by L E Franks
Table of Contents
Title Page
6 DAYS TO GET LUCKY
For Sam
Acknowledgements
6 Days To Get Lucky
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Trademark Acknowledgement
6 Days to Valentine
LE Franks
Also by LE Franks
WILDE CITY PRESS
http://www.wildecity.com
6 Days To Get Lucky © 2016 LE Franks
Published in the US and Australia by Wilde City Press 2016
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, situations and incidents are the product of the author’s imaginations or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
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Published by Wilde City Press
ISBN: 978-1-925313-85-7
Cover Art © 2016 Wilde City Press
6 DAYS TO GET LUCKY
A Nick Valentine Story
LE Franks
For Sam
Acknowledgements
6 Days to Get Lucky wouldn’t have made it past the notes scribbled on a yellow legal pad without the help and encouragement of so many people: My family who ignored my growling as I wrote and the weeping when I didn’t. To Paul, TC, Felix, Robin and Marlyn, a big thanks for playing beta. To ZAM for making me write long, and to Gail for taking this project under her very capable editing wing along with Jason who may be my all-time favorite line editor. To Peggy for a morning spent in her garden planting seeds in my brain, I’m so very grateful, and to Bryana for her hands-on insight into Irish bar culture and Irish musicians in particular—all errors and omissions are mine alone. And to Morticia who loves FatBoy—we know what you did. And of course to Geoff and Ethan and the rest of the production staff at Wilde City Press. Thank you. You rock. You all rock.
LE Franks
6 Days To Get Lucky
A Nick Valentine Story
Reaching across the empty bed next to me, I rode out the last waves of my dream alone. I could still feel his phantom kiss on my lips and the sensation of a hand stroking along my thigh.
The rest of it was just a blur of emotions and sticky residue on my sheets—though I could guess at it without much effort. FatBoy Newman had been a specter haunting me at work so it was no great leap to assume he’d shouldered his way into my dreams as well.
In fact, he was at the root of my problem: I’d been having a hell of a dry spell.
Four weeks of near misses had done nothing but stoke my bad mood and turn my balls a lovely shade of indigo that matched my jeans…
Four weeks of dashed hopes…
Four weeks since the most romantic kiss of my life…
Four weeks of nothing.
Fuck the South and its mythology of the Southern Gentleman—if FatBoy Newman didn’t stop treating me like a delicate flower and throw me up against a wall soon, I was going to explode.
It was six days until St. Patrick’s Day, and FatBoy had until then to make his move, or I was moving on.
Chapter One
Monday March 11
“What the fuck did you do?” I’d walked into Frisson Monday morning only to find a swarm of workmen buzzing around behind the heavy plastic sheeting tacked across the end of my bar. Where a wall had stood the night before, there was now a gaping hole and sounds of construction.
“Swear jar.” My boss, Blake, barely looked up from the paper spread in front of him. He gestured idly over his shoulder in the direction of the hostess station where our head waiter, Natalie, had set a can to collect quarters from offenders. She was on a crusade to civilize the busboys and anyone else she could nab.
Apparently Blake had drunk her Kool-Aid.
Unimpressed, I ignored him. Natalie could suck my balls. I wasn’t falling for one of her little games.
Again.
The last time I looked, there was about forty bucks in change, mostly from the waiters using profanity too close to the dining room. The busboys were too smart for that, switching to Spanish or getting creative with the adjectives whenever she came around.
Our sous chef, Sal, was trying to broaden their horizons by teaching them to swear in Italian. I figured through his efforts alone the swear jar was light by at least a C-note. Between that and the Book of Dirty French left in the men’s locker room, I was surprised that Natalie hadn’t cottoned on to their little insurgency; it must have sounded like the UN whenever they were around.
It was too early in the morning for any conversation involving blueprints or swear jars, or especially Natalie.
Still pretending I hadn’t heard, I snagged Blake’s cup to top him off while I made myself a mocha. It was empty except for a caramel-colored ring of crema just below the level of the rim, revealing this morning’s coffee of choice had been a double espresso.
Another shot of caffeine probably won’t kill him.
Leaning against the counter, I zoned out, watching the ebony flow. I was content just drifting along on the smoky fragrance of coffee bean expression, lulled by the gentle rustle of Blake’s paper and the rumble of pressure and hissing syncopation of steam. My mind wandered untethered, unhurried, and unready for the first jolt of caffeine that would mark the official start of my day.
So it was almost painful—that incongruous green, yanking me out of my moment of Zen—little wonder I stared, unable to instantly decode with my brain what was jarring to my eye.
Atop the gleaming chrome of our espresso machine, shouldering aside a stack of cups, was a small pot of shamrocks sitting in a spill of potting soil only a shade darker than my Italian roast.
Natalie had struck again in our continuing battle over decorating the bar for holidays.
