6 Days to Get Lucky

by L E Franks

  Full-frontal projectile vomiting.

  Courtesy of Johnny Walker Black and god knows what else.

  FatBoy groaned, belatedly lowering the window so he could spew down the side of the truck and then again on my floor mats and the legs of his jeans.

  I was startled out of my daze by a knock on the window. I’d forgotten all about the band. It was the reedy rocker, Sean. I could see he was trying hard not to cackle in my face.

  “Oh, right-o! Thanks for the ride! Weel just leave ya for now—see you on the morrow!”

  Still in shock, sitting with a lap full of bile and half-digested alcohol, I watched them wave, hardly a stagger between them, and wondered how much of their behavior back of the bar was real, and how much was farce.

  “Feel better?” I really meant that sincerely. FatBoy just groaned and tilted his head back on the seat.

  The smell was overwhelming. I was gagging and my stomach heaved a little in sympathy, but there wasn’t much I could do. Like every little boy who dreamed of being a scout but whose mother didn’t let him, I had my own emergency kit stowed behind my bench seat.

  I tugged out an old beach towel and a bottle of water without disturbing FatBoy and went around the truck, sucking in the fresh air of the Tennessee predawn, taking my time in reaching him. He’d fallen asleep, and I tried hard not to resent this.

  Here we were again.

  I wiped him off the best I could, shook him awake long enough for him to swish some water and rinse his mouth before I made him guzzle the rest, and tossed the mats in the back. There wasn’t much hope for my T-shirt, so I used the clean parts to wipe myself down. And found myself heading back out of town toward FatBoy’s cabin.

  At least Cam could get him in a shower and into some clean clothes while I hit the 24-hour coin carwash and laundromat.

  With any luck, I’d be home in time to hear my alarm go off.

  Chapter Five

  Friday March 15

  I felt his hand settle in the hollow made by my neck and shoulder as I lay on my side, his thumb stroking the base of my skull, his forefinger slowly running up and down my naked spine. I finally had him here, in my bed. The teasing play of his whorled flesh against my back morphed into seduction—the one finger becoming the whole of his hand petting down the length of my side, lingering to cup my buttock before slipping around to grip my cock. I felt a flush burn away at my skin, a shyness creeping over me so I turned, seeking my lover’s mouth with mine.

  I slept through my first three alarms and sixteen texts from FatBoy:

  FB: Please tell me this was just a dream

  FB: I’m so sorry

  FB: I can’t believe I drank that much

  FB: Let me make it up to you

  Spin. Rinse. Repeat.

  Just like my laundry. Well, it needed to be done. The fact that I had to streak bare-ass naked to my front door at five a.m. because everything I had with me was saturated in puke was just the catalyst.

  FB: Did you make it home okay?

  FB: Are you mad?

  FB: Cam said you were mad

  FB: Call me when you get this

  Spin. Rinse. Repeat.

  I could barely keep my eyes open, standing under the shower, thinking about FatBoy hiding from everyone he knew. Thinking about Blake and his definition of love, living under the thumb of two women. Thinking about Juan and his hopes and dreams for a happily ever after.

  FB: Fuck, please call

  FB: I’m so very sorry, Nicky.

  FB: I don’t know what got into me.

  FB: Fuck, cher

  Spin. Rinse. Repeat.

  I thought about my lousy mother. I thought about being thirteen and hearing the screen door slam behind her as she left us for the first and last time. And FatBoy’s lousy father, how he still controlled him from afar. I didn’t blame FatBoy for his choices; I just didn’t know if I could live with them.

  FB: Please Nicky

  FB: Please

  FB: Please

  FB: Please

  I turned off my phone and folded towels until there was only enough time to grab a burger before work.

  * * * * *

  I ducked in the back entrance of Frisson, slinking through the kitchen without stopping to talk, just grabbing the invoice from the morning’s delivery off my desk before heading straight to the cold room, to restock. Or hide.

