“I can’t believe we let fifteen pounds of cat boss us around.” Lucky rose and extended his uninjured arm toward Bo.
“Closer to twenty, and speak for yourself. Unlike some people, I don’t require a cat chaperone to keep me out of trouble.” Bo
grasped Lucky’s hand and hoisted himself to his feet. “And he wasn’t nearly as big when you first got him. Have you been
bribing him with tuna not to smother you in your sleep? I mean, at the rate he’s going, he’ll be bigger than you by next
week.”
“I’m big where it counts.”
Bo opened his mouth; Lucky slapped a hand over his lips. “All ya gotta do is nod, ‘cause you know it’s true.”
Lucky had once met an agent who spoke six languages, and yet that man couldn’t come close to how well Bo communicated with a lifted brow, a
lowered chin, and upturned eyes that said better than words ever could,
Oh, please, give it a rest. And if you don’t take your hand off of my mouth, I will hurt you.
With descending darkness and declining temperatures chasing away any possible witnesses, Bo and Lucky strolled hand in hand to their vehicles, although
Lucky did keep their joined digits low and close to his body to minimize undue attention. Wasn’t anybody’s business if a fine man like
Bo took leave of his senses enough to want to hold hands with Lucky. No fire, no brimstone, no falling sky resulted from the public display of affection,
and no coworker popped out from behind a tree, pointing and yelling, “Aha! I knew it! Wait until I tell Walter!”
Bo’s heartwarming smile and a quick squeeze of his fingers conveyed his approval, though Lucky kept a watchful eye on the trees and shrubs.
They made their way to Bo’s truck and climbed inside. “Are you cold? Want me to turn on the heat?” Bo asked.
“Fuck the cold,” Lucky replied. Their eyes met, and they moved as one, mouths meshing over the console. Bo’s insistent tongue
forced its way into Lucky’s mouth at the same instant Lucky aimed for Bo’s. Lucky wrestled Bo into the backseat amidst groping hands
scrabbling for purchase, and his lover’s mouth latched onto his neck on
that
precise spot.
Bo sprawled on his back, one leg on the backseat, one on the floor. Lucky knelt on the seat between Bo’s spread legs, bracing his weight on his
knees and one arm.
“Oh, God!” Bo exclaimed, plunging his hand into Lucky’s pants and wrapping chilly fingers around his full erection. He threw
his head back against the side window, arching his neck and giving Lucky room to explore. Bo’s skin tasted of salt and man, with the slightest
bitter nip of cologne. Lucky rolled Bo’s T-shirt up and off to pay homage to smooth skin and hard muscles with his fingertips. He mapped out
Bo’s chest, the smattering of hair on well-defined pecs, rigid nipple nubs, the flat planes of belly. Bo’s muscles were lean like a
runner’s or swimmer’s, as opposed to Lucky’s more pronounced bulges, acquired from a punishing workout bordering on penance.
Lucky put his muscles to good use. He crawled off the seat and onto the floorboard, lifting enough to tug Bo’s shorts down and slip the long
length of the man’s uncut cock between his lips. Again the saltiness and musk of man exploded on his tongue, along with the tang of pre-come.
Lucky moaned, taking Bo’s ass cheeks in his hands and pushing, forcing Bo’s flesh deeper into his throat.
Bo threaded his fingers through Lucky’s hair. “That feels so fucking amazing,” he slurred.
Lucky stilled Bo’s hips, bobbing straight up and down to minimize the truck’s rocking. Darkly-tinted windows and nightfall obscured the
vision of passers-by, but please Lord, let no curious cops wander by with Maglites. Because Bo would wrest the light from the cop’s hands to
smack Lucky upside the head with, even if public sex wasn’t exactly Lucky’s idea. Well, not totally. But then again, Bo
didn’t seem to mind. Oh, kinky… Lucky liked.
Worries about cops or anything else soon vanished. Lucky bucked against the backseat, rutting through his pants in a desperate battle for friction. The
pressure built. With fumbling hands, he unbuckled his belt and unzipped his pants, then pulled them down enough to free himself. Crawling on top of his
partner, no longer caring who passed by, he melded his cock with Bo’s, catching them both in a saliva-slickened fist.
“I want you to fuck me,” Bo groaned.
“Have to wait for later,” Lucky responded. He hadn’t planned ahead for supplies, and wasn’t going to last long at
any rate. He increased his speed, thrusting against Bo and locking their mouths together. Their combined moans echoed in the truck’s cab. Rhythm
faltering, Lucky chased ecstasy, hell bent and determined to take his lover with him. He pulled back, watching a range of emotion flitting across
Bo’s features in the pale light. Bo froze beneath him, veins standing out in stark relief against the straining tendons of his neck.
