Lady Luck

by Kristen Ashley

  His eyes cut to me.

  What he did not do was speak. He just chewed and swallowed while forking into pancake and, once he swallowed, he shoved more pancake in.

  Then his eyes moved through the diner and didn’t come back to me as he continued to scan his surroundings.

  I tried again, deciding on a more direct approach as, clearly, this guy was not into idle chitchat.

  “So, um… what’s next on the agenda?”

  He looked at me again. Then he speared a sausage link with his fork, brought it to his well-formed lips and bit it in half with even, very white, extremely strong-looking teeth.

  He did this and he didn’t answer.

  So I kept trying. “It would kinda be nice to know, uh… what we’re doing and, um… where we’re going,” I told him.

  He ate the rest of the sausage link.

  He again didn’t answer.

  “Uh… Ty –” I started but he finally spoke and when he did, he spoke over me.

  “Name,” he rumbled.

  “Name?” I asked, confused.

  His beautiful eyes didn’t leave me and he also didn’t explain.

  “You mean my name?” I asked.

  Again, he continued to stare at me without saying a word.

  “Lexie,” I told him, guessing that’s what he meant and not pointing out I’d already introduced myself.

  “Full name,” he said then speared another sausage link.

  While he bit off half, I answered, “Alexa Anne Berry.”

  He chewed. He swallowed.

  “Priors?” he asked and I felt my brows draw together.

  “Sorry?” I asked back.

  “You got a record?”

  I was surprised at this question for two reasons. One, he’d used his first verb and I had convinced myself he only knew caveman-speak. Two, it was a weird question.

  “No,” I answered. “No record.”

  Or, at least, not one that wasn’t sealed. What could I say? There was a reason Ronnie was my boyfriend since high school, I’d been wild. It was just, back then, he wasn’t. Then I stopped being wild, he’d started and he did it better than me. I had a juvenile record but that didn’t count. Or, I told myself that.

  His gorgeous eyes did a head to chest and back again and then his head tipped very slightly to the side.

  Then he asked, “Sweep?”

  “What?” I asked back and also I was back to confused.

  “You get picked up in a sweep? Somethin’ that didn’t stick.”

  I shook my head, still confused. “A sweep for what?”

  “Solicitation,” he answered and my back went straight.

  That’s when I knew he thought I was one of Shift’s girls.

  I leaned in and whispered on a slight, annoyed hiss, testing the boundaries, I knew, but pissed enough to do it, “I’m not a prostitute.”

  And I couldn’t believe he’d ask it. I mean, did I look like a prostitute? No! And I’d been around enough of them to know. Sure, one could say the ribbed white tank and low-rider, khaki shorts I was wearing weren’t the height of fashion but they weren’t slut clothes. Even if I was wearing (very cute, in my opinion) tan, wide-strapped platform wedges (that still took me nowhere near his height).

  It was hot out there!

  And I wore high heels. It was what I did. It was who I was. A lot of women who weren’t prostitutes wore high heels. Even with shorts.

  “Shift knows two types of women, whores and junkies. You a junkie?”

  “No,” I snapped and sat back. “Jesus, of course not.”

  Now he was really ticking me off because I’d been around junkies too and I really didn’t look like any of them. My hair was clean, for one. And I’d had it trimmed not a week ago. I had body fat, for another. Maybe a wee bit too much so, seriously, not a strung-out junkie.

  “Shift knows two types of women, whores and junkies,” he repeated. “Which one are you?”

  “Neither,” I bit off.

  “Shift knows two types of women, whores and junkies,” he said yet again. “He sent you which means he knows you so which one are you?”

  Okay, now I just was really ticked off.

  Therefore I replied, “You can ask it again and again, Mr. Humongo, but the answer doesn’t change.”

  This was the wrong thing to do. I knew it when he instantly dropped his fork on his plate and both hands flashed out, catching mine by the wrists, he pulled them and, incidentally, me to him across the table, my arms insides up. His chin tilted down and his eyes did a scan of my upper extremities.

  He was looking for tracks.

