6 Days to Get Lucky

by L E Franks

  I noticed he was wearing his favorite orange T-shirt, and it brought to mind the first day we’d spent together in my loft. It was a day filled with firsts: the first time I really looked at him and saw the man, his faded Tennessee Volunteers T-shirt stretching across his impossibly broad chest; the first time he revealed the kindness and affection he usually hid from me behind his teasing. Even his bizarre foreplay consisting of cleanser and laundry detergent and my very dirty home was a first.

  If I’d been honest with myself then, we wouldn’t be here now. I would have seen then what apparently everyone else did when they looked at FatBoy… no—at Davis. I would have recognized how truly special the man was and grabbed him with both hands when I had the chance.

  I looked up, prepared to see his anger, but what was written across his face, and reflected in his blue eyes, nearly drove me to my knees.

  Sadness. Regret. Disappointment.

  Resolve.

  Davis had been offering me the world, patiently waiting for me to grow up, and I’d blown it—I was afraid it was too late—that I was too late.

  Emerald and Blake were wrong. I wasn’t worthy of love, wasn’t capable of it.

  I’d managed in the course of three days to ruin my last chance and hurt the only good man I’d ever cared about without a second thought. How was that love?

  Christine had my number. All I was good for was a quick trick in the backroom. I was crazy to think I deserved anything else.

  Closing my eyes, I stood before him like the condemned, awaiting final judgment, the one that would end us forever and send me back to where a guy like me belonged.

  Alone.

  I swallowed hard and finally answered him.

  “But I am? The, uh… ‘threat’…? The problem?”

  I stopped. My voice was breaking along with my heart, and I was surprised Davis couldn’t hear it—the sound of it cracking was roaring in my ears.

  But maybe he did hear it, because I felt him move closer, almost touching me, and the relief was immense.

  I sighed.

  Warm hands cupped my face, and his lips pressed against my eyelids, first one and then the other, tenderly kissing away the wetness clinging to my lashes.

  “Ah… Nicky….”

  I folded. Just resting my forehead against his sternum brought comfort, but it was the arms now enfolding me that brought me peace.

  Fuck, I was such a girl.

  * * * * *

  I sat in the front seat of his truck, fingers gripping the edge, digging deep into the matted sheepskin cover as we drove through the morning sunshine—heading to his place. With any luck, I could extend it to my place after work, when I wrangled another ride from him to get my truck.

  The university campus was a blur of green out the corner of my eye as we drove past.

  I’d never been.

  I glanced over at the man.

  FatBoy absolutely filled the cab. Sunlight washed one cheek, highlighting the fine bristles of morning beard sprinkled across his strong jaw. His aristocratic profile softened by the slight curve of a full bottom lip—his body language telegraphing ‘at ease’ to even the most clueless observer… which was usually me.

  Not that I’ve had much chance to get close.

  Still… it was another indicator that something was off-kilter between us… or more accurately, with me. I’d never noticed the lack, and FatBoy—no, Davis—had never suggested bringing me home, not that I could recall, which was a little weird since we’d been dancing around each other for the last few weeks. It would’ve seemed like a natural option for privacy… certainly a factor to consider. But he hadn’t.

  Why is that?

  Maybe it was me.

  Maybe I’d never given off a vibe that showed I was interested enough to go. My loft was only a few blocks away from Frisson—so close that it seemed ridiculous to go anywhere else after closing, not that we’d gone there either. But the fact that he’d never invited me…

  I looked over at him again.

  Watching his hand flex around the leather-wrapped steering wheel as he shifted in his seat, his left hand resting on his thigh, forefinger tapping a rhythm in time to a song playing silently in his head—or maybe it was a subconscious S-O-S drummed in Morse code against his faded denim.

  This man was different from the collected, stoic, unmovable force that stood sentinel over us at the bar. Different from the man dressed in an immaculate tailored jacket. Different from the cocky alpha-male who’d taken over my loft, ordering me around like a drill sergeant—mocking me as I stood stripped literally naked before him. Different, even, from the suitor who came to me in supplication, offering me his promise of something more along with a plate of pancakes and bacon, and a single red rose.

