6 Days to Get Lucky

by L E Franks

  “Would he just leave and go back to the hotel?” I asked. From my position behind the bar, I tried to spot his fiery red head.

  The three stared at me like I had something awful hanging from my nostril.

  “It’s only half eight—he won’t be leaving a pub for hours yet! ’Sides, he wanted to stay for the band.” Corwyn drained his glass and looked expectantly in my direction. I took his hint and pulled him another draught. Mickey didn’t look reassured. He moved, leaning away from his teammates as if to go and search some more in the crowd when Liam yanked him close, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, eclipsing his face.

  “He’s prolly off in a corner with some Colleen. Let loose of his leading strings, Mick, he’ll turn up.” Liam confiscated the fresh pint intended for Corwyn, pressing it into Mickey’s hand. “Speaking of birds…” He jerked a thumb over to a herd of gym bunnies pressed together in the doorway. The women, all tanned and teased and sporting variations of lime green spandex tube dresses, were busy scanning the crowd like it was a free appetizer bar at happy hour.

  I shuddered.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I thought I saw a flame of red bobbing in and out of the crowd, being stalked by a familiar flash of blond curls. It couldn’t be, right? I stretched for a better angle, but whoever it was had disappeared into the back.

  I thumbed on my phone and sent FatBoy a quick text.

  N: Where’s Cam?

  FB: Not his keeper.

  N: UR according to your gran

  FB: :/

  FB: Why?

  N: I think I know where he is.

  FB: Fuck.

  N: No shit.

  I did another quick scan of the bar and gave up. Cameron had barely finished upending my life a month ago. I really didn’t need to borrow trouble now.

  On the other hand…

  Rory was sweet and incredibly naïve for all his bravado on the field. Cameron would have him landed, gutted, and smoked before the first set from the Leprechauns if I didn’t intervene.

  If it was Cam.

  I did a quick gut check.

  “Get your big head out of your pants—I need two ’ritas, rocks, hold the ocean, two bottles of horse piss, and a raise.”

  “Funny, Simone. How’s it going out there?” I placed a couple of Coronas on her tray and started in on the rest of her drink order, making a mental note to have Juan refill our bottle supply.

  “I haven’t had this much labor since my son was born.”

  “If we’re not careful, we’ll have the fire marshal breathing down our necks.” I wiped off my shaker before topping off the last glass with a lime.

  “One of those margaritas is for him.” Simone rolled her eyes, and I had to laugh.

  “He’s no dummy, that boss of ours.” She disappeared into the crowd, and I assumed she was joking.

  Maybe not.

  “Fucking Blake.” I shook my head, deciding to grab Juan and make a bottle run while there was a lull.

  “Need anything?” I yelled at Christine.

  “Grey Goose, and I’ll be down a Jack in a sec.” The blonde jerked her chin to the hole in the line of premium bottles behind her.

  Everyone else was busy so I ducked under the bar at her end, nearly head-butting a group of hurlers as I came out the other side.

  A firm grip on my bicep steadied me as I straightened. It was one of their forwards. Spence maybe? How I knew his position and not his name was annoying.

  Whatever.

  I thought I’d take a chance since they’d been standing closer to where I’d seen that flash of red and blond disappear just a few moments before. “You guys see Rory around? Mick’s looking for him.” I jerked my thumb back toward the other end of the bar.

  Maybe-Not-Spence looked around me and shrugged. Apparently, Liam and Mick had disappeared during the time it had taken for me to work my way down my line of bartenders, checking in with them.

  “Rory? He was heading for the pisser awhile back. Maybe he fell asleep standin’ up again.” The other hurlers roared with laughter and went back to their drinking, unconcerned. I wasn’t sure why I was.

  I caught Juan’s eye as he was coming from the kitchen with a tray of freshly sliced citrus, and mimed a direction to follow me back to the cold room when he could. I hoped that was what I was miming and not another one of my rusty come-ons from months past. Which reminded me… I hadn’t seen FatBoy yet.

  Pausing to pull out my phone, I found myself at the entrance to our new stage and dance floor. A quick glance told me Blake’s plans weren’t totally off the mark—all the tables hugging the walls were full, spilling over with bunnies and the men who wooed them and a few lone stragglers were leaning here and there against the walls.

