Relation Read online

  RELATION

  (Diversion Series 7.1 Novella)

  Eden Winters

  Warning:

  This book contains adult language and themes, including graphic descriptions of sexual acts which some may find offensive. It is intended for mature readers only, of legal age to possess such material in their area.

  This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual people, places, or events is purely coincidental.

  Relation © 2019 by Eden Winters

  Cover Art by L.C. Chase

  Layout and design by P.D. Singer

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced without written permission of the author, except as brief quotations as in the case of reviews.

  Published 2019, Rocky Ridge Books

  Books in the Diversion series:

  Diversion

  Collusion

  Corruption

  Manipulation

  Redemption

  Reunion

  Suspicion

  Relation

  Coming soon: Tradition

  Coming Soon: Decision

  Many thanks to T.D. O’Malley and P.D. Singer, for priceless critique, handholding, and the precious gift of their friendship.

  Also, for the readers who’ve followed Bo and Lucky from the very beginning of their tale, and wanted more.

  Chapter 1

  The Harley Davidson behind Lucky in traffic turned left, then right, staying close, but not gonna-charge-you-fifty-bucks-and-arrest-myself-for-prostitution close. Definitely not a professional tail, but following Lucky in circles nonetheless.

  Nobody drove down Peachtree Street twice during rush hour without an agenda.

  He’d pissed off a motorcycle gang recently, hell, he pissed off pretty much everybody he knew longer than five minutes. If only he could get a look at the back of the biker’s jacket to check for the distinctive 441 Cruisers patch.

  So far, the biker had been non-aggressive, and news stories of law enforcement and excessive use of force kept him from taking a direct approach to get the Harley rider off his ass.

  Damn it!

  Harleys came in many colors, but the gradient purple might be a custom job. Whoever owned the two-wheeled work of art either had money to spare or was damned proud of the bike and willing to spend a buttload of cash on their precious machine.

  As a Harley deserved.

  He made a third circuit around the same few blocks when a black Harley joined the purple one. Both riders wore leather jackets and chaps, and full-face shield helmets. Yeah, October in Atlanta wasn’t exactly freezing, but the air held a touch of fall.

  The riders stopped at a red light about six car-lengths behind Lucky’s Camaro. They carried on an animated conversation, judging by the gesturing, then turned right and roared off. Too bad Lucky couldn’t get their plates.

  Was he paranoid about being followed? Possibly, but in his line of work taking precautions meant he got to keep breathing.

  Maybe he’d call in a favor with the local police department, and see if anything showed up on traffic cameras.

  Only, no one there owed him a favor.

  Sometimes being a first-class sonofabitch wasn’t the best course of action.

  Who rode those damned Harleys, and why didn’t they confront Lucky face to face if they had something to say?

  Pretty fucking inconvenient, having to drive extra miles to lose them before he set course for where he truly wanted to go.

  One more mirror check showed not a Harley in sight. Good. Maybe he’d lost them, or they’d decided to leave him alone. Lucky stopped off at the local Food Mart for eggs and milk. Didn’t he just do this yesterday? For four people, his family sure went through one hell of a lot of eggs and milk, and no longer living on the farm meant a drive to the grocery store and not a trek through the yard..

  Growing up in the country with a cow in the barn did have benefits.

  He stepped outside the store in time to hear the thundering of a Harley—or more than one. From the corner of his eye he saw a flash of purple and black.

  ***

  The next night at the same store, this time for coffee and bread, Lucky stayed wary. He wouldn’t tell Bo yet about his niggling suspicions and be labeled paranoid, but paranoia didn’t mean he wasn’t being followed.

  Owen Landry still walked around a free man, after all, with plenty of reasons to hate Lucky. Not that the asswipe actually needed a reason.

  The normal types he met at Food Mart trailed up and down the grocery store aisles: a harried-looking woman with three bickering kids, an older couple who held packages close to their faces to read ingredients, and the occasional blue-haired millennial.