It was an unhappy discovery. Not to mention unsanitary.
Grimacing, I removed the offending plant.
St. Patrick’s Day was at the end of the week and I’d been pruning back her decorations since the end of February, preferring my celebration of the holiday to speak through my special selections of Irish beers and whiskeys.
Natalie, on the other hand, was all about turning the bar into a tawdry sea of glittering green, reminiscent of a primary school classroom. I suspected no one let her have a glue stick as a child.
If allowed free rein, she’d fill the bar with emerald green streamers. There’d be cardboard leprechauns defending glittering pots of gold and cheaply framed images of crumbling castles slowly being swallowed by the lush Irish countryside.
I considered the plant in my hand.
The potted shamrocks weren’t terrible. I could live with them on the bar tables once Natalie convinced Blake to let her have some sway over the festivities, but for now…
I stashed it in an empty slot of the dish rack under the bar. Maybe our dishwasher Carlos would enjoy it. Or kill it. Depending on how lucky the thing really was.
I went back to prepping another shot. Packin
g ground coffee into the portafilter, I reminded myself that I really did like Natalie—I just liked her best in months without holidays.
Natalie totally rocked August.
* * * * *
Always a gentleman, Blake sipped his espresso, patiently waiting for me to top off my mocha with some hand-whipped cream, before launching into his latest lecture on restaurant management 101. And instead of returning the favor by paying attention as he talked about returns on investments, I watched him play with the little strip of lemon peel that had beached itself at the bottom of his cup.
I sipped my drink and considered him, hands dancing in front like he was directing a symphony… or flagging my attention. He was energy and vitality, and I loved working for the man. But not enough to listen when he got enthusiastic like this.
I idly thought of FatBoy. Comparing anyone to my pseudo-boyfriend wouldn’t normally be fair: FatBoy was… FatBoy. One look from the man had me weak in the knees, and Blake had a couple of decades on him.
But for a man in his fifties, Blake was wasted on the straight set—though I’m sure both his wife and girlfriend would disagree—my boss ticked all the boxes on the Gay Men’s list of the Ideal Silver Fox.
Six-foot-two, eyes of blue? Not quite—that height needed a couple more inches to be correct, but the blue eyes were so dark they were almost navy.
He had a thick, full head of coffee-colored hair, shot through with a little gray at the temples. His face wasn’t prettily handsome, which was good since it would ruin it for the boys with a daddy kink, but he had classic, strong features with an almost patrician nose. And those long tan fingers toying with his cup evoked images that made me sweat.
What really made the package was the hardcore gym body he showed off in fitted clothes and one of the finest asses I’ve seen attached to anything on two legs.
“Are you checking me out, or are you just bored?” Blake was trying not to smirk at me. He knew how much I hated getting caught off guard, so he made it his employerly mission to try and do exactly that as much as possible.
“Bored…” I said without thinking and felt the heat rush to my cheeks the same instant Blake barked out his laugh, rocking back on his seat.
“You know, we’ve had this talk before, Nick…” His eyes laughing as he teased. “I’m straight…”
I waved him off hoping he’d stop while I was behind, but no such luck. He leaned closer, stretching over the bar, sincerity practically dripping off his tongue as he murmured. “…you’ve been moping around for weeks. Dry spell, Nick?”
You could say that.
“You can’t ask me that, Blake—it’s against policy!” I grinned to hide my panic, flicking a bar towel at the man, trying to distract him.
Blake didn’t look too impressed with my dodge. As a matter of fact, I could see amusement growing, all his ‘tells’ were in force—the crinkled skin at the corner of his eyes, the twitch that brought out a dimple in his left cheek. I was fucked. He wanted to play. The paperwork must have been as boring to him as it was to me.
Dammit, FatBoy.
He had the gene that allowed independent brow movement and was using it to great effect as he poked back. “Just like I can’t ask you about all the busboys and cute twinks wearing a groove to my storage room when you go on break?”
I’d ask about his knowledge of gay stereotypes later. For now…
I had nothing.
“Point.”
“Thought so.” This time his smile was genuine. “You’re a good kid, Nick—someone will come along when you least expect it. Look at me…”
And I did. I looked at him again and thought how his Brazilian wife, Emerald, wouldn’t appreciate the relationship comparison at all, now that she was forced to share her ‘Blake time’ with a thirty-two-year-old accountant, ironically named Sharon. Usually it was the Sharons of the world who lost their men to sloe-eyed South American beauties.
“In the meantime, while I do appreciate the drop in traffic and the wear and tear on my floors… you have to stop checking out my ass.”
Blake paused, and a thoughtful expression appeared, replacing his teasing demeanor.
Crap.
I’d seen that look before. The businessman in him, the one who worked every problem over to its inevitable and correct conclusion, the one who used lots of hands-on techniques, the one who liked to interfere with my job…
He had that look.