  “Are you married?” I stared straight ahead, watching the road disappear under us, dumbfounded that I’d spoken the words out loud.

  “Pardon?” God, I could feel blue lasers burrowing through the side of my skull, trying to burn their way into my head. I’d let him do it, if I could—whatever was rolling around in there seemed to have a life of its own, working its way around the filters I kept in place, and I wanted it out before I said anything else I’d regret.

  “Um, you’ve never invited me to your home before. I was just trying to figure out why, I guess…”

  I counted five mailboxes before FatBoy did more than breathe evenly. He continued to drive the speed limit with such intention and control that I was sure he could jump out of the cab and carry the truck on his shoulders and not slow down—so great was the energy he required not to answer me.

  I was afraid to look at him. Opening my mouth was flat-out off the table—I wasn’t to be trusted at the moment. When he finally spoke, my name stabbed at me, like a spear running me through, pinning me to my seat with a blow straight to my gut.

  “Nick. What about me makes you believe that I am a liar and a cheat?”

  Well shit.

  “This is one of those ‘have you stopped beating your wife’ questions, isn’t it?”

  “No, not really. No. Apparently, somewhere in your little squirrel brain, you’ve run across a rotten nut or two and it’s making you crazy.”

  FatBoy paused. Gathering himself in preparation for the onslaught he was about to heap upon me, I figured, because when he resumed, it was like the winds of hell were whipping around his words—fire and ice together—heating me with his indignation, freezing my guts in shame.

  “I want you to take a minute and actually use whatever God-given faculties you still possess after the no doubt debauched existence you’ve led to date that has skewed your perspective, and fuckin’ think, Nicky. Fucking use your goddamned head for something other than a vehicle for stylin’ products. I’m so pissed right now.”

  He paused, and in the void I tried to steal myself.

  “Do you have so little faith in me?” FatBoy’s voice broke at the end, and I chanced a quick look at him, at the white knuckling, at his rigid frame.

  He was barely keeping an eye on his driving, his focus lasering me. He looked shocked and angry. Twice in once morning—I was losing my grip on what I was doing—on what I wanted to be doing versus what I should be doing.

  “No! That’s not—I didn’t mean… Shit—just… why haven’t you taken me home before now?”

  Whatever he was expecting, it obviously wasn’t that. I caught a flash of ocean blue eyes, wide and bright before darkness settled in them again. He pulled over, putting the truck in park. He turned to me, his low voice rumbling out, and I watched the emotions screening across his face as he spoke.

  “I tried to take you home with me the other day, but we both saw how well that turned out. My grandmother’s home is my home. The only place I’ve ever truly felt unconditional love has been in her presence. When I went to UT, I moved out of the dorms straight into her guest room—I got such shit from the guys on the team, but I didn’t care—every second I spent with her was like a gift from above. I was bringing
you home—it’s not my fault you couldn’t see your way through to come with me.

  “This place here? It’s a rental with a spare bedroom haunted by the same asshole cousin who hurt you—so you think I want to share that with you when every minute I have you alone is rare and treasured?

  “Besides, I love your place—I love the light, I love that the parts of you that you try so hard to keep hidden from the world are lying out in the open for anyone to see, and I’m one of the few who has. And I love that couch, I surely do.

  “If I could bronze that couch, bronze that day when I was lying on it and you walked out—naked as the day you were born, stiff as iron, and looking soft and delicious as a cream cake…

  “I fell for you hard that day, Nicky. Hard.

  “Hearing you think I’m the kind of man who would marry a woman and then hide you away on the down-low—that’s just more than wrong—it’s… hurtful. I thought you knew me better than that…”

  I tried not to let his words swamp me, the emotion spinning me like a leaf caught in an eddy, threatening to pull me under. I righted myself, considering him.