  Huh. Now, the folks on the next aisle stuck out like a sore thumb. A heavily tattooed arm came into view first, and a denim vest that might have started life as a jacket and later lost the sleeves in a tragic knife accident. The woman wore her long hair pulled back in a ponytail, additional bands at intervals down the length—a pretty common biker hairstyle. The occasional silver strand peeked out from the copper locks.

  Though she wasn’t exactly small, the man with her was huge. Walter huge, but younger, dark beard shot through with gray and a faded blue bandana covering his head. The kind of folks he’d often run into at swap meets, Harley shops, or on the job—often being cuffed, like the bikers he’d taken down for the Southeastern Narcotics Bureau for dealing drugs.

  The woman glanced up, dark brown gaze boring into him, and elbowed the guy with her, nodding toward Lucky’s hands gripping the handles on the shopping cart. What was she looking at? Did his not-quite-a-wedding-ring say, “Hell, yeah, I got a man at home?” She scowled.

  What the fuck? What had he ever done to her?

  Only sheer willpower and the kids running up and down the aisles kept him from giving a middle finger salute. The nerve of some people.

  With one last scathing assessment, the woman turned and sauntered off, the man following on her heels. So, he’d been measured and found lacking, had he?

  Wasn’t the first time, wouldn’t be the last.

  At least them leaving gave him a clear shot of their backs. Nope, not Cruisers, though they did wear colors.

  Just where the hell was Arkadelphia?

  Abandoning his half-full cart, he dashed to the front of the store. Two bikes pulled out of the parking lot: one purple, one black.

  And he still couldn’t get the tag numbers.

  Whoever they were, they had no idea who they messed with.

  He jogged toward the little area sectioned off as an office, tennis shoes squeaking across the floor. Lucky flipped out his badge at the woman standing at the counter that separated the folks in Atlanta from lottery tickets, cigarettes, and other vices. “Are you the manager?”

  “Y… yes.” She stared transfixed at the badge, taking a step back from the counter. “Is something wrong?”

  “Do you have exterior cameras?”

  “Yes, of course.” If she nodded any harder her head might fall off.

  “I need to see the footage of the left side of the parking lot.”

  The woman cast her gaze down to her hands, now folded together on the countertop. “I’m afraid that camera’s been out for a while. We ain’t got it fixed yet.”

  Sometimes Lucky just couldn’t win.

  ***

  All through dinner Lucky managed to keep up his side of the conversation. Since Bo and Charlotte hit it off so well, and Bo and Ty played the same video games, Lucky’s contribution amounted to the occasional nod or grunt, enough noise to let them know he hadn’t fallen asleep at the four-top kitchen table where they took most of their meals.

  He dragged his fork through his potatoes and gravy, keeping up appearances of enjoying the meal his sister cooke
d. Too many snakes twisted together in his stomach to allow food inside.

  The moment dinner ended he snatched up his laptop and parked in the living room chair, leaving his sister, nephew, and partner to claim spots on the couch. No risking peeks over his shoulder.

  Arka… dell something or other. Keying in the a.r.k.a. got some returns from the search engine on his browser: Arkansas; Arkansas football; Arkansas, Missouri. Ah, there. Arkadelphia, Arkansas.

  Near Little Rock. He should have known.

  Bo’s home turf. He’d had a run-in with the law back before they met, and confessed to hurting an old boyfriend. Could someone from back home be gunning for Bo?

  Then why follow Lucky?

  He keyed “Arkadelphia motorcycle clubs” into the search engine.

  The webpage showed the same colors he’d seen on the couple.

  ***

  “Lucky, what are you doing?” came from way too close behind Lucky. Damn it! Why wasn’t Bo still asleep?

  Lucky glanced up from his place by the door, screwdriver in hand and a bag of electronics on the table beside him. Bo stood next to him, glaring down at the bits and pieces spread out on the table.

  No use stalling. Wouldn’t take Bo but a minute to connect the dots and figure out what the parts equaled.

