Wrong Question, Right Answer (The Bourbon Street Boys #3) - Elle Casey Page 0,26
being on the team as far as I’m concerned.
CHAPTER NINE
I want to forget the whole conversation that happened between May and me, but it’s impossible. Snippets float along currents in my mind, still haunting me as I pull up to the warehouse. When I stop the van in the spot where Jenny was accosted by Charlie’s brother Rowdy, my stomach churns. Ugh. When will this shitstorm end?
After spending four hours cruising the neighborhoods marked out on the maps we were given, we now have enough intel to sift through over the next couple days. Hopefully, Thibault got some information from the detective in charge of the case so we can get started with placing our surveillance. I definitely need something to occupy my time and mind.
Flashes of Lucky’s face and the expression he’s been wearing lately carry new meaning for me. Has he been asking for help this whole time, and I’ve been ignoring it? Too focused on myself to recognize someone else’s pain? I feel selfish and self-absorbed.
The crazy thing is, I think I could actually be better at managing someone else’s pain than my own. Maybe getting a little more involved in Lucky’s life might not be the worst idea in the world. It doesn’t have to be about sex or a relationship; it could be about our friendship, something that’s been there for as long as I can remember.
A tiny piece of my heart is telling me that it’s possible May and Jenny are right. Maybe I should call Lucky, push him a little harder. Whenever someone offers to help me, I always say no, just like Lucky does. The only one who’s ever gotten through my defenses is Ozzie, and only because he pushed through. Like a steamroller, he drove right over me, giving me no choice but to let him in. I thank God for that; otherwise I’d probably be dead by now. He saved me.
The question is, does Lucky need saving? And am I the right person for the job? Or am I just saying all this to convince myself because I want to sleep with him again? I can’t trust myself to do the right thing. I’m horrible with men, and not just regular old horrible. I’m the worst. My relationships end in murder.
But Lucky deserves at least an attempt; that much I know. If I’m wrong, I’ll look like an ass for a few days, max. I can handle that. And if I’m right, and Lucky does need someone, maybe I can save him like I got saved. That would help my karmic balance, right? Take a life, save a life?
I feel energized as these thoughts come to their logical conclusion: I need to call Lucky. I need to make him listen to me. Maybe I’ll even go over to his place, take a look at his goldfish, and tell him how pretty it is. Or handsome. How does he even know it’s a boy? Do goldfish have penises? I picture myself standing in front of the tank. “That’s a nice goldfish you’ve got there, Lucky. He’s so . . . gold.”
Whatever. I’ll figure it out when I get there. I press the button that will open the warehouse door and wait the few seconds it takes for it to open wide enough to admit the van.
“So, what are we going to do now?” May asks.
“Go upload your photos and trash the bad ones. I’ll write down my thoughts about what we saw in a report for the team.”
“Sounds good.”
I wait until May has gone off to her cubicle before pressing the speed dial for Lucky. He’s number seven on my phone, obviously. Lucky seven, I think to myself as I wait for the call to connect.
His voicemail picks up, and I disconnect. Then I dial again. He thinks he can turn me over to voicemail? Uh, no. He can definitely kiss my ass on that.
My next call goes to voicemail too. This time I don’t hang up. “Lucky, it’s me,” I say into the recording. “Answer your phone.”
I disconnect and then hold down the seven key again. This time the call goes directly to voicemail without a single ring. I bang my closed fist on the doorframe of the van, trying to decide what to do next.
“Hey, you!”
I look up and see Thibault standing at the top of the stairs. “What’s up?” I ask, trying to sound casual and not like I’m all tied up in knots.