Page 2 of Reunion
The asshole walked up and snatched the gun from her hand. She let him.
He scowled. “Hey, no bullets.”
Johnson smiled and folded her arms across her body-armor-covered chest. “You’re right. I won’t shoot you. But my partner might.” She nodded toward Lucky.
The guy spun, his face a perfect visual ofOh shit!“Get him!”
Idiot Two raised his gun while Idiot One cowered on the pavement, and Dumbass made the biggest target he possibly could.
Three shots. Three men lying twitching on the ground. Not as permanent as a gun, but a Taser had its place in the great scheme of things.
And didn’t require nearly as much red tape.
***
Whether the case ended successful or a total fuckup, Lucky still hated all the damned paperwork. But typing up reports gave him a good excuse to stay in his cube, or rather, his side of the cube. He flicked a glance to the unlived-in looking desk across the way. A closed laptop, a pen holder with four matching, department-issued black ink pens, and a Christmas cactus trailing shoots down the side of a filing cabinet. No human.
Lucky’s desk stayed piled high with papers, files, and mostly-empty Starbucks cups. Five cups meant Friday. His current brew sat closest to his laptop. Several times in the past, he’d grabbed the wrong one. Brrr… Week old coffee.
He leaned back in the chair he alone in the department managed to tame, one hand on the desk to steady himself lest the Hell Bitch throw him. She’d tried before. Lordy, she’d tried. Succeeded a time or two. But if a chair threw him without video evidence on social media, it never really happened in his book.
He shifted his gaze back to the clean side of the cube. Where was Bo anyway? He’d better not have snuck back to spring a surprise. Only twenty minutes left to be home free, if no one called Lucky into the boss’s office to ambush him with cake and off-key singing. Officially, he’d grow a year older tomorrow, but the department never seemed to care. They’d celebrate whenever they felt like.
So far this year, no one had embarrassed him with cake and ice cream, expecting him to play along and act cheerful. People going all out on birthdays. Why? He’d counted the days until he’d turned sixteen and got his driver’s license. Then he marked the calendar pages until eighteen, when he was deemed legally, if somewhat inaccurately, an adult.
Then he couldn’t wait until twenty-one to go clubbing and survive getting carded. Then he’d counted days until he’d done his time and become a free man.
Now, years rolled around faster and faster. He’d never expected to reach thirty-eight. Yeah, birthdays. Screw ‘em.
“Look, I need a favor.” A Loretta Johnson-shaped shadow fell on Lucky’s desk. No one else dared come here but Walter and Bo, and Walter didn’t scare easily no matter how hard Lucky tried. Bo simply rolled his eyes and growled.
Loretta? She ignored Lucky’s bluster. Lucky whooshed out a breath and gave his latest trainee his best evil eye. “What do you want?”
She either didn’t know or didn’t care what kind of violence awaited when Lucky wanted privacy, one of many reasons he’d set up shop in an out of the way cubicle rather than share space with a bunch of perfectly trained lapdogs.
“I’m supposed to see a contact tonight and need backup.” She used the one argument guaranteed to sway Lucky every time: “Walter said you were the best man for the job.”
“And he’s right. Where and when?”
The corner of her mouth twitched, but she didn’t smile or gloat. “Tonight, nine o’clock at The Raging Stallion.”
Lucky’s frown shifted to a scowl. “A gay bar?” Besides being the best man for the job, he’d probably be the only one in the department besides Bo who’d make it five feet past the front door without someone figuring out they didn’t belong.
Johnson folded her arms over her chest. “You got a problem?”
Of course not, and he’d been out to Johnson for a while, but still, a gay bar? He’d not gone to The Stallion in years. “Nope, no problem.” No problem but going to one of the South’s hottest pickup joints without his off-the-clock partner.
He’d probably get hit on, since his lack of socially redeeming qualities didn’t show until he started talking. Not like he wanted the attention. A man hotter than any club boy waited at home… or rather, lurked somewhere. Bo’s first undercover assignment since he’d gotten out of rehab hadn’t left him much time to call home.
Lucky ought to be with Bo, should anything go wrong. Asshole Keith better not let anything happen to him, or he’d answer to Lucky’s fist.
“I’m waiting,” Johnson said, bringing Lucky back to the here and now. She stood at the entrance to his cube, tapping her foot.
“Oh, all right.” He powered down his laptop, stuck it into his case, and stopped himself. Taking work home from the office? Oh, the horrors. The bag fit perfectly beneath his desk, where no one ever cared to look, not even housekeeping. They’d learned to stay away from his desk a long time ago.
He followed Johnson to the parking garage, stopping by her Jeep to see her safely inside. She smiled. “Better watch it or the rumor might get ‘round that you’re one of them there Southern gentlemen.” She cawed at her joke and wiped a tear from her eye. “Meet me at my place in an hour.” She looked him from head to feet. “And put on something club-worthy, okay?”
What? His normal jeans and an only-slightly-wrinkled button down weren’t good enough? He’d at least worn an official SNB shirt last night for the bust—mostly because he hadn’t gotten around to doing laundry. Still grumbling, he stumbled over to his restored Camaro and joined the masses leaving Atlanta during rush hour.