  Asshole.

  I made a mental note that he might be large but that didn’t mean he couldn’t move fast.

  Then I yanked at my hands, he didn’t release them so I hissed, “Let me go.”

  He let me go and grabbed his fork. Then he ate the rest of the sausage.

  I sucked in breath thinking maybe I should have pushed this particular favor with Shift, as in, put my foot down, refused to do it and took my chances.

  Just driving across a few states, picking up some guy from prison, taking him wherever. That’s what I thought it was.

  It was never just that with Shift.

  I should have known better.

  “Toes,” he muttered, dropping his fork and going after a piece of toast.

  “What?” I asked, going after another fry but finding myself not hungry though thinking that my situation was uncertain and therefore I should probably eat when I had the opportunity.

  His eyes came to me.

  They were light brown. I just noticed that. The shape and the eyelashes had taken all my attention so I missed that they were light brown. This was a little surprising considering his skin tone said he was a mutt and that mutt definitely included African-American. There was Caucasian in him, I was guessing, but no more than half. His skin was as perfect as the rest of him but dark-toned and not with Italian olive undertones but definitely black. Whoever’s genes formed him, they gave him the best of the both of them. At least in the looks department. Personality was seriously up for debate.

  “Shoot up between the toes,” he explained and my thoughts went from the color of his eyes, the perfection of his skin and his luck with heredity to our annoying conversation.

  “I told you, Walker, I’m not a junkie. I’ve never shot up anything, on my arms, between my toes, anywhere,” I stated then bit into the fry maybe a little angrily but still, what the fuck?

  And further to what the fuck, why was he asking me these questions?

  He studied me, eyes still blank, nothing working back there or nothing he’d give away. But his gaze didn’t leave my face.

  This lasted awhile. It lasted while he chewed on his toast and I made a dent in my fries. It lasted long enough for me to wish he’d scan the restaurant or stare out the window again.

  Then he declared on a low, knowing rumble, “You spread for him.”

  I stopped avoiding his study of me and looked back at him. “What?”

  “Surprising,” he muttered, going back to his fork and his pancakes.

  I guessed as to his meaning and informed him, “I’m not Shift’s bookie.”

  His eyes shot from his pancakes to me.

  “Come again?”

  “I’m not Shift’s bookie,” I repeated. “I don’t do a spread for him.”

  He stared at me.

  Then he whispered, “Jesus.”

  “I work retail,” I told him.

  He stared at me more.

  “I’m a buyer,” I continued. “At Lowenstein’s department stores.”

  He continued to stare at me.

  Then he asked, “How’d he tap that?”

  “What?” I asked back.

  “A buyer for a fuckin’ department store. How’d Shift tap that?”

  I shook my head again, my eyes narrowing and I repeated, “What?”

  “Why do you,” he tipped his head at me as if I didn’t know
who he meant by “you”, “spread for him?”

  “I’m telling you, I’m not his bookie. He doesn’t place bets with me. And anyway, what bookie would run an errand for a guy like Shift?”

  Jeez, maybe he had a hearing problem.

  He leaned toward me and said quietly, “Spread.” I opened my mouth to reply but he went on, “Your legs.”

  I blinked.

  Then I got him.

  Then my back went straight.

  Then I snapped, “I don’t sleep with Shift. Gross! Are you crazy?”

  He sat back and stared at me again. Then he dropped his fork, grabbed his cup of coffee and stared at me while he took a sip. Then he kept staring at me as he put his coffee cup back.

  I was over the staring so I told him, “This conversation is bizarre. Maybe you might want to say what’s on your mind or ask what you want to know, like, straight out and try not to annoy me seeing as I’m not a prostitute, junkie, bookie or sleeping with Shift or anyone like him but instead I’m a buyer at a mid-to-upscale department store.”

  “All right,” he agreed immediately. “What the fuck are you doin’ here?”

  “Shift asked me to do him a favor.”

  “And how does a buyer for a department store know Shift?”