“I’m coming,” Bo cried.
Lucky opened his mouth to speak, but unintelligible sounds emerged, his own orgasm racing through him. His grip grew slick, the scent of come filling the
cramped space. Every muscle in his body seized, and his cock pulsed out thick droplets on Bo’s belly.
When the torrent of his climax subsided, he collapsed onto his lover.
“I love you,” Bo said, fingers petting the back of Lucky’s head. “And yes, I missed you.”
In response, Lucky scattered kisses up Bo’s chest, then plundered his mouth again. They lay in the semi-dark until Lucky feared Bo might get
cold. He began to rise when Bo asked, “Lucky?”
“Yes?”
“We’ve been together now for about a year.”
Lucky curbed his usual tendency to do the math, subtracting time they’d spent apart, for he’d no idea where the conversation might be
leading. Oh fuck. Surely the man didn’t want some kind of soppy anniversary thing, did he? “Yes?” Lucky repeated.
“We’re both tested on a regular basis during our physicals, and we haven’t seen other people.” He framed
Lucky’s cheeks with both hands, pulling Lucky’s head up until their eyes met. “We haven’t, have we?”
Lucky didn’t turn away. “No.”
“You don’t have to answer right now, but I’ve been thinking.”
While thinking often came before good decisions, like serving Lucky turkey bacon in bed, the same thought processes sometimes heralded shit storms too.
“And?” Lucky held his breath.
“Personally, I think we’re to the point where we no longer need protection between us.” When Lucky didn’t answer,
Bo added, “That is, if you’re comfortable with the idea.”
No condoms? Sweat broke out on Lucky’s brow. He could count on one hand the times he’d barebacked, years ago in his young and foolish
days. He’d even taken precautions with Victor, with whom he’d lived. A bevy of lovely young men had filled Victor’s bed
whenever they were apart, but Victor also didn’t deny Lucky the right to find his own amusement while away from home.
For better or worse, Lucky had thereafter managed to keep men at arm’s length through that infinitesimal barrier of latex. Going without now,
with Bo, suggested permanence.
“Just think about it, okay?” Bo asked.
“I will.”
A lot.
“Will my being in your bed tonight help?”
Despite the sudden shock to Lucky’s system induced by talk of commitment, he found himself smiling, though a glimpse of what might have been hurt
flickered for a moment in Bo’s eyes. “I believe it might.”
Those eyes turned away. “C’mon then. Let’s get dressed.” Bo lowered his arm and fished in the floorboard, coming up
with a pair of boxer shorts. “Sponge Bob? Really?” He snickered.
Lucky snatched away his plain blue boxers. As if he’d ever wear cartoon characters. It wasn’t even a snicker-worthy joke. In fact, if
Lucky didn’t know better, he’d say Bo made a dud of a pun in a half-hearted attempt to change the subject. They dressed in silence, Bo
not meeting Lucky’s eyes.
Twenty minutes later found Lucky sitting shirtless in a kitchen chair and Bo in a better frame of mind. “Hey, it’s been nearly
twenty-four hours since I left here and the house is still clean,” Bo remarked while opening a tube of doctor-prescribed salve.
Lucky moved his foot to hide a stray sock beneath his shoe. “Hey, I’m not a total slob.”
Bo opened the dishwasher to reveal the previous night’s unrinsed spaghetti bowl. “Uh-huh.”
An empty tuna tin sat partially hidden by the trashcan. Maybe Bo wouldn’t notice.
“Oh, darn. You got gauze?” Bo asked.
“Medicine cabinet. Or maybe top drawer in the vanity.” Where had Lucky seen the roll last? “You might try under the
sink.”
Bo blew out a breath. “I’ll find it.” He stalked off to the bathroom.
Lucky snatched up the tuna tin and dropped it into the trash.
“Cans are recyclable. You should rinse it out and keep it,” Bo called from down the hall.
Damn. Just damn.
Bo came back, clutching a roll of gauze. “Now hold still.”
“Ow,” Lucky exclaimed
“But I haven’t touched you.”
“It still hurts.”
“But I haven’t touched you.”
“You will. And it’ll hurt.”
“Wuss.”
“Hey! I got shot.” Lucky added extra whine to his voice for good measure, recalling the pampering he’d received for a broken
foot and ankle.
Bo let out a low whistle when he peeled the gauze back. “Holy fucking shit. No wonder it hurts. This is gross. The doctor sent you home like
this?”