  “Installing a doorbell camera.” Though the current view provided a distraction. Good thing dropping temperatures didn’t keep Bo from wearing tight running shorts and tank tops in the house. Those pecs! Of course, if Bo turned around…

  “And why do we need a doorbell camera?” Bo eyed Lucky’s handiwork, lips pursed and a line forming between his brows.

  “You can’t be too careful.” Because Lucky would flat out die if anything happened to his family because he hadn’t taken enough precautions. Besides, keeping up with current security gadgets only helped on his job, right?

  “We live in a gated community. Do you really think we need more security?”

  In Lucky’s book, there was no such thing as too much security, especially not where his family was concerned. “You know as well as I do that the damned gate doesn’t work for shit.”

  Bo bumped his shoulder against Lucky’s. “Is there something going on you’re not telling me?”

  Why did the man have to know Lucky so damned well? “Why? Can’t a man look out for his family? I mean, Charlotte’s here most of the day by herself. What if someone tried to break in?”

  Bo barked a laugh. “Then she’d make sure they left in a body bag. Your sister can take care of herself. And probably a small country too.”

  Yeah, the woman did know how to kick ass and take names.

  Bo lifted Lucky’s chin with two fingers until their eyes met. “Tell me. What’s this really about?”

  Maybe a bit of the truth would get him off the hook. “Landry’s still out there. Until he’s caught, I ain’t taking no chances.”

  The warm arms surrounding him came as no surprise. Bo had never failed to comfort him when needed—or anyone else, for that matter. “If he ever comes back this way, Walter will know. Landry’s laying low. You’re the least of his problems right now.”

  Time to change the subject without giving too much away. “You haven’t noticed any bikers around, have you?”

  “No, why? Should I?” Bo stepped back, his too-knowing gaze connecting with Lucky’s.

  Lucky tried to keep his voice casual. He did sound casual, didn’t he? “I just see them around a lot, thought they might’ve moved into the neighborhood. Or something.” Pretending to inspect the camera kept him from having to make eye contact.

  “Hmmm. That’s strange. It’s starting to get cold. But some riders drive no matter what. Even in snow.” Bo kissed the top of Lucky’s head.

  “Were there motorcycle clubs in your area when you were growing up?”

  “A few. Nothing like the Cruisers, though. Mostly just average folks who liked motorcycles.”

  So, Bo wasn’t going to make this easy. “Know anybody in those clubs?”

  Bo stayed quiet way too long. “Why are you asking about this?”

  “Oh, no reason. Was just thinking about when you rode with the Cruisers, is all.” Why could Lucky lie so easily to men pointing guns at him but couldn’t lie worth a happy damn to his partner?

  “I… I might know some bikers back home. I haven’t been there in a while, so who knows?”

  Bo strolled away, but looked to Lucky like he was running. What was he hiding? And why?

  Chapter 2

  The freckled kid swiping groceries over the scanner eyed Lucky up and down. As much as Lucky came in here lately, they should be on a first-name basis. Bo would have his ass if he knew Lucky privately referred to the guy as Freckled Checker.

  “There was a man and a woman in here asking about you the other day,” the kid said.

  What? Lucky shifted his weight, the comfortable bulk of the Glock under his leather jacket making him breathe easier. “What’d they look like?”

  The kid shrugged, a fold in his uniform hiding his name tag. Okay, Freckled Checker he’d remain. “Older. Tattooed.”

  How many folks in Atlanta and the surrounding area fit that description? To the kid, anyone over eighteen qualified as older. Still, he easily pictured the couple from the other day, of the purple and black Harleys. “What did you tell them?”

  The kid smiled, showing a mouthful of braces. “I told them you were one mean motherfucker and to leave you the hell alone.”

  What? This kid had to be Ty’s age. How the hell did he know Lucky’s reputation? And he was way too young to swear. Lucky slapped a hand against his forehead. Oh, dear God, he’d turned into his father.

  To the kid Lucky said, “Damned straight.”

  Lucky had said worse things at sixteen.

  Or thirteen.

  Or ten.

  Being a badass paid off, though. Lucky hadn’t even had to advertise. Maybe the warning would be good enough to keep the biker couple at bay. Who were they and what the fuck did they want?