  “We had a mutual acquaintance. That acquaintance died,” I replied, just as immediately. “Unfortunately, the relationship didn’t die with that acquaintance because Shift’s an asshole. He sometimes invades my life and asks me to do stuff. It’s healthier and less of a pain in the ass to agree. So, he asked me to do this, he’s footing the bill and I’m here.”

  “No marker?” he asked.

  “As in, Shift calling in one?” I asked back.

  “Or you givin’ him one,” he replied.

  I shook my head. “I don’t want anything from Shift so, no, I’ve never asked and there will never be a time when I’ll need to call on Shift to do anything for me. There’s no marker involved.”

  “But you’re still here.”

  I was sitting across from him so I didn’t think that merited a response.

  “People don’t do somethin’ for nothin’, ‘specially bitches like you,” he noted.

  I ignored him calling me a bitch, something Shift and his crew did frequently. I also didn’t get into what kind of “bitch” he thought I was.

  Instead, I stated, “You obviously know Shift.”

  “Unfortunately,” he answered and this surprised me. First, it indicated we had something in common. Second, it was a five syllable word. Third, Shift acted like this guy was important to him in some way. It occurred to me only then that when he phoned Shift, they didn’t have a heartfelt conversation about his joy at his newfound freedom. In fact, except for Shift (probably) greeting him, he’d said two words to him.

  I found this intriguing.

  I also didn’t get into that.

  As far as I was concerned, I was going to drop this guy off wherever he wanted to go (and I hoped that wasn’t northern Canada) or, more to the point, let him drive himself wherever he wanted to go then I was going to go back to my apartment, my job and my frequent musings about pulling up stakes and getting far, far away from Duane “Shift” Martinez.

  What I did do was take a chance.

  And the chance I took was sharing, openly and honestly.

  So I leaned forward and said quietly, “We’re connected, Shift and me, not by my choice. I do not want him in my life but he wants to be there and he stays there. He can make things difficult for me just being Shift. I know this. I avoid this. And the way I avoid this is, when he calls me and asks me to do something, I do it. He knows where my boundaries are and, so far, he’s respected them. I’m not stupid, I know he’ll push those boundaries and I know I have to get out from under this before he does but it takes a lot of shit to start a new life and I only have half of that shit, the half being me wanting to start it. The money, the job, the destination, all that I don’t have. So, until then, he calls, he asks, I do and he stays in the shadows of my life instead of taking center stage and fucking everything up. Hence,” I threw out a hand, “I’m here. Simple as that.”

  His beautiful eyes held mine.

  Then he grunted, “Phone.”

  I blinked.

  Then I turned to my purse, dug in, pulled out my phone and handed it to him.

  He took it and slid out of the booth, saying, “You finish, pay the bill. Meet you at the car.”

  Then he walked out of the diner.

  * * * * *

  Ty

  “Jackson,” Tatum Jackson said in Ty Walker’s ear.

  “Jackson, Walker,” Ty Walker replied.

  Silence for a long moment then, “Shit, fuckin’ hell, Ty?”

  “Yep.”

  Another pause then, “Shit, brother, you out?”

  “Yep. Today.”

  Another pause before, “Ty, fuck, Wood told me it was soon but I didn’t know it was today.” He paused again then quietly, “Fuck, Ty, good to hear from you, man.” Another pause then, “Where are you?”

  Walker didn’t respond to that. Instead he said, “Got somethin’ I need you to do.”

  More silence then, “Talk to me.”

  “Alexa Anne Berry. Dallas resident. Buyer at Lowenstein’s department store. I need everything you can get on her.”

  “Walker, I’m a bounty hunter, not a PI,” Jackson reminded him.

  “You got resources. You got connections. I’m askin’ you to use them.”

  Pause then, “Who is this woman?”

  “I’m marryin’ her tomorrow.”

  Silence.

  Walker broke it. “You do this for me, I owe you.”

  “You’re getting married?” Tate Jackson asked, disbelief clear in his tone.

  “Yep.”

  “Tomorrow?”

  “Yep.”

  “No joke?”

  “Nope.”