  He sat, stiff on the seat next to me: fearless and unblinking as he waited for me to respond with a defense—as if I could.

  All I managed was a whisper, but my words sounded loud enough to shatter the windshield.

  “It’s kind of like that, though… don’tcha think?”

  “Because I’m not out,” FatBoy replied, his voice flat.

  “Yes…”

  “And?” His question glittered like a diamond, every facet representing another possible meaning, each capable of cutting through the barriers we’d been hiding behind, or just cutting us.

  I tried again. “You can’t have it both ways.”

  “It?”

  “Me. You’re operating under a double standard, and it’s not fair. You’re expecting me to step into the closet with you. You’re jealous of Corwyn, pissed by Emerald and Blake trying to set me up. You’re always looking at Juan like I’m gonna drag him off to the backroom, when all I want is to have you—”

  “You think I’ll deny any of that? It’s true. I hate when men like Corwyn think they can take liberties. I really hate when you don’t put them in their place.”

  “You’re the one who’s cracked! It’s my fuckin’ job to be nice to the damned customers!”

  “Not that damned nice!”

  I’d never heard FatBoy raise his voice before or show any sign of agitation—not even at the bar when he was rousting a couple of rowdy asshats—and he was doing both, now. He was spectacular and completely out of line.

  “Well, until you’re ready to stand up and speak for me, you really don’t have a say. What am I supposed to do? Wear a veil? Make up an invisible boyfriend?” I huffed out my frustration. “It’d be just the same as you pretending you’re not gay!”

  FatBoy smirked at me, and I hoped to hell he hadn’t gotten distracted from the fine points I’d been making by visions of me in a burqa.

  “So you want your An Officer and a Gentleman moment?” He was smiling, and there was something in his manner that made me feel like a child.

  “What the hell does that even mean?” I snapped, annoyed that we were losing the thread of the argument. I suspected it was intentional. I couldn’t out debate FatBoy. He was by far the smarter of the two of us, but he had the most to lose given the direction our fight had taken. He was also used to playing defense, and I had the strongest sensation that he’d just done an end run around me.

  “Never mind, just an old movie reference—what I meant was… you’re waiting for me to publicly claim you.” There was no mistaking the alpha-maleness permeating the air.

  Smug bastard.

  “Yes… I mean—no.”

  “No?” This time when I looked at FatBoy, he couldn’t hide his surprise.

  “I mean yes, theoretically, but not until you’re ready to. I’m not asking you to step out of whatever mothballed space you’ve locked yourself into just to appease me…” I paused, trying to remove the sting from my words.

  There were already enough hurt feelings between us, and my habit of using snarky humor to get me out of tight situations wasn’t helping, no matter how much he currently deserved it. I had to remind myself that FatBoy was the prize, not the enemy. I’d be lucky if we moved forward together after the day we’d been having, and it was early yet.

  I tried again, placating. “I get it—I really do, I just don’t understand why you think you’d need to—you’ve never said…

  “I mean, you can see that no one at Frisson cares that I’m gay. I don’t advertise it in the bar, but that’s mostly practical—I enjoy my tips, and I don’t hate women… just the thought of touching one of them naked. But in general, I don’t rub it in anyone’s face, and they leave me pretty much alone.

  “So no. I don’t understand why you’re not out at work. If you were, I wouldn’t have to fend off Christine, Emmy, and Blake. I wouldn’t be pissing you off every three minutes when someone starts hitting on me or mucking around in my private life. I wouldn’t have to think up a reason why my vacation request coincidentally matches up with yours…”

  FatBoy nodded, and I couldn’t help needling him just a little.

  “You do realize that if I can’t convince Emmy I’m genuinely not interested in being set up, I might find myself married to some nice Brazilian-Boy-Toy-Cousin by the end of the year…”

  He finally laughed, and relief flooded me.

  FatBoy quirked a smile. “I can’t help it… but it’s not really funny. I wouldn’t put it past Emerald to have that as her end game. I know Blake is always afraid of her when she schemes so I’m surprised he put her up to this.”

