6 Days to Get Lucky

by L E Franks

  Using her best debutante elocution, she continued. “Besides…” she purred, “I’m not saying anything that everyone here isn’t already thinking—you’re just one pink umbrella away from being called a parade.” The faux-sweetness evaporated and her two-fingered jab shoved me back as she finished, “And you can’t call girls assholes, asshole!”

  I was stunned. I knew Christine didn’t like me in general, but I’d never seen such raw hostility from our second bartender.

  Must be on the rag.

  I turned, giving her my full attention.

  “So you’re sexist as well as homophobic? Wow. Let’s go for the trifecta—what’s your stand on race relations?”

  I might have been pushing the envelope with Christine. Her eyes were now glowing with indignation and so round they reminded me of one of those rodent-tree-monkey-things from Madagascar, and I hadn’t even finished insulting her.

  I rolled out my most annoying smirk and settled my weight against the bar. “Soooo… are you a ‘Good Ol’ Girl’ of the South? Do you have a flag, a dog, and a pickup truck? Inquiring minds want to know, sugar.”

  I might have winked at her, but I don’t think I deserved the dirty bar towel to the face.

  * * * * *

  With Christine retreating like she was Atlanta and I was General Sherman holding a torch for her, I was free to return to my ‘bar’-gazing. FatBoy was still leaning against the hostess station, dressed in his ‘civilian’ wear—a T-shirt and jeans slung low and tight across his hips. He made me see stars. In fact, I was sure that was the Big Dipper in his pants.

  Just looking at him made me wish I’d gotten better acquainted when I had the chance. I let my gaze linger, hoping he’d look my way. If I couldn’t touch, then I could at least tease him before the lunch crowd arrived.

  If there was a god, the touching would come later.

  After our date.

  * * * * *

  We rocked lunch. Marco, our executive chef, had given a nod to the upcoming holiday with a classic corned beef and cabbage special, and we’d sold out before the second lunch wave was seated. What was usually a couple of hours spent mixing drinks and pouring wine had turned into a race to pull drafts of Guinness and ale, and fend off Natalie’s pitches for green-colored beer to celebrate the holiday.

  “Let it go. It’s only one day, Nat, and nobody likes drinking booze that looks like scummy pond water from their own backyard.” I was waiting patiently at the tap, keeping the pour steady and the glass angle true while watching the frustration surge across her face, turning it a nice rosy hue.

  “Gah! How can you be so, so…”

  I waggled my brows at her, the only things I was willing to move until I was done, and smirked. “So what?”

  Natalie was really too nice for her own good. She was forever at a loss for words when it came time for a verbal throw down. Honestly, she’d be better off asking the busboys for tips, rather than trying to fine it out of them—they were masters at the creative slur if you spoke Spanish, or now apparently French and Italian.

  I left the beer to settle and turned away, noticing for the first time since the rush began, that Christine had disappeared and I was alone except for Juan my bar-back.

  “Where’s Chris?” I asked, leaving the problem of Natalie and her insult deficiencies for another time.

  Juan just shrugged and looked away—busy restocking the bottles for me—and I couldn’t ignore the pang of regret I felt. We hadn’t gotten back to our easy relationship after he’d ended our casual backroom flings.

  I looked back at Natalie, waiting for me to pour a glass of Pinot to complete her ticket, my question about Christine still hanging in the air. She mimicked Juan with an elegant twitch of her shoulder before placing the glass onto her tray. Christine wasn’t her favorite, either.

  Moving away to deliver her drink order, Natalie called back to me. “Just think about it, okay? Think how pretty all those pitchers of green beer will be. I can sell a ton of them!”

  That she could.

  If she had her way, she’d fill the bar with St. Patrick’s Day pitchers just to go with her décor.

  I really hoped she was yanking my chain.

  * * * * *

  Blake caught me as I was heading into the kitchen to review the weekly wine pairings with Marco. I had a million things to get done before I could leave, and I was in a hurry. I had plans. Big plans. And they all involved finally getting naked with FatBoy. I was so busy mentally stripping him that when Blake grabbed my arm to stop me, I jumped.