  He slipped the kid a ten on his way out and finally glimpsed a name.

  “Thanks, Kenny.” Not that Lucky thought he’d need to use his new teenaged informant often, but who knew.

  Bo would be proud.

  ***

  Charlotte left early Saturday morning, dragging Ty out to shop. The kid’s “But I don’t wanna!” still rang in Lucky’s ears.

  Yes, but Uncle Lucky had no problem with getting some alone time with his man. Family in the house played hell with his love life.

  The doorbell rang midway through breakfast.

  Ah, hell. Who could have gotten through the gate? Walter could. Or Johnson. What would the boss or Rett be doing here at this hour? Then again, might be some neighbor who hadn’t clued in yet to Lucky not being the type to bother on a weekend.

  Or any other day, for that matter. Lucky brushed a hand against Bo’s cheek. “You eat. I’ll go see who it is.” And convince them to leave, remained unsaid. He snagged a final bite of jelly biscuit and rushed to the living room. Bo needed to eat and rest. Lucky had plans for him later. Plans that might burn a lot of calories.

  Must be Walter or Rett at the door since the dog wasn’t barking his head off in the back yard. Lucky peeked out a side window. No car. Wait! He moved a bit to the right.

  What the hell was a Harley Davidson doing in the driveway? From this angle he only saw the front tire, but he’d know a Harley anywhere. Chills ran up his arms. Surely some of Bo’s old biker buddies from his biggest case hadn’t found him.

  The bikers who’d been following him popped into his head. If they’d wanted to talk to him, they’d had plenty of chances. Why follow him home?

  That was it. He raced to the bedroom and grabbed his gun. Fuck! Too late he recalled the doorbell cam. All he needed was his cellphone, which sat on the kitchen table next to Bo.

  He couldn’t go in there now, particularly not while holding his Glock and earn himself an eyeroll and huffed, “Paranoid muc
h?” from Bo.

  The doorbell rang again.

  “Lucky, are you going to get that? Is everything all right?”

  “I got it.” He eased up to the peek hole—a stupid thing to do if some thug waited on the stoop—but who in their right mind would come gunning for him or Bo in broad daylight?

  He put his eye to the peephole. Nothing. Oh, wait. Movement. Someone stood at the door, back turned, and a long copper braid, held in place by a red bandana and showing a few gray strands, trailing down their back. A black t-shirt exposed gym-induced biceps covered with colorful artwork.

  Damn. Might be a member of Bo’s former biker gang after all. Didn’t appear to be armed, though. And those tats were some of the most professional works of body art he’d ever seen. Had the Cruisers returned with an Arkansas chapter?

  Lucky eased the door open. “Can I help you?”

  The braid’s owner turned. A woman’s chest pushed out the front of the T-shirt, and light makeup enhanced soft facial features. The tiny diamond stud on the side of her nose caught the early morning sunlight, as did the piercing through her left eyebrow, peeking out from above her sunglasses.

  The woman who’d been following him.

  Tanned skin. A smattering of freckles across her nose and, if he remembered correctly, underneath her mirrored shades she had dark brown eyes. In faded blue jeans with the knees torn through, sturdy but worn biker boots, and a chain hanging from her belt to her back pocket, she’d intimidate meeker souls. Out in the driveway the cooling purple Harley pinged.

  Lucky’d been called many things in his life, but never meek.

  Skin tight clothes on a muscular body didn’t leave many places to hide a gun, but the way she favored her right leg might mean an ankle holster.

  Locking a ferocious gaze on Lucky, the woman yanked off her sunglasses, revealing those oddly familiar brown eyes. “Where’s William?”

  William? Blunt. To the point. However, nobody called Bo “William” except bill collectors. “Why?” She wasn’t the only blunt one.

  The woman placed her hands on her hips. “Because he hasn’t been for a visit in years, cancelled coming home last Thanksgiving, rarely calls, and I kinda want to make sure for myself my nephew’s still alive, okay?”