  Standing in the middle of dance floor was the beginnings of a mosh-pit made up of ones and twos, swaying to an invisible beat or too many beers. And as I watched, the tiny trickle from the main bar increased to a small flow of music fans arriving to claim the best spots to view the band. I checked my watch.

  The missing band.

  I sent FatBoy another text.

  N: Where R U guys? It’s almost 9

  FB: Lorcan still in bathroom

  N: ???

  N: Better be here soon

  N: Natives restless

  FB: K.

  I really hoped Blake knew what he was doing with this band thing.

  Pot of gold or crock of shit?

  I tucked my phone away, mentally giving 50/50 odds that he’d come out on top before resuming my trek down the short hall to get my booze.

  * * * * *

  I should give my gut a gold star. Or figure out a way to have it removed for all the drama it has caused in my life, getting me involved in things I have no business knowing about. It’s a pain, and right then, it was glowing white-hot.

  Like a scene from a horror flick, I heard the audience screaming in my head—don’t go down the hall—which of course I ignored, moving inexorably deeper into the gloom, until it was too late to escape.

  And I tried.

  Shifting the weight to the ball of my foot, I was preparing to pivot and run—I couldn’t save Rory from the death grip Cam had on his leaking cock, but I could save myself. I could flee and try to wipe the memory of Rory’s T-shirt rucked up under his arms, exposing his hard six-pack and the vermillion stripe of hair like a red arrow pointing to Cam’s hand. I could ignore the scatter of dark marks marring Rory’s milky white throat and pretend it never happened.

  Mickey’s bellow of rage, however, pinned me in place.

  “You fuckin’ little cunt. Get your hands off me brother!”

  Years of bartending, of catching things before they fell, honed my reflexes. I grabbed Mick, throwing him off balance before I realized what I was doing, my full weight pressed against him.

  Grunting, he fought my grip, testing me. “Whoa! Settle down—” I tried to calm him before finally, pushing him hard against the wall.

  “Mick, it’s not—” Rory, all zipped up, took a step, pleading with his older brother.

  “What the hell, Rory? Yer a poof now?” Mickey’s growl nearly deafening—I flexed my muscles, keeping him in place.

  “No—it’s not what ya think…” Rory groped for words.

  “I think you let a cocksucker strip you of your pride in front of God n’everybody. Have ya no shame?” He eased slightly, and I was about to loosen my grip when Cameron decided to open his mouth.

  “Fuck you, asshole!” He snagged Rory’s wrist, and I felt Mickey instantly recoil, like a snake preparing to strike. My arms burned with the strain of keeping him from launching at Cam’s throat.

  My hold slipped just as Juan arrived, shoving us all aside in a beeline for the blond. Juan was actually a few inches taller than Cameron, and he used them to great effect, grabbing and giving him a shake.

  “You little prick!”

  Cameron, who’d always struck me as otherworldly with his halo of white gold curls and Delft-blue eyes
, now facing Juan’s fury, shrank into almost nothing.

  “Always coming around sniffing, making trouble for Nick and Davis…” Juan had one fine-boned hand twisting Cam’s collar, threatening his air supply if he moved. “I should leave you to them—” He nodded at us, and Cam’s eyes widened.

  I glanced back at Rory’s older brother. There was death in his eyes. Before Cam could make a break for it, a vision in royal purple shoved us back a step.

  “Hey! I’m walking here!” Darrell snapped, thrusting a straight arm out to either side, sending us crashing back to clear a path for him.

  He’d lost the suit jacket and was wearing his “Down With Leprechauns’” shirt over his suit pants, the ribs of his suspenders showing through the material of his tee. He still wore his fedora, though he’d tucked a lavender feather into the ribbon—apparently purple was the color of protest—and for the first time, I noticed his natty pair of oxblood wingtips shined to a mirror gloss as he stomped on my toe.

  Following on his heels were another six members of his Fraternal Order, if the purple tees were any indication. He paused, dragging my face closer to his with his own powerful grip on my shirt, crushing the green silk.