  I wasn’t proud of my behavior. If I wasn’t such an ass, I would have called him back. Not that I knew what to say…

  I put it out of my mind and went back to rearranging booze on the deck of the Titanic—or whatever that saying was.

  I pulled a dusty bottle of Chambord from a dark corner of the shelf, cleaning it with the hem of my T-shirt while considering all the drinks I could make with it. Maybe some riff on a margarita, with jalapenos muddled along with fresh lime juice, or something mundane but beautiful, like a raspberry martini.

  I should have done that for Valentine’s Day.

  I set the bottle aside and made a notation on my inventory sheet to look at adding it to our specials for summer and moved on, trying to ignore the reminder of the horror show that was my life.

  “Are you ever going to talk to me again?” The cool Southern drawl that I’d come to crave had me jumping out of my socks.

  “Goddammit! Why do you always sneak up on me in here?” FatBoy was leaning in the open doorway, letting all the cold air out.

  “If you’re here to bend me over and fuck me before my shift, I have five minutes. Otherwise, I’m in no mood.”

  “I’m not sneaking. You just have your head stuc—”

  “Hey now!” I dared him to finish that sentence.

  “—k in the clouds,” he amended, smiling at me. Damn him.

  He was still beautiful, despite the dark shadows under his blue eyes. But in his sharp suit and tie, dressed for a night at work, the hangover wasn’t obvious unless you knew him.

  “Better,” I grunted. Grudging was the best I had for him right now.

  I turned my back on him. The shelves didn’t judge me when I lied to myself, and I couldn’t stay detached if I spent another second under that gaze. Instead, I picked up another orphan distillation, shoved behind a half dozen bottles of Stoli. It was a bottle of White Rooster Rum from a trip I’d taken to Guatemala.

  I fingered the label. Not sure what to make of us anymore—FatBoy and I. Not that we had much of an us. Even before last night. In fact, I owed last night a big, fat thank you for pointing that out to me. Maybe I should take a hint and save us both the heartache—and in FatBoy’s case, the headache—of a repeat. He obviously couldn’t bear to be seen hanging out with such a flaming qu—

  “Don’t!”

  I heard the door shut with a snap that mirrored his word, and I felt his hands wrap around my shoulders, pulling me back against his chest.

  “Don’t,” he repeated more softly, moving a hand to stroke my cheek with his thumb. “I know you, Nick. Don’t let the demons in your head destroy what’s in your heart.” He wrapped the other arm around me to keep me in place, nestled against him. “God, what I wouldn’t give to just fuck this out of you.” The thumb moved off my face and joined the rest of the hand on a slow march south. “But as much as we both could use the release, I don’t think it would be healthy for our relationship in the long run.”

  “We have a long run? I didn’t think there was even enough to fall under the heading of a ‘short run’.”

  FatBoy’s hand stalled at my navel. I felt his forefinger make slow circuits through my shirt. “I’m plannin’ on it, cher—now if I can just get you to forgive me for last night…” He was on the move again, working his way under the waistband of my jeans, his mouth grazing along my neck.

  “Keep going, and I’ll—”

  The door banged open once again, and feeling FatBoy freeze was just another kick in the nuts. I was lucky I didn’t lose them with the speed he yanked his hand out of my pants and leapt back in panic. Nerves screaming and p
ride smarting, just a bit, I whirled around to confront our intruder.

  Of course.

  Juan.

  “God. Damn. It!” I threw up my hands. “It’s like the fuckin’ Dead Zone in here.” I dropped down to sit on the stacked cases of beer my head bowed in defeat.

  “You know,” I continued. “I used to have sex. Lots and lots of really good sex… in this very room.” I glanced up at them. “You both know that. You were there. But lately…” I trailed off.

  FatBoy appeared sheepish, slanting wary looks at Juan, while Juan just rolled his eyes.

  “I thought I’d do everybody a favor and keep Blake in his office.” Juan stared at FatBoy pointedly, and he had the grace to flush. A month ago, it was FatBoy shielding our activities from the boss’s eyes.

