Luck in the Making Read online

  Luck in the Making

  By Kelly Wyre

  The subway car was packed, and Jeffrey Ross clung to the overhead handle with a death grip. The Pixies sang to him through his earbuds, but even the familiar screeching didn't distract him from the claustrophobia. He hitched his shoulder bag closer to his body and sighed in relief when the next stop let off more people than it took on. It was five o'clock on February fourteenth, and the smell of romance and candy hearts was nearly palpable and entirely sickening. Jeffrey rolled his eyes at a high school couple holding hands and grimaced when someone stepped on his toe. He was about to mutter something appropriate, but the same asshat lost balance when they left the station and knocked into Jeffrey. Because Murphy's Law loved him, the lid on Jeffrey's recycled cup came off, and the last of Jeffrey's orange spice tea spilled all over his hoodie and jeans.

  "Oh. Awesome." Jeffrey glared daggers at the ungraceful stranger quickly cutting a path elsewhere. "Thanks, man! I was feeling way too dry over here!" Jeffrey called, blushing furiously and trying to mop up the drips with his sleeve. This was so not his day, his week, or, really, his last five years. Bad luck haunted Jeffery's ass like the ghost of stereotypes past.

  When Jeffrey was seventeen, his dad had decided enough was enough and left Jeffrey's mother to be with a waitress named Christine. Poverty ensued, and the divorce was, apparently, the last straw holding Mom's sanity together. She was diagnosed with schizophrenia after vanishing on the streets of New Amsterdam for two solid weeks. Jeffrey had been out of his mind, but the cops found her, got her home, and tipped their caps to Jeffrey in good friggin' luck.

  After two rounds of commitment and many laps around the medication trial and error track, Jeffrey's mom was working and getting better. Jeffrey moved out, enrolled in the fine arts program at New Amsterdam University, and managed to land a job at Maxwell Clark's bar, Glow. That had been a total beg, borrow, and steal kind of thing -- a stroke of good fortune like a candle in the darkness. Jeffrey had walked into the most popular bar in the Fashion District on a random Tuesday, fallen immediately in love with the enigmatic bartender and owner, and shown up every night after that until finally Clark, as the beautiful sergeant liked to be called, cried 'Uncle' and told Jeffrey to start clearing tables. Clark giving orders was one of the hottest things ever, and Jeffrey pledged his faithful allegiance to the well-connected and deliciously-dangerous Clark.

  It was a good thing that, in addition to being secretive and gorgeous, Clark was also forgiving and patient. Jeffrey's mom liked to go off her medication just to see if Jeffrey was paying attention, and he often came in late to work or was so tired from acting as counselor and guard dog that he dropped glassware or forgot to put in the bar's supply orders. Between school and dealing with the never-ending string of bad boyfriends who liked to hang out at his mother's apartment causing mayhem, Jeffrey didn't get a lot of rest. And when he did, he still had nightmares about the shooting.

  Last year, Jeffrey had been minding his own business making out in a supply closet with an insanely hot computer geek, and some maniac decided to shoot up the computer science building on campus. Jeffrey had to think about the events that followed like they had happened to someone else, or he'd just lose it. He remembered the blood, screaming, and panic way too damned well, not to mention feeling like you were totally helpless to stop any of it. In the end, you were just a bystander hoping death would overlook you.

  Jeffrey hadn't been completely useless, though. He and the computer geek, whose name turned out to be Aquila, had helped Professor Germain with the injured. Who knew that coping with a crazy parent would make crises easier to survive? They'd carried a woman who'd been shot in the shoulder outside and stayed with her until the paramedics took her.

  Meanwhile, the professor had become the hero of the day. Daniel had killed the murderer, and Jeffrey had found out in the aftermath that Daniel Germain also happened to be Clark's boyfriend. Jeffrey had been working the night the two had met at Glow, and he'd seen the sparks try to burn down the city. Jeffrey liked to remember the strange joy he'd felt when he'd gotten to watch Clark and Daniel on the news, ducking into a police car. He'd much rather remember those images or delivering personal items to a towel-clad Clark staying in the Hotel Magnolia, instead of sitting on the grass outside the scene of the crime, surrounded by sobbing students and faculty, covered in the injured woman's blood. It made for more internal peace, and the fact that Clark and Daniel had been together for longer than any other gay couple Jeffrey knew helped him believe that love really could be born from tragedy and conquer all. Just like in every stupid tearjerker flick ever made.

