Benediction (Diversion #9) - Eden Winters

CHAPTER 1

Lucky was too old for this shit. Pushing forty, and the next oldest person in the community center shared his blood. Folks over thirty-five had kids, didn’t they? His sister Charlotte provided living proof that “all her reproductive parts still worked” after thirty. Her words, not his. Did the couple in the corner do homework together every afternoon when they got home? The rest appeared late twenties, early thirty-ish.

A whiff of bubblegum hidden beneath the cloying scent of two dozen or so competing colognes wouldn’t surprise him in the least. He rubbed his temples with thumb and middle finger, ignoring the stares he got when folks noticed his two missing digits. Hey, he could still flip them off.

He sipped a cup of really awful coffee in a nice, safe corner while his sister worked the room, all smiles and laying on the Southern charm thick enough to cut with a chainsaw. Change the community center for a bar and she wouldn’t pay for a single drink.

If not for being noticeably pregnant, though he’d not mention the “noticeably” part aloud. He’d come to like living and Charlotte owned a gun.

Occasionally she reached down to rub the belly extra-large T-shirts no longer hid. She spoke with smiling couples, mostly Southern Baptist-approved male/female pairings, but for two women standing off to the side, keeping to themselves. The woman resting a hand on the pregnant woman’s shoulder, rubbing circles on her back with the other, appeared a few steps past friend or sibling.

Most avoided him in his back corner of the room. Maybe because of his folded arms. If that didn’t work, the “fuck-off” grimace he’d practiced for the better part of his life seemed to do the trick. It had taken him only two days on his job at the Southeastern Narcotics Bureau to convince coworkers to leave him alone. These folks understood from the get-go.

A group of mats lay in a circular pattern on the floor. Why couldn’t he and Charlotte have gotten here fashionably late and avoided all the mingling? Not his thing. He kept an eye on the door. Easy escape, but Charlotte knew where he lived.

“Hi, there. I’m Mike Schultz, and this is my wife Laura.” A thirtyish man approached, outstretched hand first. After a moment the man’s smile, and ignored hand, dropped.

“Simon Harrison,” Lucky mumbled. Also known as Richmond Eugene Lucklighter, Lucky, Ricky Getsinger, and a handful of other undercover names.

“Oh?” The woman attempted better results, smile a bit tremulous. “You’re one of the fathers-to-be?”

Now why the hell would he be in a childbirth class otherwise—without a court order. “Yeah.”

Somehow this pair managed to miss his “leave me alone” cues. Then again, their accents marked them as transplants from another place. Chicago maybe? Philadelphia? Somewhere up north without a doubt, though without the New York accent of the current office asshole, Jameson O’Donoghue. The man spoke up again. Lucky hadn’t bitten the wife’s head off—yet—so maybe he assumed he’d be safe too. “Who are you here with?”

He pointed with his coffee cup toward Charlotte. The couple paled.

“And… and you’re the father?” The woman’s face took on the pinched appearance normally reserved for biting lemons or tossing back some particularly potent rot-gut whiskey.

“That’s right.” What of it? he wanted to ask.

“But… but…” The man clutched his wife’s arm and stepped back. “But… she said you were her brother.”

Ah, Northerners were so fun to play with, bless their hearts. Lucky rolled his shoulders in a shrug. “Well, this is the South. We got a reputation to uphold, you know.”

The door opened and Lucky let out a relieved sigh. Loretta Johnson, “Call me Rett,” wove her way through the crowd, which parted to let her pass. Good idea when faced with six-plus-feet of muscular woman, with Celtic armband tattoos decorating her dark skin. Her hair, worn natural today, and three-inch heels made her the tallest person in the room. She’d changed out of her SNB polo shirt and slacks, and wore skinny jeans and a blousy short-sleeved top that did nothing to hide her six-pack abs.

Bo Schollenberger, the love of Lucky’s life, followed behind her, crossing the room slowly enough to smile and nod, with the occasional, “Good evening,” thrown in for good measure. He’d lost the tie, but still being in his suit meant he’d likely come straight from work. His dark brown hair looked a bit wind-tossed, or like he’d run his fingers through the strands repeatedly. Didn’t take away from his looks one iota. He beamed at Lucky,