  “Blake likes me. He saw how bummed I was, stuck in the bar by myself. He chocked it up to a lack of romance. Ironically, he was right, just for all the wrong reasons. I seem to be having no trouble cock-blocking myself.”

  FatBoy snorted, reaching across the console to finally touch me. He held my hand in his warm grip, threading his fingers through mine, giving it a little squeeze.

  “Have I ever told you about my daddy?” His words flowed like honey across a hot biscuit, his accent deep as his roots in the South. I shook my head.

  “Well then, this isn’t a conversation I want to have sitting in front of the Tastee-Freez… let’s go somewhere—” He searched my face for something… reassurance maybe, before continuing. “Nicky, come home with me? I think I have some coffee somewhere. It’s too early for bourbon, though unlikely that Cameron’s left us any liquor, I could stop for some…”

  His grappling for words was so unlike him. Even turned toward me in the front seat of his cab, wearing nothing more remarkable than his Henley and an old pair of jeans, FatBoy screamed gentleman of the Old South rather than stoic enforcer. In another era, he’d be sitting on my porch, twisting a straw boater in his hands, courting me under the watchful gaze of my mother.

  I snorted.

  In another era, that would make me a girl and my mother—a mother, neither happening in this lifetime.

  “Home or the place that houses Cameron’s sweaty socks?” I teased, squeezing his hand. “Both?”

  The clouds lifted from his eyes, and all I saw in their depths was the shimmering blue of a deep Caribbean Sea, dappled with the day’s first rays breaching the horizon.

  I’d follow that look anywhere, even if it meant a visit with Cameron’s dirty laundry.

  * * * * *

  “Cam, you home?” FatBoy shouted through the open door while I stood, one foot on his covered porch, mouth agape if the drool pooling at the corner of my lips was an indication. When FatBoy talked about his place, I had visions of one of the many plain vanilla ranch homes littering the landscape with their off-white aluminum siding and concrete stoops. This… this place was not that.

  We’d driven about ten minutes out of town, past the strip malls and the rural businesses selling industrial-size tires and aluminum sheds
until, finally, he turned left through a stand of ash and dogwood. The gravel road wound its way through the trees until one last bend revealed a log cabin set back from a grassy yard, the lawn broken here and there by paving stones and flower beds.

  It reminded me so much of the Lincoln Logs I’d played with as a child—its steep-pitched roofline dipping low over a modest porch, stretching all the way across the front of the red-painted logs—that I glanced around for signs of the giant hand that had surely assembled it.

  I stifled my laugh at the look FatBoy threw over his shoulder at me and followed him inside.

  * * * * *

  “You have your own loft!” I stepped over a pile of shoes, abandoned on the slate tiles of the entry, and looked into a great room dominated by a suspended staircase wrapping around a three-cornered stone fireplace standing at the apex of the cabin. From below, I could see the open loft dominated by what appeared to be a king-size platform bed.

  “Your room?” I pointed as I toed off my running shoes. I was itching to race upstairs and jump on it.

  “When I lived alone. I recently moved to the second bedroom downstairs—with Cam around, privacy isn’t what it used to be... that boy has the sense of a mule and the respect for boundaries of a goat. If I hadn’t promised my gran that I’d watch over the idiot, I’da booted him the second he stepped into the bar…”

  He looked unsettled so I waved him off—we’d both been there for Hurricane Cameron, blowing through my life, upending any sense of peace and security that I still held. He’d also been the catalyst to get FatBoy to make his grand romantic gesture to me… so I couldn’t really hate the little shit. Much. I was just happy he was out.

  “There’s not much to see…” FatBoy trailed off as I continued to case the room, picking knickknacks off the shelves—if college football memorabilia could fit in that category. I held up a signed football for FatBoy to see and raised a brow in question.

  “Game ball, final homestand, senior year. We won.”

  “I gathered. Makes a better trophy than one from the last game ya got skunked at.” I grinned at his frown.