  When the train stopped at Fashion Square, Jeffrey merged with the human traffic and began the ascent to street level. He cursed under his breath at his damp clothing, tossed his cup into the recycle bin next to the stairs, and tried to burrow into his sweatshirt. He was happy for Clark and Daniel. He was happy for anybody who managed to find love and keep it, really, and on any other day Jeffrey could channel his inner romantic and swoon with the best of them.

  But not today. In addition to it being Single People Awareness Day, it was also two days after Jeffrey's birthday. This year's Hallmark moment had been brought to Jeffrey by Mom calling, drunk off her ass and threatening to commit suicide to commemorate Jeffrey getting too old to need his Mommy. Fast-forward through forty-eight restless hours, and Mom was back in the psych ward getting reacquainted with restraints and IV drips.

  The truly horrific thing, though, was not coping yet again with mental disorders or the catastrophes they caused, but rather that somewhere in the last few days, Jeffrey had lost a sketchbook. Jeffrey realized he was probably a monumental jerk for caring more about that than his sick mother, but it wasn't just any sketchbook. Jeffrey had tons of the things, but this particular one was full of drawings that meant more to Jeffrey than almost anything on the planet. He'd bought the spiral-bound book just after the NAU horror, and he'd started doodling snapshots of that day to help him deal. It was cheap therapy, and it worked.

  Also among the missing pages were sketches of Aquila: sitting in a coffee shop, leaning against a brick wall, sound asleep and tangled in Jeffrey's sheets. Jeffrey didn't have any photos of the guy, and he mourned the loss of those drawings like most kids would grieve dead grandmothers. Jeffrey told himself his feelings for Aquila had far more to do with meeting in extreme circumstances than anything so stupid as love at first sight or even lust with potential. The little white lie helped Jeffrey get on with life after calling every place he'd been for the last week hoping somebody had found the book. So far, no luck. Business as usual.

  Jeffrey trotted across a wide street and up to Glow's oversized, wooden front doors. Inside it was warm, the atmosphere cheerful and homey. Glow opened at three on weekdays, and already several of the booths were occupied by animated patrons. The televisions were on, tuned to sports and news, and Jeffrey had to duck under garish pink hearts and fat babies with arrows that hung from the ceiling from sparkling accordion paper. It was the first year Clark had ever paid attention to Cupid's holiday, and Jeffrey tried to muster some semblance of good cheer.

  "Where the hell have you been?" hissed a voice just before a hand clutched Jeffrey by the shoulder strap and started dragging him toward the bar and the kitchen.

  "Aw, miss me?" Jeffrey quipped, stumbling along behind Heather, his Suicide Girl Wannabe coworker. Today her hair was pink, and her clothing looked like something out of Lolita's closet.

  "You don’t show up for work three days running, don't call, don't text, and that's the best you can come up with?" Heather came to a halt in a nook near the swinging door leading into Ken the cook's domain. The new guy, Neil of Too Many Piercings, was behind
the bar where Clark usually took up residence. Neil was nice enough, but weird. Quiet, soft-spoken, and pretty if you could get around the whole human pincushion thing, but the weird trumped. God only knew where Clark had found Neil. The boss did love to bring in strays. Jeffrey had to admit, though, that Neil's long, blond hair was definitely a bonus and would be awesome wrapped around Jeffrey's--

  "Hello?" Heather said, arms crossed and red eyeliner making her charmingly demonic.

  "Sorry," Jeffrey muttered, facing Heather with hands in his pockets. "Had to blow out candles on Mom's commitment paperwork."

  Heather sighed, shoulders drooping, and she yanked Jeffrey into an awkward hug. "Idiot. Why didn't you call me?"

  "I told the boss?" Jeffrey tried in excuse of self.

  "Oh, so it's him I should kill for not letting me know what was up with you?"

  Jeffrey attempted a grin. "Don't you have enough reasons to murder the boss in his sleep?"

  Heather grunted, gaze flicking toward the bar's entrance. "Can always use another, and speak of the devil."

