CHAPTER 2
Lucky rocked forward and back in the elegant chair he never could have afforded on his salary, in the nursery he thought he’d never use when he’d first bought the house. Having two wealthy, if dangerous, guardian angels, devils, or whatever, had its perks. A warm bundle of sleepy baby lay tucked in his arms, bottom lip pouched out and making occasional sucking motions as he drifted off to sleep, like he so often did.
Alejandro Gualterio Schollenberger. Bo and Lucky’s son.
Lucky had never been good at remaining still, but he’d play statue to help get Andro to sleep. Poor boy. Teething made him irritable. An irritable baby meant the rest of the household suffered too. Was there any such thing as a good night’s sleep with an unhappy baby around?
He hummed as he rocked. His singing voice might horrify the kid into never sleeping again. But what the fuck? His lover/partner/husband-in-practice-if-not-on-paper, Bo, would kill him for singing Achy Breaky Heart anyway. Or so he’d threatened last time.
Lucky tried for Rockabye Baby. Hmm… What came after “rockabye baby”? Oh well, he sang a few lines of Achy Breaky Heart. At least he knew the words.
Mostly.
Lucky combed his fingers through soft black hair, lightly touched a fingertip to Alejandro’s nose. His heart squeezed, and it wasn’t heartburn due to his sister’s latest attempt to make homemade biscuits.
His and Bo’s son. The one he’d desperately wanted without even realizing. He’d gone from two-bit felon to family man, with the steady job, decent house, best partner in the world, and a mortgage. What once would have sent him screaming seemed like the perfect life now.
Well, except for the possibility of leaving his kids orphans.
At last Alejandro settled, eyes drifting shut and staying closed. He relaxed, perfectly at ease in his papa’s arms. Papa. Enough to give a guy some serious chills. Of course, Lucky would go to his grave denying them. He’d be damned if he let people accuse him of having feelings or some shit.
Lucky bent, kissed the top of his son’s wispy-haired head, and rose from the chair, doing his best not to jostle his precious bundle.
He laid Alejandro on his back as he’d been instructed in the childbirth and parenting classes he’d attended with Charlotte, and smoothed down Andro’s blue onesie. So peaceful. So still. Lying in an expensive crib bought for him by Nestor Sauceda and Victor Mangiardi, former drug lords turned narcotics agents.
The little guy had no idea he lived with two fathers who loved him so very much, and a family who’d provide him with the kind of life his biological mother thought out of her reach.
Thank God for the precious gift Yolanda gave to him and Bo. He’d even gone with Bo to have their son christened in the church, at the mother’s request—scandalizing Lucky’s Southern-Baptist-attend-church-twice-a-year family. He might not have understood the Catholic ritual, but it was the least they could do.
Sometimes Lucky couldn’t believe this beautiful child was theirs.
On the far side of the room another crib lay empty, waiting to welcome Andro’s little brother or sister. A gift from the same two men who’d purchased Andro’s furniture.
Lucky would worry about two former drug traffickers hanging around in his life later.
God, how blessed he was, and so undeserving. He might not be a paragon of virtue by any stretch of the imagination, but he’d do his damnedest—whoops, make that “darnedest”—to be a good father to his kids and a good partner to Bo.
That’s where goodness must end. Sainthood and Lucky didn’t mix. Knowing better than to leave things lying about and risk a talking-to by Bo, he put the worn copy ofGoodnight Moonhe’d read tonight into the little wooden bookcase. He slipped his readers off his nose and into his shirt pocket.
Lucky took one more look at his son and turned the lights out, leaving a Teddy-bear-shaped nightlight to give off a soft glow. He left the door between the nursery and his and Bo’s room partially open, the better to hear any nighttime cries.
He tiptoed into the bathroom, ran water into the jacuzzi tub, and checked his phone. Still no message from Bo. Bo becoming the boss was supposed to mean he’d be home most nights, but until he learned all he must, he’d likely keep late hours.
After all, Walter Smith carried decades of knowledge around in his head, knowledge he’d need to pass on to Bo in a matter of a few months.
So, Bo slipped out long enough to attend class, then went back to work. Occasionally Lucky checked to make sure Bo hadn’t moved his electric toothbrush to the office.
Already Lucky spent more time consulting for DEA, and working with Loretta Johnson and the trainees, than he did with Bo. Nothing separated the meek from the hard-core like an instructor who’d lost fingers to the job. At least Bo avoided landing in harm’s way these days.
For the most part.
Lucky stripped, tossed his clothes onto the floor. Nope. Better not go there. He placed them in the hamper instead. See? He could be taught.
Easing into the warm water, he let out a sigh. Oh, this felt good. Better if Bo were with him. His lover would be home as soon as he could, no doubt.
Lucky took his time lathering and rinsing, washing his hair, on the outside chance Bo might make an appearance.
He managed to stay awake an entire hour after going to bed, watching back episodes of his favorite soap opera, before sleep won the battle.