Wrong Question, Right Answer (The Bourbon Street Boys #3) - Elle Casey Page 0,28
warehouse as fast as I can without laying rubber on the floor, because Ozzie hates that. I’m down the road a mile or two before the dam breaks. By the time I get home, the front of my shirt is soggy and my face looks like shit in the rearview mirror.
I don’t even realize I’m not alone until I’m halfway up my front walk. It’s then that I see a shadow on my front porch. As I draw closer, I realize it’s Lucky sitting on my porch swing, and he’s holding a clear glass bowl in his lap.
CHAPTER TEN
I go slowly up my front walkway, trying to gauge Lucky’s mood as I quickly wipe remnants of smeared makeup from my face. His head is down, and he’s staring into his goldfish bowl. He could be asleep, he’s sitting so still.
I clear my throat as I approach the porch, but he doesn’t lift his head.
“Hey, Lucky. What’s going on?” I walk up the three steps and angle myself toward the porch swing.
He looks up. His face is completely expressionless. “I don’t know why I’m here.”
I gesture at his pet. “Looks like you brought somebody over for a visit.” May’s advice comes back to me, especially that part about seeing things through Lucky’s eyes and not my own. It’s not a little puppy he’s got in his hands; it’s a cold-blooded piece of bait for a dinner-sized fish from what I can see. But to him, it’s everything. So, I guess for today Sunny the goldfish will be my everything too. I can fake it for a friend.
“He’s not doing so good,” Lucky says.
“Why don’t you guys come inside? I’ll make you some coffee. Or we can have a beer.”
“Beer sounds good.” Lucky stands, careful not to splash any water out of the bowl. He does such a good job of it, I imagine he’s probably had a lot of practice. An inane vision of him taking his fish for a daily walk pops into my mind.
I push the image aside, knowing it will unfairly influence how I see him right now. He needs a space that’s judgment free, where he can just be his fish-freaky self and not worry about what someone might be thinking. I can step into his shoes and see this fish like he does. I think.
I open the door wide so he can walk through with his fish and not bump into anything. I lock up behind him, all too aware of the fact that there are people out there who would love to find me at home and come at me with an unpleasant surprise. Charlie had several brothers and cousins, and every last one of them harbors a mean streak a mile wide. Aside from Rowdy getting stupid with Jenny a few months back, they’ve put off messing with me for over two years, but that doesn’t mean they’re not out there biding their time. Most of them are smart enough to know that the more distance there is between Charlie’s death and any accident that might befall me, the less chance there is that they’ll be looked at as suspects. Rowdy jumped the gun on that program, though I’m not surprised; even Charlie used to joke that his little brother was one pork chop short of a mixed grill.
“Where do you want me?” he asks, standing in my front hallway, looking lost and ridiculous. He’s got that leather jacket on again, the one I love so much, but near his waist in both hands is the fishbowl. And he’s right; Sunny doesn’t look so good. The fish is sharing time between floating and swimming weakly in circles.
“Go into the living room. You can put Sunny on the table and we can watch him from the couch. I’ll be right there.”
I keep it cool, walking at a regular pace into the kitchen, even though I feel like running. What if Sunny floats before I get back? Will Lucky leave? I don’t want him to go. I want him to stay. The thought makes me nervous as hell.
I don’t know what he really wants to drink, even though he said a beer. I start a pot of coffee, thinking it might be good to stay sober for this, but grab two beers from the fridge too. Holding them in one hand, I reach up and grab a bag of chips and some pretzels from a bowl on the counter before joining him in the other room.