In the end, they selected a Toyota Rav4. Sporty enough to make Lucky happy, practical enough to suit Bo, and much easier on their paychecks than a Corvette.
“We’ll pick it up tomorrow,” Bo said. “We have plans tonight.”
They did? Lucky tried not to agonize over where they might be going. Somewhere loaded with friends, no doubt. The Italian restaurant didn’t surprise him. They’d often eaten there, or picked up takeout.
Bo ushered Lucky into the restaurant with a hand at the small of his back. “Reservation for Schollenberger,” he told the host, who led them through the restaurant and to a patio out back. Only one other couple sat out there, far enough away to give Bo and Lucky some privacy. Tall gas heaters drove back the chill, and strings of overhead lights gave off a gentle glow.
Lucky tried to lift an eyebrow when Bo pulled out his chair, but still hadn’t managed to master the art of lifting his eyebrows separately. He sat and allowed Bo to settle him in. Sometimes, better to let Bo pamper him a bit.
Bo ordered a bottle of wine.
“Wine?” Lucky asked when the waiter left.
“It’s a special occasion. We’ll just have a little.” Although neither had made alcohol their drug of choice, they still avoided partaking most of the time.
Special occasion? So, Bo hadn’t forgotten Lucky’s birthday after all.
Bo ordered vegetable lasagna. No surprise. Lucky wouldn’t dream of ordering for Bo, though he could. Having endured his share of junk food the past few weeks, Lucky ordered portobella ravioli. Fungus never tasted so good.
Every now and then Lucky glanced up to find Bo watching him intently, fork hovering in midair.
“What?” Did Lucky have sauce on his chin? If so, Bo could lick it off.
Bo stared. “Oh, sorry. I zoned out there for a minute.” He tucked back into his food.
The other couple left the patio and, other than a busboy who came to clean the table, they were alone. No one came by to remove their empty dishes either.
“I think they forgot about us out here.” Good thing they didn’t need anything.
Bo drummed his fingers on the table. “Look. Let’s wrap up the rest and take it home, okay? I’ve got something I want to do.”
Wow. That was odd. “Okay.”
Bo stayed quiet on the way home.
“Is something wrong?” Lucky hadn’t seen Bo this agitated in a while. Not since right after Mexico. Then again, two people they’d known were now dead.
Lucky had nearly joined them. He linked his fingers with Bo’s, needing the contact and reassurance of having his lover near.
No one waited at home.
Bo finally spoke in the driveway. “Let’s put dinner in the fridge. Get your leathers on. I want to go for a ride.”
O… kay. Definitely something wrong. Lucky put on his leather jacket—bullet hole and all. He’d managed to get the fake blood off the leather, mostly, and zipped into Bo’s spare chaps. Blood and bullet holes as a fashion accessory? Didn’t get more badass than getting shot and keeping on going.
They uncovered the Harley in the front yard, and Lucky climbed on the back. Bo drove.
Turtle Fur kept his neck and ears warm, and the helmet’s plexiglass shield kept the wind out of his face. Curious thing about a Harley: as much as he loved the sound in daylight, at night the pipes echoing off the asphalt took on a clearer, richer tone.
They left the neighborhood and headed toward a more rural area, away from the city lights. Bo pulled the bike over in a circular driveway, the foundations of a house vaguely visible in the gloom. He turned off the headlight and got off the bike.
What the hell was he up to? Lucky followed suit.
They removed their helmets and stowed them on the bike. Bo pulled a blanket out of the saddlebag, unfurled it on the ground, and held out his hand.
Lucky joined their fingers, and together they laid back on the blanket. Stars overhead, barely any sounds. In a few weeks there’d be crickets, cicadas, and frogs.
Now, just him and Bo.