  Jeffrey glanced back and saw Clark shaking hands with a regular at a tall table near the door. Clark's gray hair was styled, his long coat clung to his muscular physique showing glimpses of the tailored suit beneath, and Jeffrey sighed in unrequited longing. Clark might have been more like a father figure or the guy Jeffrey wanted to grow up to be, but that didn't mean the man didn't occupy a few fantasies here and there.

  "You okay?" Heather asked.

  "Yeah. I'm cool."

  "Good. Get your shit together and take the booths. Jen doesn't get here until nine, and Neil's swell at making the drinks, but he scares the customers."

  "It's the metal in the skin," Jeffrey said, heading for the supply room that doubled as the employee's locker room. "They're afraid the silverware'll fly up and stick to his face."

  Heather barked laughter and got back to work, and Jeffrey went to hang up his bag and shuck his hoodie. He checked for the missing sketchbook and came up empty-handed. Sighing and telling himself he needed the shift to cover rent, Jeffrey left to check the computer and order statuses.

  "Jeffrey," Clark said, catching him before he got to the monitor station. "Might I have a word?"

  "I swear I'll order the supplies tonight," Jeffrey said hastily, following Clark to the bar. Neil ducked into the kitchen, Heather bustled by with a tray of steaming Philly cheesesteak, and Clark wandered to his usual post. "I did inventory end of last week before the whole sucks to be me crisis thing," Jeffrey said, hoping he sounded falsely reassuring instead of actually panicked. "So we should be fine until the next shipment."

  Clark leaned to rest elbows on the wood he was forever polishing. "Have a seat," he said, gesturing to the stool across from him.

  "I'll take shifts this weekend to cover for you?" Jeffrey placated. He hated the very idea of disappointing Clark, and even though Clark had been very understanding on the phone when Jeffrey had called in and explained in the vaguest terms about his mother, and Clark'd never been anything more than playfully irritated with him, Jeffrey's heart was still beating too fast. Everybody's tolerance wore out eventually, and Clark's poker face could bluff Satan.

  "And... and aren't you off tonight?" Jeffrey asked, perching in the proffered chair. Oh God, what if Clark had come in to fire him. For real fire him, this time, not like all the millions of times Clark merely threatened to do it. Jeffrey fidgeted and resisted the urge to bite his nails.

  "Breathe, kid," Clark soothed and filled a glass with water and ice. He slid it to Jeffrey, who caught it. "When did you last eat?"

  "Uh," Jeffrey said, thinking. "Today, I think." He sipped while Clark nodded.

  "Get Ken to make you something." Clark glared at Jeffrey, pounding the order into Jeffrey's skull with nothing but his eyes.

  "Sure, boss. No problem."

  "Good, and yes, to answer your question, I am off tonight." Clark grinned. "Date with the good professor."

  "Sweet," Jeffrey said to his water, drinking hastily to drown any sarcastic remarks that might break Clark's jovial mood.

  "He is, yes, but I needed to stop by and talk with you, first."

  Jeffrey whimpered, and Clark chuckled. He manifested a brightly colored package from behind the bar. There was a card under the ribbon and everything. Jeffrey gaped.

  "Happy birthday, kid," Clark said, nudging the present closer.

  "You... you didn't have to do that," Jeffrey said, blushing so hot he thought his face might ignite. It was just plain stupid how his eyes burned, too. God, he needed to get some rest before he started sobbing over beer ads or something equally mortifying.

  "I didn't have to, it's true." Clark paused, one eyebrow lifting. "It's probably not going to unwrap itself," he continued, but the sarcasm was gentle.

  "You want me to open it now?" Jeffery asked, horrified. He hated witnesses to gift reception; it made him feel like he was on stage without any pants.

  "Yep," Clark replied, smiling the smile that sent chills down Jeffrey's spine. It made Clark look... hungry.

  "Fine. Okay." Trying to get it over with as fast as possible, Jeffrey yanked off the ribbon, set aside the card, and tore into the packaging. He stared at his present for a second, slammed it on the bar, and checked the back cover for a faded sticker. "This is... this is my sketchbook!" Jeffrey yelled, and the lone customer at the bar decided a table was a cozier venue. "You... I..." Jeffrey glared at Clark. "I've been looking everywhere for this! I thought I'd lost it, and you had it?"

  "I did."

  "Since when?"

  "Since three days ago when I stole it out of your bag," Clark said somberly.

