THE COP AND THE DRIFTER …As Davie said, they were grown men with men’s needs, except Brad had been so busy wallowing in his grief and his pain, he hadn’t realized until now quite how much he needed what Davie was offering. He actually needed the physical closeness and comfort of another man, along with the warmth and reassurance of knowing someone cared, even if it lasted for only a few minutes. “I just don’t want you to think I expect something in return for a couple of lousy bits of chicken because I don’t. From what you’ve told me, your life has been full of users and abusers, and I have no interest in joining the list, okay? That’s not the kind of man I am.” To Brad’s surprise, as he released his grip on Davie’s wrist, Davie resumed the stroking.
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THE COP AND THE DRIFTER THE COP AND THE DRIFTER Daylight was already starting to fade and, before it got fully dark, Davie Kenton needed to find a reasonably comfortable spot in the woods where he could spend the night. He didn’t take up much space and he wasn’t overly fussy, so something small and relatively cozy, like one of them big old hollow trees he’d passed, or even an overhang beneath the rocks, would suit him just fine.
THE COP AND THE DRIFTER through the undergrowth, closer to where he could see a fire burning a few feet from the edge of the lake. He’d managed to get himself a good long drink of cold water at a gas station about an hour ago, so he was no longer thirsty. But thinking about a mouthful of delicious, freshly roasted meat was driving him nuts.
THE COP AND THE DRIFTER two things—the speaker was almost certainly alone, and he was also more than a tad jumpy. He started to step out of his hiding place, then hesitated and dropped to the ground when he heard the metallic click of what sounded to him like a gun being cocked.
THE COP AND THE DRIFTER now?” * * * Brad Nierstrom put away his gun, but he didn’t completely relax. As an undercover cop, he’d spent enough time on the streets to know runaways could be resourceful little bastards, as well as being slippery as eels. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d been attacked with something like a woman’s plastic tail comb or some other similar but innocent-looking object. Items that weren’t lethal like a gun or a knife, and there was no law against carrying them, but oh, man, they could sure inflict a lot of damage in the right hands. One time, he’d almost lost an eye when a druggie attacked him with an ordinary yellow HB pencil. “What you running away from, kid?” The boy gave him a narrow-eyed glare. “Who you calling a kid? I’m not a kid. And I’m not a runaway.” Brad smiled. He wished he could count the times he’d gotten that answer. When he was a kid, he couldn’t wait to get home to his parents, his dog and his dinner. Nowadays, it seemed all the kids were running in the opposite direction. “Right. I suppose you just turned eighteen.” “No. I just turned twenty-one this past January. Okay? Not my fault I’m small for my age.” Twenty-one, my ass, Brad decided as the boy began shoving his possessions back into the tattered old rucksack. It would soon be dark, but there was still enough light for him to take note of the kid’s innocent, pretty-boy looks—blond curls, blue eyes, slight stature and scrawny arms. If appearances were anything to go by, he wasn’t more than fifteen, sixteen max. “You have proof?” 4.