  “Nick, I hate to do this to you, but I need you to work tonight.”

  I stared, watching his lips move, trying to translate his words into something I recognized.

  He really did look regretful. Sharp as he was, the man would do almost anything to avoid being the bearer of bad news, and right then he looked like someone had left something foul and wet on the floor by his foot.

  “Shit, Blake, I haven’t had a decent night off in weeks. I have plans…”

  “You have a date?” His discomfort shifted, curiosity elbowing it away as his interest was piqued. I stood there waffling, trying to figure out how much FatBoy had spilled about our plan to drive to Knoxville. I didn’t want to accidentally out him.

  I had nothing.

  FatBoy had family business, and since I wasn’t scheduled to work until four the next day, we’d finally made a date. It was our latest attempt at one since the crazy Valentine’s Day late night supper together, which ended with a sweet kiss and hopes for more to come.

  So far it hadn’t—or at least we hadn’t. Come. Not together, anyway.

  Once he was finished with his family, we planned to have a night on the town—dinner, maybe check out the sights, and spend the night before returning home, in time for work. I’d been looking forward to it all week.

  A ball of ice steadily built in my gut.

  “Um, yeah?” It was the best I could do. He’d caught me flat-footed, and Blake looked disappointed.

  “Catching up with your online buddies while you go for a high score on Xbox isn’t a date, Nick.” I couldn’t think what to say in the face of his disbelief. “Look.” he tried to make himself sound sympathetic. “Christine came down with something suddenly. She was all flushed—said she didn’t want to make anyone sick, so I sent her home. I was going to call in one of the other guys, but she said you didn’t have plans and already offered to take her shift. That’s not going to be a problem—is it?”

  That little bitch.

  I couldn’t think of any way out of the trap Christine had so cleverly laid for me. I just shook my head, ignoring his promises to make it up to me, and went to the kitchen to find Marco and plot my revenge.

  Apparently, I now had all the time in the world.

  * * * * *

  The door behind me shut, a puff of warm air the only warning that I wasn’t alone as one golden arm slid around my waist, pulling me back into a hard, warm chest. I shuddered at the contact.

  “Ready?” FatBoy’s breath wreathed my neck as he buried his face against the back of my head—was that hair sniffing going on?

  The room we were in wasn’t huge, maybe twenty-foot square, stacked high with cases of beer and crates of lemons and limes, and a cage at one end that held the premium liquor, which only Blake and I had the keys to. It was kept chilled to maintain temperature for the tapped kegs along the other wall. I tried not to linger unless I had someone to keep me warm.

  FatBoy’s question provoked a wave of regret tinged with sorrow as I gazed down at the arm holding me captive, its mate soon following, and the ensuing hug almost broke me. Corded forearms flexing in the dimness lit another emotional fire in me that burned a path south—a fire destined to burn itself out untended.

  Something else I was sorry for.

  From all that warm skin still tugging me close, I knew he’d taken the time to change out of his suit. If I dropped the two bottles of Grey Goose I was holding and turned in his arm
s, I’d see he was dressed and ready to go. And I wanted to. I wanted to turn and admire the narrow waist, appreciate how he poured his long, long legs with their powerful thighs into a pair of low-slung jeans.

  I’d already seen what he could do to a T-shirt.

  The first time he’d been to my place, he’d shown up in a pair of black trainers and a Tennessee Volunteers T-shirt so faded and worn so thin that if you squinted just right you could see his nipples through the orangesicle fabric, and if you touched it, just brushing a hand across it, the cotton would be soft and warm, like petting a kitten.

  That day he’d let himself into my loft and stretched himself out on my couch like a late present from Santa.

  He was only missing the bow.

  At the time, I was too pissed and humiliatingly naked to really appreciate the gift, or think to stop and unwrap it. Something I’ve regretted ever since.

  The hand working its way down my belly brought me back into the present, and I groaned, turning into FatBoy’s arms before we started down a path that I couldn’t let him finish, no matter what I wanted—what we wanted.