  Jeffrey sputtered. Clark didn't even seem sorry about panicking Jeffrey to the point of illness, and when Clark reached for the book, Jeffrey threw himself on top of it.

  "I've returned it mostly unmolested," Clark said with a sigh, wrestling with Jeffrey for the book.

  "Mostly?" Jeffrey squawked, making a valiant attempt not to get distracted by how damned good Clark smelled and failing. Jeffrey relented, and Clark unfolded his arms with unhurried deliberation.

  Clark turned the book over, opened it to the first page, and tapped a note that Jeffrey definitely didn't remember. "Read," Clark said.

  Hunching over his property protectively, Jeffrey skimmed the piece of paper. Twice. "Wait... this is... I..."

  "It's a letter from Greg Castle, the Ink Art Gallery manager," Clark supplied when Jeffrey's tongue wouldn't unknot itself. "Greg's brother is on the force, and Daniel knows both of them. Sorry I had to borrow your book, but you wouldn't let this thing out of your sight otherwise, and how else was I supposed to get your work reviewed and get you an interview?"

  Jeffrey mouthed the word 'interview' and waited for Clark to pull a rabbit out of his ass. When that didn't happen, which was somewhat disappointing, Jeffrey petted the gallery's logo at the bottom of the letter. It didn't seem real, even though the notation was handwritten in a quick scrawl, friendly and personal: "Very promising. You say he's never shown anywhere before? Tell the young man to call me. We have spots still available in the Up and Coming feature in April."

  "I... I don't know what to say." Jeffrey sniffed and wiped his nose on his sleeve.

  "Well," Clark mused, coming around the bar to sit on the stool next to Jeffrey. "Why don't you start with, 'Gee, boss, you're as clever as you are handsome' and see where it leads you?"

  Jeffrey's laugh choked into a cough. "Golly, boss, you're kinda an ass, but the results are pretty damned cool."

  "We can work on it," Clark said, and gripped the back of Jeffrey's neck in a friendly way. "Been a hard one for you, kid. Thought somebody should give you a break or two, is all."

  "Yeah..." Jeffrey trailed off, at a complete loss to tell Clark how much the gesture meant. It was so big, a looming, grand sort of kindness that Jeffrey didn't know if he'd be able to carry its weight. Jeffrey closed the sketchbook, picking at the
peeling corner.

  "You know, I can't help but notice there's a theme of sorts." Clark tapped Jeffrey's knuckles with one fingertip.

  "You totally looked," Jeffrey accused. "Well. Of course you did. Why wouldn't you?"

  "That's Aquila, isn't it? In your drawings?" Clark asked, ignoring Jeffrey's disdain. "Daniel mentioned him. Said he was there with you on the day of the shooting."

  "Yeah."

  "What ever happened to him?"

  Jeffrey shrugged. "Dunno. We went out a few times, but he dropped out of NAU. He never said or anything, but I think the... the incident was too big a deal."

  Jeffrey didn't add the part about how he also suspected he wasn't even close to Aquila's league. Didn't say he wasn't worthy to keep somebody like the beautiful and brilliant Aquila's attention for longer than a night or two at most. Enough time for Aquila to figure out that Jeffrey was a headcase and bail.

  "You cared about him, didn't you?" Clark asked, reading Jeffrey's mind, the jerk.

  "Sure," Jeffrey said, aiming for non-committal and landing on bitterness, instead.

  Clark hummed and slapped Jeffrey on the shoulder, knocking out wind and better sense. "Too bad he didn't stay in touch."

  "You're making me feel so much better about it, too. Really. Rub it in a little more, and I'll go jump off a bridge."

  Clark pointed a stern finger at Jeffrey. "There will be no kamikaze routine until you get the supply order in."

  "Yeah, yeah," Jeffrey got up, hugging his sketchbook to his chest. He hesitated, forced himself to speak even though it was harder than holding Mom's hair back when she threw up bile. "Thanks, by the way."

  "You're welcome," Clark said. "Now get your butt into my office, and get to work before I hug you." The mask finally broke, and the corners of Clark's mismatched eyes crinkled.

  Jeffrey memorized the expression to sketch it later, then spun and fled to the lockers, reverently stashing the book in his bag. The idea of talking to an actual gallery person made Jeffrey's guts go watery, and he resolutely decided not to think about it. Not until after work and at least a fourteen-hour nap.