been raised in the lap of luxury, his parents’ farmhouse beat this rundown crack house by a country mile.
A skinny, twenty-something man in blue jeans and nothing else lounged in a folding chair outside the main entrance. Lucky shivered. Why didn’t the guy at least have a shirt on? They may be in South Carolina, but April wasn’t exactly balmy. Especially not in the shade.
He slung the straps of both duffels over one shoulder and grabbed the cooler and backpack, lugging it all in one trip in case the Malibu wasn’t there when he got back. This didn’t look like the safest of neighborhoods. After fighting traffic for three hours, he didn’t rightly care. Maybe the original owner would steal the ugly- assed piece of shit back.
“Which way’s the elevator?” Lucky asked the man displaying his body in sixty degreeweather. Not that he didn’t have a nice body. Not as nice as Bo’s, but the guy probably didn’t sleep alone unless he wanted to.
Mr. Shirtless laughed. “Elevator? Where do you think you are, The Ritz? The stairs are that way.” He jabbed a finger at the building’s front entrance. Loaded down, Lucky trudged up seven flights of stairs, muttering obscenities under his breath at the sorry fuck who’d made his arrangements. Probably the same woman who’d given him the Malibu. A palmetto bug scurried out of his way. Oh shit! Only right that hell came equipped with the nasty fuckers. If they lived on the landing, chances were, they weren’t above invading apartments. Great, just great.
It took Lucky a few tries to wrestle open the door to apartment 7C. He dropped his belongings and hurried through the apartment, flipping on lights to flush out uninvited multi-legged guests. He searched the tiny living room, shoe box sized bedroom, bathroom barely big enough to turn around in, and finally the kitchen, which was more a closet someone managed to squeeze a refrigerator and a stove into that opened onto the living room. No creatures scuttled away, but the mouse trap under the kitchen sink didn’t bode well for pest-free living.
Somewhere a Salvation Army Family Store was missing furniture, but otherwise the place appeared livable. He pulled out his work cell phone and texted news of his arrival to Walter. Duty done, he typed out a message to Bo on his personal phone. “Hope yr place is better n mine.”
With no microwave in sight, Lucky reheated his beans and mushrooms in the oven, and munched a barely edible dinner, the beans too cold and the mushrooms too hot. He jumped when his phoned chimed. Screw dinner—he dashed into the living room to read: “S ok. Wish U were here.’”
Yeah, I do, too . Lucky caught himself smiling at the phone in his hand. What the hell? A few good mind-blowing fucks and now he behaved like some love-sick teenager? Okay, more than a few.
He fired up his laptop, thanking the gods of Internet connection for a signal. Hmm… What to say? Three drafts hit the recycle bin. The fourth attempt showed promise.
Char,
What’s the early warning signs of a relationship?
After a few minutes spent unpacking and settling in, he returned to his laptop to find an answer.
Does he have a toothbrush at your place and do either of you ever cook for the other? Is he your one and only or are you still fucking around?
Toothbrush plus you in a kitchen plus monogamy equals relationship.
Lucky reread Charlotte’s reply three times, adding up the equation a bit differently. Toothbrush plus him and Bo in a kitchen plus monogamy equaled complication. He closed his eyes. Candlelight played over Bo’s whipcord lean muscles in a memory. Maybe Bo was a complication worth having. But hell if he’d tell Bo.
* * *
The Malibu survived the night on the street in front of Crack Central. Its rims and tires, however, did not.
“There’s gotta be a special place in hell for assholes who make me call the keeper of the cars this soon,” Lucky snarled. Maybe he should get Bo do it, since he’d
A skinny, twenty-something man in blue jeans and nothing else lounged in a folding chair outside the main entrance. Lucky shivered. Why didn’t the guy at least have a shirt on? They may be in South Carolina, but April wasn’t exactly balmy. Especially not in the shade.
He slung the straps of both duffels over one shoulder and grabbed the cooler and backpack, lugging it all in one trip in case the Malibu wasn’t there when he got back. This didn’t look like the safest of neighborhoods. After fighting traffic for three hours, he didn’t rightly care. Maybe the original owner would steal the ugly- assed piece of shit back.
“Which way’s the elevator?” Lucky asked the man displaying his body in sixty degreeweather. Not that he didn’t have a nice body. Not as nice as Bo’s, but the guy probably didn’t sleep alone unless he wanted to.
Mr. Shirtless laughed. “Elevator? Where do you think you are, The Ritz? The stairs are that way.” He jabbed a finger at the building’s front entrance. Loaded down, Lucky trudged up seven flights of stairs, muttering obscenities under his breath at the sorry fuck who’d made his arrangements. Probably the same woman who’d given him the Malibu. A palmetto bug scurried out of his way. Oh shit! Only right that hell came equipped with the nasty fuckers. If they lived on the landing, chances were, they weren’t above invading apartments. Great, just great.
It took Lucky a few tries to wrestle open the door to apartment 7C. He dropped his belongings and hurried through the apartment, flipping on lights to flush out uninvited multi-legged guests. He searched the tiny living room, shoe box sized bedroom, bathroom barely big enough to turn around in, and finally the kitchen, which was more a closet someone managed to squeeze a refrigerator and a stove into that opened onto the living room. No creatures scuttled away, but the mouse trap under the kitchen sink didn’t bode well for pest-free living.
Somewhere a Salvation Army Family Store was missing furniture, but otherwise the place appeared livable. He pulled out his work cell phone and texted news of his arrival to Walter. Duty done, he typed out a message to Bo on his personal phone. “Hope yr place is better n mine.”
With no microwave in sight, Lucky reheated his beans and mushrooms in the oven, and munched a barely edible dinner, the beans too cold and the mushrooms too hot. He jumped when his phoned chimed. Screw dinner—he dashed into the living room to read: “S ok. Wish U were here.’”
Yeah, I do, too . Lucky caught himself smiling at the phone in his hand. What the hell? A few good mind-blowing fucks and now he behaved like some love-sick teenager? Okay, more than a few.
He fired up his laptop, thanking the gods of Internet connection for a signal. Hmm… What to say? Three drafts hit the recycle bin. The fourth attempt showed promise.
Char,
What’s the early warning signs of a relationship?
After a few minutes spent unpacking and settling in, he returned to his laptop to find an answer.
Does he have a toothbrush at your place and do either of you ever cook for the other? Is he your one and only or are you still fucking around?
Toothbrush plus you in a kitchen plus monogamy equals relationship.
Lucky reread Charlotte’s reply three times, adding up the equation a bit differently. Toothbrush plus him and Bo in a kitchen plus monogamy equaled complication. He closed his eyes. Candlelight played over Bo’s whipcord lean muscles in a memory. Maybe Bo was a complication worth having. But hell if he’d tell Bo.
* * *
The Malibu survived the night on the street in front of Crack Central. Its rims and tires, however, did not.
“There’s gotta be a special place in hell for assholes who make me call the keeper of the cars this soon,” Lucky snarled. Maybe he should get Bo do it, since he’d
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