  “We have to stop meeting like this.” My voice sounded raw and unnatural to my ears, and I was only halfway joking. As I looked up at him, the echo of past failures trapped me in my head. He might have sentimental attachment to this place, but for me, trouble has followed quickly on the heels of each visit he’s made to me here.

  Last month, Davis ‘FatBoy’ Newman had done a fine job with his stealthy pursuit of me, and I still reeled from the rollercoaster of emotions I’d gone through because of him.

  The cold room was barely lit, just an exposed thirty-watt bulb attached to an ancient chain, one of the few that I was paid to yank.

  I rarely bothered turning on the full bank of fluorescents unless I was doing inventory, but now I wished I had—the ochre glow from the swaying bulb cast odd shadows across FatBoy’s face that were unnerving, leaving his eyes hooded and the azure fire of his gaze impossible to read if not for the rest of his face: his mouth was soft, his smile for me tender.

  It made my gut clench.

  Just looking at the man made me uncomfortable in so many ways. It only took a single lapse in concentration to send me back to the night when FatBoy sprung his midnight surprise that turned into the Valentine’s Day Massacre. Four weeks ago, under the same dim haze and within five minutes of each other, two men I hadn’t realized I’d been dating, dumped me.

  First Juan, my bar-back and occasional fling, came, releasing me of all further obligation to him, sending me into to a fog of confusion. His words to me were poignant and regretful, and they lingered like fuzz collecting on the back of my tongue after a long night of drinking, which no amount of scraping seemed to remove. And along with the memories came the unmistakably mordant tang of remorse, equally unavoidable.

  I’ve made mistakes.

  Missing Juan’s feelings for me was a big one.

  I’d barely caught my breath when FatBoy appeared.

  He’d come fully prepared to define and terminate the shortest relationship of my life with a speech that underscored my oblivious nature and whose efficient delivery gave me a case of emotional whiplash. FatBoy’s surrender and retreat from the field of love ruined me.

  And saved me.

  Because when he shut the door in my face, he broke my heart—an impossible feat, I would have said, if you’d asked me a split-second before.

  It sent me running after him, prepared to beg, beg for the chance I never realized I had or wanted. And when I followed, reaching him in the middle of my bar late on that Valentine’s night, he gave me just that and more with his kiss.

  Thinking about that kiss sent sweet heat down my cock.

  At the time, I’d been thrown off kilter by the attention, the affection, and the intensity of emotion that FatBoy poured into it. The memory alone made me painfully aware that the promise of his kiss remained unfulfilled—no matter how hard we tried, circumstance had prevented us from moving beyond that night.

  And it would remain that way for at least another day.

  I couldn’t bite back a groan of frustration.

  Chuckling, FatBoy pulled me in for a kiss. And I went with it—god help me, I did. Just one more kiss before I broke the bad news. Again.

  “Can’t.” Sliding my head under his chin, I burrowed in, trying to avoid…

  “Nicky…nooo,” FatBoy moaned, clutching me closer to his chest. I could tell in a second he’d started to postulate.

  Wrapping a hand around a hank of my hair, he began irresistibly pulling until he could look me in the eyes. The disappointment I saw when I looked back was almost enough to kill me. I wanted to snuggle back in and pretend that I hadn’t fucked-up our plans, that the silent accusation wasn’t true, but I’d been alone a lot longer than I’d been in whatever this was, with FatBoy. My fight or flight instincts were firmly stuck on fight and had been since I was fifteen when I learned that the old saying “the best defense is a good offense” was right.

  “Christine went home sick after lunch so I have to close tonight.”

  I watched as disappointment morphed into concern—one of FatBoy’s worst qualities is his empathy. I wanted to stomp that misdirected impulse out immediately—Christine was the villain in this particular play.

  I moved back in and FatBoy, always handsy when we’re alone, slid his large palm up my neck to cup my cheek, while the other hand found another one farther south.

  I ignored the caress and barreled on.