“What?” Lucky craned his neck, trying to get a better look.
Bo blocked the view with his hand. “Trust me, you don’t want to see this. I’m thinking we better get you back to the
hospital. This looks infected. You might wind up losing the arm.”
“What the hell? The doctor said it was just a scratch.” Lucky rolled his eyes upward to Bo’s pursed-lip scowl.
“It is. Now stop acting like a four-year-old and let me clean and re-bandage.”
“Jerk,” Lucky muttered under his breath. “You don’t play fair.”
“Aww… poor little thing has a scratch on his arm.” Bo’s mocking tone fell and one brow raised as he stared
intently into Lucky’s eyes. “I’m glad you’re not hurt, but if you ever get shot again and don’t call me,
I’ll finish what they started, understand? And don’t forget, if you don’t take care of yourself, and the wound gets infected,
I’m licensed for injections. I have absolutely no qualms about jabbing a gram of cefazolin into your ass cheek every six hours.” He
smacked his hand against the back of Lucky’s head. “Now, how’s your ankle?”
Lucky’s not answering immediately gave him away.
“It’s still sore, isn’t it?”
“Some,” Lucky confessed.
“Yeah, well if you’d gone to physical therapy like you were supposed to…”
Lucky bit down on the
Yeah, yeah, yadda, yadda
that nearly escaped his mouth.
Bo let the topic die. “How about you go out into the living room and rest your boo-boos while I fix dinner. If you behave yourself,
I’ll give you a blow job later.”
Ah, but Lucky loved the way the man’s mind worked. Most of the time.
Chapter 4
“Humor me, please.” Walter held the conference room door open for Lucky to pass through.
Lucky’s sigh could have blown papers out of a closed briefcase.
A rough semi-circle three rows deep and ten chairs wide left the front of the room open except for the space occupied by a guy barely out of his teens
sitting at a table. Fifteen fairly young men and women sat alone, in pairs, or in one case, a trio. Lucky recognized Bo and a few others, but the rest were
new to him. Some, like Bo, seemed intent on their tasks, other radiated boredom,
I don’t care
painted over their too-young faces. Out in
the big bad world of crime fighting,
I don’t care
equaled
dead
.
A wiry little guy in jeans and a faded button-down stood lecturing at the head of the room, maybe twenty years older than Lucky, but fit, and with an
accent straight from a New York cop movie.
Well, whadda ya know? The great man himself.
Bo glanced behind him, gave a brief nod of acknowledgement and turned back toward the front of the room.
Wow! A tight-fitting, sleeveless T-shirt and jeans? At work? That was a first, even if casual clothes looked good on the man. Then again, he pretty much
looked good in anything…or nothing.
“Ah, right on time, gentlemen,” said the man whose picture Lucky’d seen on the Internet. He shifted his gaze to the students
gathered near the front. “Class, today we’re being joined by two undercover ops veterans, Mr. Walter Smith and Mr. Simon Harrison of
Southeastern. Feel free to ask them questions, and I hope they’ll contribute to today’s lesson.”
If looks could kill, Lucky wondered if they’d ever get the smirk off of Walter’s corpse. “Questions?” Lucky
whispered, pouring a truckload of disapproval into the one word. Boss better explain, and fast.
“Like it or not, you are an expert in your field, Lucky, and can teach these junior agents a thing or two,” Walter murmured, taking a
seat at the back of the room. Lucky chose a chair nearby. His boss bore watching, the sneaky bugger. As if providing practical experience for rookies while
on assignments wasn’t bad enough. Walter had promised no public speaking.
“If you don’t trust the man,” Walter added, “and I’m sure you don’t, wouldn’t it be
best to find out what he’s saying? Keep him from telling the kiddies something that’ll get them killed?”
Yeah, there was that. If the overpriced little peacock let his mouth override his brain, Lucky would be first in line to slap him down. Sure the
man’s profile claimed time on the streets, but how long ago? Undercover work changed a lot even in the nine years of Lucky’s
experience. New technology, new fact-finding methods, new laws. Out-of-date information meant a blown case.
“Let’s do a recap, shall we, to catch our visitors up?” O’Donoghue scanned the room, his attention falling on each
student in turn. He folded his hands behind his back and puffed out his chest. Reminded Lucky of a barnyard rooster. Anybody who referred to Lucky as a
cocky little bantam found out pretty soon that Lucky could back up his strut, and this guy was probably the roostah who used ta, or he wouldn’t
be teaching. “What is rule number one of undercover operations?”