  I pantomimed the ‘let’s move it along’ gesture, and Juan continued. “Natalie wants everyone to wear the green ties tonight for the band—”

  “No. Anything else?” My neck was getting a crick from looking up at him. With Juan, there was always something else.

  “Um… Blake wants Davis to talk to him about security for the band.”

  “The band needs security?” I was in upside-down world. “I would have bet money that it was the liquor in this establishment that needed protection from them.”

  FatBoy flushed and Juan looked suddenly very interested in the shipment of limes. I waved my hand, dismissing him.

  FatBoy was still standing as though someone had cast his feet in cement.

  “What?” I was cranky.

  “Juan didn’t seem surprised by what he saw….”

  It took me a moment to realize that FatBoy had formally outed himself.

  “Oh, that. Yeah… nope. Juan already knew. And by the way, if you hurt me, he’s going to kick your ass, so you might want to pencil that in, since I think making me spend two hours scrubbing the smell of your puke out of my upholstery qualifies.”

  “I said I was so—”

  I stood quickly and covered his mouth with my hand so I didn’t have to listen to it in person. Reading through all his texts was bad enough; I didn’t need the audio version as well.

  “For the record, I think the kitchen staff also knows, though that’s just speculation.”

  “That I’m gay? Brilliant.” He banged his head against the doorframe in frustration.

  “Don’t get your panties in a twist. Juan is in the same boat as you, and Marco and Sal would never dream of telling. The rest of the staff doesn’t care, and those that might—well, none of them run in the same social circles as your father, so stop whining.”

  I snagged my clipboard and pushed past him out the door, thinking about my life.

  Spin. Rinse. Repeat…

  Life could be like that. Though as long as it worked for the good as well as the bad… maybe I could live with it—

  Not that I have any choice.

  I thought about the look on Juan’s face after he caught us. Priceless.

  And FatBoy’s…

  I barked a laugh, almost to the end of the hall when FatBoy called out, “Real mature, Nicky! Real mature.”

  I was still grinning by the time I hit the locker room to change.

  Spin. Rinse. Repeat.

  * * * * *

  I loved Friday nights. The end of week energy was enough to suck some of the lethargy away that was still plaguing me. The hurling team was back and so was I—spending more time behind the tap than usual. I topped off the fifth pint of stout in a row, when Corwyn’s ‘little’ teammate Rory moved into my line of sight, his older brother—Mickey? Mikey?—tagging along behind.

  They’d kept a low profile with me since their altercation earlier in the week—I tried not to hold onto a grudge, but they were at the root of the last bar fight and I wasn’t interested in another battle with the potential to ruin the current peace holding between FatBoy and myself. That said, I’ve often been accused many times of being my own worst enemy and I was still severely sleep deprived. I gave a mental shrug and soldiered on.

  “Hey, Rory… Mikey…” Okay, maybe I was feeling a little feisty.

  The older man glowered, correcting me in an accent so thick it had the same effect as spreading peanut butter on tissue paper—a dubious enterprise at best and one destined for failure as I still couldn’t understand a word he said, so I ignored him.

  Despite his size, Rory was still cute as a button and had a just brushed puppy look that made it impossible not to ogle him a little. So I did. His brother wasn’t any happier by that, and given the hissing noises now emanating from him, he’d either sprung a leak or was sporting a serpent in his pocket.

  It hurt not to ask which so I gave my attention back to Little Red instead. “What can I get ya? I’ve got some fresh lemonade in the back… the kitchen makes a hell of a sweet tea, and no trip South is complete without a taste.” I cut myself short before offering my callow friend a glass of milk.

  The offer must have been splashed across my face anyway since I heard, “You’re a wee bit of shite, aren’t ya, boy-o?” I let my lip curl just a bit and swung my gaze over to Rory’s fraternal sentinel. Mickey or Mikey looked ready to reach across the bar top and crush me with a fist like a plate. The man had moved on from wanting a Guinness and gone straight to blood. Mine.