  “Fuckin’ hell, brother, who is she? How’d you meet her?”

  “Doesn’t matter. You gonna look into her?”

  Pause then, “I’ll do what I can do, Ty, but I don’t know how much I can pull together before tomorrow.”

  “Doesn’t matter. We’re gettin’ married tomorrow, you find shit, I’ll deal with it.”

  “Don’t you know her?”

  Ty Walker thought about the woman he left behind in the booth.

  He didn’t know her. Not at all.

  He knew she had great fucking legs, fantastic fucking tits, a generous, round ass and more fucking hair than he’d ever seen on any woman’s head. It looked thick, it looked soft and he knew it’d feel good trailing on his skin. He knew she spoke with her eyes and her face even before words came out of her mouth. He knew he wanted to taste her pussy and he knew he wanted it in a way that he’d want it even if he wasn’t in a situation where he hadn’t tasted any pussy for five, very long fucking years.

  And he knew he was going to marry her tomorrow.

  “I know enough,” Walker answered.

  Silence.

  Then, “Ty, brother, is this a big setup? Can you delay? Give me a chance to –”

  “I’m not asking for marriage counseling, Tate,” Walker said low. “I’m askin’ a favor. You gonna do that for me?”

  Silence then, “You know I will.”

  Walker knew he would.

  “You comin’ home?” Jackson asked.

  He felt his blood heat and his voice was like the rumble before the break of thunder when he whispered, “Oh yeah.”

  More silence.

  Jackson heard the rumble and Tatum Jackson was far from stupid so he knew what it meant.

  Therefore Jackson stated, “You’re not gonna let it lie.”

  No he fucking wasn’t. He was not going to fucking let it lie. No fucking way.

  No fucking way.

  He didn’t answer.

  Jackson went on, “Best thing you could do is let it lie. It’s done. Move on. You come home, Wood’ll take you o
n. You don’t want that, we’ll find you something. You got friends, brother, and you know it. We’ll set you up.”

  This was easy for him to say. Five years of his life hadn’t been stolen then flushed down the toilet. He didn’t have a record. He wasn’t an ex-con needing to lean on friends for a fucking job. He didn’t rot in a cell, sharing air with scum, eating shit food, no pussy, no beer, told when he could sleep, when he could eat, when he could play ball, when he could work out, what he could wear, what he could read, watch on fucking television. No choice. No freedom. None. Constantly looking over his shoulder. Forced to use his fists to make his point and keep the jackals at bay.

  All that shit for five years.

  Five years.

  Only to come out and have a tall, leggy, rounded, beautiful woman with a fantastic ass wearing a tight tank, short-shorts and sexy shoes back away from him and press herself into a car just because he leaned in to grab her fucking phone when that shit would not happen with any woman five years ago.

  Yeah. Easy for him to say.

  “I’ll talk to Wood when we get home,” Walker told him.

  “That’d be good,” Jackson said quietly. “And it’ll be good to see you.”

  Yeah. It would be good to see Tate. And Wood. And even Krystal though that bitch was a pain in the ass and she was a pain in the ass mostly because she was a bitch. Still, if she liked you, she was good people. If she liked you, she was the best people you could have. And luckily she liked him and she’d done what she could. So had Tate. So had Wood. So had Pop, Stella and Bubba. But none of them could do anything to stop the shit storm swirling around Ty Walker.

  “I’ll look into Alexa,” Jackson said.

  “Lexie,” Walker corrected.

  “Come again?”

  “She calls herself Lexie.”

  “Right,” Jackson muttered, a smile in his voice, not getting it but thinking he did.

  “Catch you at Bubba’s in a few days,” Walker said, referring to the bar Tate owned with Krystal.

  “Lookin’ forward to it, Ty,” Jackson replied.

  Walker flipped the phone shut.

  Then he scanned the parking lot.

  Then he saw the car that picked them up a mile from the prison.

  Shit tail. Total shit. How did these fucking guys take him down? They were all part-idiot.

  Except Fuller. Fuller was all asshole. All asshole with a badge. Not a good combination.