  “Oh, no—that fucking bitch ran to Blake after lunch service, pretending to have a migraine just so I’d get stuck here tonight, ruining all our plans!” I jerked away and began pacing back and forth next to the cases of Dos Equis. To my ears, I sounded whiny and unconvincing and just a tiny bit paranoid. I tried again. “You should have heard her today. She’s clearly off whatever meds are keeping her sane. What a class-A c—”

  “Nick!” I stuttered to a stop. FatBoy’s mood no longer had the generalized feel of regret for the loss of our first mutual night off in weeks, turning instead to suspicion, aimed squarely at me.

  “What?”

  Squinting, I tried reading the look he was giving me. The pinched mouth wasn’t a good sign, though it still couldn’t prevent those full lips from looking ripe and delectable. If I kept my focus on the bottom one, I could probably ignore the rest, which at last glance included a furrowed brow and slitty-eyed displeasure.

  Usually when I dreamed of FatBoy, his face was a little more Daniel Craig and a lot less Miss Marple. That visual made me shudder, which seemed to crush whatever restraint FatBoy had going for him.

  “God, Nicky! You couldn’t keep your damn mouth shut for five minutes with her, could you? She winds your crank every single chance she gets, and you still fall for it. I can’t believe it—no, wait, I can. It’s classic Nick Valentine. Sometimes I find it incredible that you’re twenty-five, and not twelve!”

  He huffed his breath in frustration, closing his eyes, as if willing me to disappear.

  Well, that was a low blow.

  “Fuck, Davis! Lucky for you, I’m not. There are laws against sleeping with minors!”

  The resigned FatBoy was preferable to the enraged blue lasering into my skull. I hadn’t seen him furious very often, and he wasn’t quite there yet—but he was definitely walking the line from pissed to pissed-off in a matter of seconds.

  “I’d have to be actually fucking you, Nick, for that to be a problem!”

  I was not in the mood. Everything FatBoy was accusing me of was already circling my brain. I couldn’t believe how stupid I’d been, but having my supposed boyfriend rub it in wasn’t helping.

  “You think I asked for this? That I wanted to cancel our first night off together since Valentine’s Day??? Maybe if you weren’t still in the closet at work, we’d actually have a chance to see each other a little more and then Christine would stop taunting me every five seconds that I’m in love with a straight man!�
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  FatBoy jerked back, but I filled the space forming between us before he could escape, continuing my attack.

  “Don’t you think I see her flirting with you every chance she gets? Hanging on you? Asking for rides when I’m stuck at the bar? I can assure you, she makes damn sure I’m watching when she does it. But I don’t see you shooting her down!”

  FatBoy lost all color in his face. The yellow light falling across his skin was turning it a shade of pale cream, the kind you see in early spring after the cows have been at the new grass. The pallor made the scruff on his cheeks turn the color of old bronze, and the stillness that fell over us aided the illusion that FatBoy had turned, if not to stone, then to some other piece of ancient metal statuary.

  For the first time since we started this dance together, whatever he was thinking was now hidden from me.

  I wouldn’t let words of apology pass my lips as I watched him go. The door shutting quietly behind him was an uncomfortable echo of the past.

  Pulling the chain, I let darkness wrap around me until I found my equilibrium.

  Eventually, I went back to work, trying not to wonder whether I’d still have a boyfriend by the time my shift was done.

  * * * * *

  I calculated the time it would take FatBoy to drive to Knoxville—three and a half hours if he kept to the speed limit, maybe less if he watched the speed traps and was pissed enough to lose some of his famous control.

  I waited four before I stopped waiting for the familiar buzz in my pocket.

  Pulling out my phone, I scrolled through a dearth of voicemail, texts, and emails from the man, and their absence spoke volumes about how much I’d fucked this up. FatBoy was the great communicator in our relationship. He was the patient one, the indulgent one, the kind one.

  Two hours ago, I’d have bet any amount of money, once he hit the city limits of his alma mater, he’d pull into his favorite coffee bar and send me a text letting me know that he’d arrived safe and sound. The fact that he was still so… whatever he was with me, anything that had dropkicked his deeply ingrained manners didn’t bode well. I felt like I was in the dock awaiting sentencing.