  “Where’s the band, Nick? They were supposed to be on stage five minutes ago. I’ve got a schedule!” He waved a clipboard in my face as if I needed proof of his inconvenience, in order to conjure the missing act.

  I slapped his hand away. “Jeez, Darrell. We’re a little bus—”

  He interrupted, brusque as ever. “I don’t care about your little romper room escapades. Though—show some class, Nick, for gosh sakes, you’re like a walking cliché having orgies in the hallway.” He shook his head as if disappointed, and I felt my jaw drop a little, watching him stomp past into the men’s room, followed single file by the rest of his group.

  “It’s like watching a clown car, but in reverse, and with urinals,” I muttered. Juan glared at me, and Rory seemed amused, at least until he noticed Mickey still standing frozen in place under the hand I rested on one powerful shoulder.

  Rory jerked away from Cam, reaching his hand out to his brother who had gone deathly silent amidst the pulsing noise of the bar.

  Whatever passed between the pair was unspoken. Mickey shook his head and melted back into the chaos of the bar without a backward glance to spare his sibling, and Rory crumbled, sliding down the wall. He stayed that way, head bowed, hands folded over his lap.

  Juan yanked Cam by the arm, and they disappeared into the chaos, leaving me alone with Rory.

  I crouched next to him, feeling the stretch in my thigh muscles and the protest of my knees… I needed to get back to the gym, or take up yoga, or maybe just get some sleep occasionally because I was feeling closer to fifty than twenty-five, and there were still many hours left before St. Patrick’s Day was behind me for another year.

  “You okay?” I mentally cursed my lack of eloquence.

  His flame-colored head just shook. He gave a sharp negative jerk of his chin, and his hands flew up, covering his face as he folded. Grief. It needed no translation, and Rory’s was no exception. I squeezed his shoulder and rose.

  “Come on. You’ve gotta move, or you’re going to be trampled by a protest movement in a minute.” I glanced at the men’s room door. Tempted to see what was happening with Darrell and his pals. A number of patrons had joined them in the bathroom, and so far, no one had returned to their drinking.

  I had a momentary vision of Darrell and his gang of Little People rolling drunks and dumping their bodies in the handicapped stall for the cleaning crew to deal with later. Not that I was opposed necessarily. If they’d set up shop in there, I’d be sure to send them some business. Starting with Cam, that little bastard.

  I stood and pulled him up. Rory wouldn’t look me in the eye.

  “It’s not what you think,” he mourned, his voice rough beneath this Irish lilt.

  “What do I think?” I folded my arms across my chest and leaned a hip against the wall.

  “Ya, think I’m a queer.” His voice dropped, and he barely forced out the adjective.

  “Well, since I’m queer, I don’t have a big problem with that one way or another, beyond feeling a little insulted—”

  Rory’s eyes flashed to mine, the blue muddled with red rims. He looked horrified.

  “Nick! No, I mean… I just… For you, it’s not—but me, I can’t… Mick will never… oh, Gah! Mam will kill me…” His trail of stuttered thoughts dribbled to a halt.

  “Not literally, I hope.” I wasn’t about to take a chance that this was hyperbole generated by panic.

  “What? Oh, no… not that I wouldn’t wish it when she was done. She keeps going on with plans for me. Family. It’s big with her. She’ll be disappointed. I can’t be—I’m not, I just…”

  I smoothed a thumb across his cheek. In his fear, all the years and bravado he’d gained on the field had evaporated. He looked like a lost kid.

  “Don’ touch him, you sick fuck!” There was no restraint in the blow that sent me flying. Mickey was back, and he was done taking it easy.

  “Mick!” Rory leapt between us, looking more his old self than just a few seconds ago.

  “Christ, Nick! Can’t you keep it together for five minutes without me?” The tone was sardonic, the stance casual power, but the look he sent my way was all concern for me. It gave me a tingle to watch FatBoy in action. He dominated without touch. He cowed without force. He had Mickey backing away, dragging his brother along with him, without a single unnecessary word to the pair.

  “More drama?” He sidled closer, his suit immaculate and just a touch of green in his tie.