  This told me two things: first, I must have a terrible poker face when fatigued, which also explained the many late night offers to play for tips after closing; and second, this man had two last nerves and I’d managed to find them both in under a minute—a new, personal best.

  I’d have to make a note of it if I lived through the day.

  I might be crap at hiding my thoughts on two hours of sleep, but that didn’t make me stupid. As long as I kept Rory happy, the Rottweiler he rode in on would stay chained. That didn’t mean I had any more self-control than usual… less in fact.

  I slid the pint of Guinness over to him with a cock of my brow in challenge. The last thing the boy wanted was the brew—I could see it in the slight grimace he made—while the twist of a lush pink lip told me that he felt he should.

  His pale freckled hand hovered over the caramel foam topping the glass, hesitating, and he threw a furtive glance over one finely muscled shoulder at his big brother—the anxious, naked desire to please the man was annoying.

  I sighed—I couldn’t help myself—and moved the pint from under Rory’s hand over to his brother instead.

  I really liked the kid, and he’d do well if he followed his own heart and not just his brother’s opinions. But then again, what did I know? I didn’t have an older brother dogging my heels or family to give me crap or keep me on the straight and narrow. Not like that would work… not since I was a kid.

  “What’ll it be, Rory?” This time I dialed my snark back a little, determined to stay professional.

  “Do ya still have some of that pear stuff from the other day? I’d like ta try that.” I could honestly say I felt something like pride swell in me. I was too exhausted not to show it, and Rory seemed to glow, absorbing all the light that was leaching out of his brother at the same rate. Brothers. I didn’t have one, but watching these two in action, I imagined they were a giant pain in the ass.

  Mickey swigged down half his stout and slammed it on the bar top. Leaning into his little brother, he gave him an elbow, growling under a hoppy breath, “Naí."

  The single word breathed through clenched Gaelic teeth seemed to light a fire in the kid, given the deep vermillion his ears turned in the afternoon light.

  “Shove off, Mick. Go feck with someun else.” Rory threw his shoulders back and made the most of the few inches he had on his brother. It was an Irish standoff for the space of two heartbeats before Mickey made up his mind.

  He drained his glass. “Fine.”

  We both watched him plow his way through teammates and suits alike until he settled at a row of tables carelessly shoved together in the back of the bar. Simone was going to lop off their balls for rearranging her section wi
thout supervision. I hoped heavy tipping was a tradition in Ireland. It was their only hope of leaving ‘intact’.

  “So…?” I could sleep standing up. If he waited long enough to make up his mind, I just might prove it to him.

  “Pear Cider,” Rory ordered. He really was very cute and just begging to be propped up on someone’s bed like a stuffed animal.

  The cider came with a gold metal cage clamping its cork in place, like a bottle of champagne. I stared into his blue eyes, untwisting the wire, each turn seemed to dig at his nerves. You’d think he was a Victorian virgin awaiting a deflowering.

  Maybe he was.

  Without his brother to shore him up, he was alone with me. His earlier flirting disaster must be haunting him, the blush a betrayal shining brightly across prominent cheekbones, the blood pumping through the vessels of his skin, filling in the spaces between his freckles nicely.

  He wasn’t my type in any stretch of the imagination, but I could see his appeal. Farm fresh, I think they call it—and in Rory’s case, it might even be true. Which could explain his brother’s overprotective nature.

  He flinched as I popped his cork with my thumb.

  It discharged, not with the unharnessed power reminiscent of a brace of wild stallions—hallmark of a good bottle of Dom, where the violent release is only brought to rein by an experienced hand—but with all the enthusiasm expressed in the childish joy of a popgun. It was fitting actually.

  Rory made a quick grab for the bottle, tossing a tenner onto the bar and rabbiting away before I had a chance to reach for a glass. I took a moment to watch him retreat while I breathed in the lingering essence of pear. A shame really, the cider had such a delicate color to it, almost like the glow from the light of a late winter’s afternoon, reflecting on water.

  I took a final sniff of the cork before tossing it over my shoulder, moving to pull the next draught.