I could only grip the white terry cloth in my hand tighter, twisting it in horror at the thought of Blake running loose in my personal life.
FatBoy owes me at least a blowjob for this.
“…so we just need to find you a boyfriend…” Blake was still talking, oblivious to my growing panic. “…maybe Emmy knows someone.” He pulled out his phone and sent a couple of texts as I stared.
Un-fucking-believable.
I flushed again, and his voice faded into a buzz as he became all business once more until the words “Irish” and “rock band” cut their way through the murk between my ears.
“Who? What?” I was genuinely worried about what I had missed.
“…they’ll be playing this week for St. Patrick’s Day. My buddy’s club up in Chicago saw a 30 percent jump in bar revenue after he brought them in—thought I’d try it. They’re a loaner.” Blake’s eyes seemed to glow in the dim light, and I could imagine him locked in his head, counting stacks of imaginary coin.
“Really?”
I stopped fretting about FatBoy and matchmakers and tried to visualize how adding music would change the place. Here at Frisson, the lunch crowd came early and stayed late, often sitting at my bar grazing through T-bones and Caesar salads and lingering over cups of my special dark roast with drizzles of Galliano over the top.
We were in a mixed commercial neighborhood of banks and gyms and upscale residential condos. More business was conducted over our starched white tablecloths than over the faux veneer counters at the McBanks who, like cockroaches after an apocalypse, were too busy picking over the carcasses of our local institutions to care.
Close enough to the campus once the sun set, we got more than our fair share of party girls and boys, which kept the bar hopping until late. Maybe they’d find it a draw, though it might actually drive them out.
Mating hipsters were notoriously fickle and constantly skittish.
One sudden move could turn the bar into a desert and have Blake filing Chapter 11 by the end of the year. Not that it was likely. Blake ran the restaurant side as an upscale Italian/steak combo, and it worked. We had one of the best chefs in the South and had been written up in several national reviews.
Bar revenues were already up from the prior year, and whenever Marco and I sat in his kitchen debating wine pairings for the month, it seemed like the restaurant, too, was doing well.
Tearing down the partition that enclosed a private party room at the back of the bar to install a stage for live music seemed a bit extreme, and a little odd to me, at the moment I couldn’t care less. The longer Blake talked, the more time I had to suck down coffee. And I needed it.
Staying up until five a.m. playing the latest version of Assassin’s Creed on my Xbox wasn’t the wisest thing to do on a school night, but it took my mind off the fact that it was over a month since I’d gotten laid. Even Blake was starting to look good, and he was old and straight.
* * * * *
“You really are fixated on him, aren’t you?” Christine leaned against the bar, smirking. From her vantage point, she’d gotten a clear view of me ogling FatBoy as he loitered, chatting with Natalie.
“Too bad you tried to kill him. I doubt he’ll give you the time of day, now.” Her tone was mocking. Christine was one of those fragile-looking blondes, the product of too many dips in the same gene pool. Her face reminded me of a Siamese cat—sleek and sharp angled, a little cross-eyed and just plain snotty, the type that would bite my nose or go for my throat with her nasty little claws.
I wanted to pull her w
hiskers.
If I was honest, she was right about the first part but way off on the second. Not that I’d give her the satisfaction of agreeing with her.
Grabbing a clean glass from the dish rack behind me, I began to polish away invisible spots, going for nonchalance. “I didn’t try to kill him…”
It was the only point I could honorably defend about our aborted drinking contest.
“Fine, whatever—poison, then. Don’t tell me you weren’t cheating. I’ve served Davis enough shots of Jack to know that no fruity gay-boy cocktail could bring him down so fast. Not that it matters—Davis isn’t gay, so your whole ‘seduce the hot bouncer’ scene was a Big. Fat. Fail.”
“Wow, Christine, how non-pc of you. I didn’t know you were homophobic, I just thought you were an asshole.”
I said this half in jest and mostly under my breath, turning to wipe a small patch of bar in front of me. It wouldn’t hurt to look busy if the Boss Man wandered back in—dead as it was.
My comments didn’t pass unnoticed by Christine if the hard glare and flipping finger were any indicators.
“You are un—believable!” As she tried to whittle me down to size, her face turned a hot cherry red, and I may have laughed… just a little, setting her off on another round of ranting.
“I’m not homophobic, you jerk! I’m Nick-a-phobic!” Her voice was layered with loathing and disdain. Then snapped, “The sooner that Blake sees you for the slithering, fuck up that you are and cans your skanky ass, the better. I, for one, can’t wait!”
She seemed to have run out of steam and I would’ve sworn she was about to beat feet, when I spotted the moment she changed her mind. A sly little smirk crossed her face, and Christine’s breathy whisper puffed against my cheek, making me shiver. I tried to ease away, but she leaned in relentlessly as if imparting the wisdom of the universe for my ears only.