  “Natalie?” I asked, fingering the silk.

  “The woman is scary.” I nodded, then eased away, every beat of my heart a demand that I move closer to him.

  He seemed to know, because he gave me a small smile. He read me so easily, it seemed.

  “I take it babysitting is over?”

  I meant the band but had the sinking feeling that FatBoy had someone else in mind when he laughed. “Babysitting has only just begun. They’re holed up in Blake’s office until it’s time to go on. I thought I’d check on things while we waited.” I hoped by ‘things’ he meant me.

  FatBoy snuck a pinky to twine with mine in the gloom and gave it a little tug. “You good?”

  “Yep, just on a booze run. You?”

  It was like junior high all over again whenever I saw my crush Kyle Jensen in P.E.

  I couldn’t string two sentences together then, either.

  FatBoy quirked another smile and moved, dropping the connection between us, my pinky felt abandoned.

  Or maybe it was my heart. Either way, I waved the feeling away.

  “You might check the men’s room, I believe there is a radical organization plotting world domination in there.”

  “Really?”

  “Yup. Darrell and his band of Merry Men went in there a while ago.”

  “Ah. Well, I’ll keep an eye out for them… if I don’t get distracted.”

  “Distracted?”

  I found myself leaning forward slightly, like a flower following the sun. I seemed to do that whenever FatBoy was around.

  “Yeah, Nicky. Distracted.”

  FatBoy took a step into my personal space. Not that I minded sharing.

  We were chest to chest, a hand’s width apart, the cacophony of the bar fading to a hum. All I had to do was tilt my head and let myself fall forward just a little bit, and I’d be in the perfect position to synch our—

  “Valentine! Get your ass back on the line. We’ve got customers!” Blake’s voice rang out from behind us, and I jumped away from FatBoy like he was on fire, and vice versa.

  “Okay, I just need a few bottles,” I responded over my shoulder as FatBoy disappeared into the bathroom.

  I hoped I’d see him again, and it wasn’t a portal to another dimension, though given the expression on his face when Blake interrupted our little scene, i
t was likely he’d be hiding out in there for a while. Perhaps even joining the Fraternal Order of Little People if they agreed to smuggle him out of Tennessee so he didn’t have to face me again.

  Blake interrupted my thoughts. “I’ll get them. Christine needs the help behind the bar.”

  I rattled off my order and waved Juan to follow Blake for the case of Coronas we’d be running out of before the night was over. One last look at nothing and I went back to work.

  * * * * *

  There was no missing Lorcan and the band once he chose to make an entrance through… the entrance. Standing in the archway separating bar and restaurant, he waited for the ripple of attention to spread.

  Those closest had gotten an eyeful of him in full rocker-god regalia: the black leather pants stretching for miles in either direction, the skintight green, and still so offensive, Leprechaun tee, three sizes too small, showing off a strip of gold skin and hipbones, sleeves cut off to emphasize arms flexing with power and delicious enough to bite. His broad face and arrogant profile with his pouting faux snarl and blazing eyes, and mop of blond hair that sung of Nordic invaders, all demanded attention, and only when he got it did he move, parting the crowd with a swivel of hips and strut of boot.

  I resisted rolling my eyes at the ridiculous presentation. In contrast, his band moved silently in his wake, eyes dark and hooded and fixed at some point in the distance. They kept their music cases close to their bodies, letting FatBoy make a path whenever the crowd was swept into Lorcan’s slipstream.

  Watching them drift by as I filled pint after pint of ale, the rest of the band looked like they’d be more at home at a folk festival than a rowdy bar—dressed as they were in woodland colors: browns and greens, and in fabrics that looked made for petting. Their eyes moved warily around a room already filled to capacity and long past sobriety. They were more than an hour late and the natives were restless, ready to be roused by Lorcan, and I prayed for the best.

  They moved beyond my sightline into the bowels of the bar where we’d built them a stage, so I turned my attention to the crowd, noticing the bright purple dotting the room, though none of them appeared to be Darrell. I’d lost track of him in the hallway, not lingering long enough after Blake’s appearance to see if he’d emerged from whatever was going on in the bathroom. Some things were best left unknown.