Page 15 of Lucky's Trouble

This man is standing between me and my sister, limiting what precious time I have to spend with her. “Not like I had a choice.”

His expression changes from amused to dead serious, his tone lowering. “You always have a choice. Might not like the consequences, but the choice is there.”

I take in his words, wondering if he’s right. Do I have choices? It doesn’t feel like it, but if I force myself to simplify it into a yes or no answer, then I’d have to agree. Although, if both options are equally horrendous, does having a choice even matter?

“I guess,” I say noncommittally.

The waitress drops off our drinks, and I watch in horror as Lucky grabs nearly every sugar packet on our table and dumps it into his coffee. It only gets worse when he opens six tiny cups of French vanilla creamer and pours them in, too. I can’t tell if he’s fucking with me or is for real. I get my answer when he stirs it up and takes a long swallow, humming his delight.

“I see you like a splash of coffee in your sugar and cream?”

He laughs loud and deep, startling me. Glancing around, I catch every eye in the joint focused on him. What’s with this guy?

“Basically,” he says, leaning in and lowering his voice. “I have a bit of a sweet tooth.”

“That explains the licorice.”

“You got me. I always keep a bag of it in my cut.” He opens his leather vest, exposing his hidden candy.

“How old are you?” I ask because the burly beard makes it hard to judge. He could be hiding a baby face under there, for all I know. Even his slightly weathered skin could be due to too much sun exposure rather than age.

“I’m thirty-one, why?”

“I’ve just never seen a grown adult carry candy in their pocket.”

He sighs and reaches his arms out wide to rest on the back of the bench, unapologetically taking up so much space. I wonder what it would feel like to be that confident, to not care who sees you or takes an interest in you.

It could never be me.

“Yeah, well, I blame it on my folks. My whole life, they told me I was allergic to sugar, so I never had so much as a cookie until I was fifteen.”

“And you believed them?”

“They’re my folks,” he says as if that’s an explanation, but it’s not to me.

My parents told me a lot of shit, and I can’t ever remember a time I believed them. Even when I was just a child and they told me I couldn’t have the cute Strawberry Shortcake bikini I was eyeing because it was my obligation to keep the thoughts of men pure, I had this gut feeling that it was all bullshit. I was six, for fuck’s sake.

Thinking back on it now, it makes me think they were the fucked-up ones by sexualizing a child. If anyone has any thoughts other than “How stinkin’ cute is that girl?” when they see a little girl in a bikini, then they’re the ones who should be ashamed, not me.

“How did you find out they were lying?”

“My buddy, Rigger, was staying the night and smuggled in some Skittles. I figured one tiny piece of candy wouldn’t kill me, so I ate one. When nothing happened, I ate a couple more. I finished off that whole bag, and the only thing that happened was I got a little hyper.” He laughs again, and this time, I don’t bother looking around because I’m too transfixed on this insane man. “I barged into my parents’ room at midnight, holding up the empty bag and telling them I must’ve grown out of my allergy. Scared the shit out of them, but after they woke up a little, I saw the lie on their faces.”

“Sucks when you find out your parents are liars.”

“Nah, it wasn’t that deep. My mom told me she made it up after giving me some ice cream when I was two years old. I got all hyped up, climbing the furniture and shit. She was just protecting her peace.”

Our server interrupts our conversation, ready to take our orders. Knowing a little about Lucky, I’m not surprised when he orders the strawberry French toast with whip cream. I opt for the egg white and asparagus omelet with a side of turkey bacon, since I know it won’t cause me to bloat.

“Asparagus omelet? That sounds gross,” Lucky says after the server takes our menus, leaving us alone once again.

“Maybe to a man-child like you, but to us grown-ups, it’s a healthy choice.”

“I’m not a man-child.” He pouts before realizing how immature he sounds. “I’m older than you.”

“How do you know how old I am?”

“Your sister and I are really good friends.”

---