasion.
“This could be a distraction to get us away from the house.” He needed to get home—now.
“I’ll go,” Jimmy said. “You gonna be all right?”
Lucky lied with a nod.
“What was that about?” Bo asked when Jimmy jogged away.
“He’s dating Charlotte.”
“Oh. That.”
Lucky turned. “You knew?” Of course, Bo knew.
Bo rolled his eyes. “Quite frankly, I don’t understand how youdidn’tknow. It’s not like they hid very well. Besides, the day those assholes broke into the house, he was kinda hard to miss. It’s not like they needed introductions or anything.”
Yeah. No mistaking someone latching on to another for comfort. “Why didn’t you say anything?”
“I thought you knew and didn’t want to talk about it.” Yeah, just like Bo not to push unwanted topics.
Lucky wrapped an arm around his anchor, watching a tow truck driver negotiate with a firefighter on how to get the now-smoldering husk of his Camaro loaded onto a rollback. He’d had a gun locked in the glove box. Lost now.
“You okay?” Bo tightened his arm around Lucky.
Lucky tried to shrug, but stopped mid-motion. Even small movements hurt. “I’m used to having the dregs of society out to get me, but this time I got their king.” Or maybe their prince, since O’Donoghue claimed the title of king.
Owen Fucking Landry.
“You okay?” This time the voice wasn’t Bo’s.
If Lucky heard that question one more time… Now he understood how Charlotte felt.
He turned, coming face to face with Jameson O’Donoghue. “I heard the call come through on the scanner. I know you come to this gym, and not too many people drive old Camaros.”
Not old,classic. No use arguing.
Owen Landry had done this. One of O’Donoghue’s former butt kissers. Still, Lucky sniffed the air, intent on the scent of accelerant drifting from the man’s general direction. Nothing but a really awful cologne he hoped never to smell again.
“Maybe you should take him home,” O’Donoghue told Bo. “I can imagine you want to get back to your family. I’ll hang around a bit. See if I can find out anything. I’ll call if anything turns up.”
Lucky wanted to argue. No denying the truth. Tired, sore, beaten up, heartsick, and more than a little worried, he allowed Bo to lead him away.
His gym bag had disappeared from the sidewalk where he’d dropped it. Figured.
“I parked at work,” Bo said.
Great. Who’d moved SNB parking so far away? Every step brought a groan. At last Lucky climbed in and buckled into the SUV Bo bought last year when Rookie Rogers rammed the old one. Bo and Lucky sure were hell on cars. Or rather, the sonsofbitches out to get them were.
