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aeroport_artTitle: The West Coast Two-Step (5/9)
Characters: Brad/Nate, Ray, Poke, Walt, Rudy, etc.
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
aeroport_art
Rating: NC-17 overall
Warnings: western!AU
Word Count: 36k (2,400 this part)
Summary: 1888, Reno, NV. Sheriff Brad Colbert used to get along just fine...that is, until a morning shootout broke out in his town leaving three men dead. A babyfaced stranger by the name of Fick rolls in around the same time, and Brad ain't convinced the two events aren't related.
Brad and Nate scramble through Sydney’s to the din of exploding wood and bullets zipping overhead. When they finally get outside, they take cover behind the first thing they see—an overturned cart.
“Can’t stay out here all night,” Nate huffs, ducking a blown chunk of wood that flies over his head. “Too many people around!”
Noble sentiments aside, Brad knows they sure as hell can’t stay here—the cart in front of them’s getting shwacked like a lumberjack’s log as they speak. Brad yells to be heard, “We’ll draw the Injuns outta town, move the fight somewhere fair!”
Nate nods. “Good idea. My horse is out back, but I’ll meet you here. Count of three—” Nate commands, when a burst of gunfire takes out the last peg of wood keeping their cart upright. Damned thing crashes magnificently into a hopeless pile of splinters and for a long, scary-still moment, they’re crouched in the swirling dust, nuts fully exposed. Brad hears Nate curse under his breath.
Like synchronized wind-ups, they both launch towards their respective steeds, keeping low to the ground as bullets pepper their heels.
Brad reaches his horse first and good ol’ Hummer stays stock-still, letting Brad clamber on with ease. Once astride, Brad pulls his Colt from his thigh holster and fires a few rounds into the dark, suppressing their invisible shooters long enough for Nate to come around to the front of Sydney's.
“Nate!” Brad shouts. “Where the fuck are you, you damned Yank?”
Nate comes running out on foot, his pale skin and clothes glowing like a beacon in the low moonlight. “I counted eight men. They’re mounting their rides,” Nate shouts, “And they took my damned horse!”
“Fuck,” Brad mutters, kicking Humvee into gear so that they trot over to where Nate’s standing around, useless with no gun or horse to save his hide. “Get your ass up here, you look like a bull’s eye glowing in the dark like that. We’ll get you somewhere safe.”
“That’s a negative, Sheriff. Those men are here for me,” Nate says adamantly. “I’m not involving you.”
Brad doesn’t even try to reason. Just walks Hummer over, moves Nate’s pistol from the back of his jeans to the front because otherwise that could get real uncomfortable for Nate real quick, then leans down mid-stride to grab him by the scruff of his neck and drag the Marshal along for a few tripping steps before Nate gripes loudly enough for Brad to let go.
“Smugness doesn’t become you,” Nate says from the ground, where Brad knows Nate can’t see his face. He feels the smirk on his face grow.
Without free stirrups for Nate to boost up with, Brad offers down his hand. They lock wrists, Brad pulling him up in one long motion until they’re both seated in the curved saddle like two peas in a pod.
Nate fidgets like he don’t know where to put his hands and Brad’s about to say something teasing about their proximity—it’s there at the tip of his tongue—when the low thunder of hooves rolls ominously into the air.
All right, so no time for horseplay. Not now, at least. Brad grabs the reins with his free hand and whips them against Hummer’s flank with a cry of ha! and they kick-start down the street. Behind him, Nate wobbles from the momentum but quickly catches himself by plastering to Brad’s back like paint on a wall, arms coming ‘round front. His long-fingered hands clasp together, resting low in Brad’s lap.
A little thrill shoots through Brad…mainly from the knowledge that eight bloodthirsty savages are riding towards them with intent to kill, but maybe also a little bit from Nate’s solid presence at his back. Warm puffs of air gust over the sensitive knob of Brad’s spine from Nate’s soft breathing.
Brad shivers. Nate notices and leans back—tries to scoot away, too, but the jostling of the ride just makes their hips bump back together.
They make for the eastern edge of town, breaking the Reno border into unsettled territory where street lamps don’t reach, just moon and stars washing over the familiar backdrop of Washoe terrain. In the barren air, the claps of gunfire chasing them sound ever-louder, ever-nearer.
Brad flattens himself against Hummer, twisting around as Nate smoothly leans to the side, letting Brad fire off a couple rounds. A strangled cry rises up—one down, seven to go.
Above the distant rumble of pursuers, a separate set of hooves suddenly gallops toward them, pulling up hard to Brad’s right side. He braces himself for a mounted duel when a loud, familiar voice pierces the air, “Whoa, watch where you point that thing!”
It’s Ray. Of course it’s Ray. “Ain’t you gotten yourself dead, yet?” Brad asks loudly.
“You’d cry yourself to sleep,” Ray retorts, when his ten-gallon gets punctured by a passing bullet. “Whoa, motherfucker!” Ray swings around and shoots off more bullets than strictly necessary, but the outlying roars of pain indicate some found themselves tidy homes.
“By the way, Brad, I tracked your Injun!”
“Come on, Ray, are we really doing this?” Brad calls, as Hummer gracefully jumps a ridge of brush in the dark. Not so gracefully, Nate’s arms bounce up and smack Brad in the chin. Rolling his eyes, he adds, “Are we seriously having tea-time conversation while our asses get lit up by a flotilla of lunatic savages?”
“Word to the motherfucking yeah, Brad! I found your biggest fan, Meesh—whoo-whee, did he talk to this Beretta!” As if to make a point, Ray shoves his arm out and lobs a few rounds before continuing, “Turns out all these murderous Injuns are just following the sweet scent of fresh pussy. Their leader’s some Apache squaw named Cocheta. Must be some hot piece of ass, all these guys breaking out of the reservation down in Ojo Caliente to chase her! Gotta give ‘em props for being such horny motherfuckers!”
“And the dope?” Brad asks. He feels Nate lean closer, probably hoping to catch what comes next.
It’s hard enough to listen as is, but the rest of Ray’s diatribe gets drowned out by new riders coming up to Brad’s left. The panting of hard-ridden horses resonates louder and louder, but when Brad turns around to look, he’s glad to find that it’s just his men. He counts ‘em—Poke, Walt, and Rudy with his shirt off—what the fuck?—all galloping in a line, letting off slugs like the ammo’ll explode in their guns if they sit too long.
“Nice night!” Brad yells in salutation. Rudy pumps his fist into the air and Walt lets loose a spirited yee-haw!
Invigorated, Brad spurs his horse to a higher speed. He re-joins the fight with a deafening bang from his peacemaker, gunpowder sparking at the muzzle. In the shadowy light, he sees another target hunch over and slide off his horse.
Like fish in a barrel, Brad thinks, lifting his gun to take aim again.
When he pulls, the trigger clicks empty. “Shit,” he swears, and it’s right then that he feels Nate’s hands tugging on the Outlaw stuck down the front of Brad’s jeans. The barrel catches on the waistband, however, so Nate slides his hand along the muzzle—into Brad’s trousers—and tries to wriggle the gun out with firm fingers.
“Shit,” Brad cusses again, though for wholly different reason. “The fuck you doing, Nate?”
“I want my gun,” Nate replies in a punched-out voice that sounds way too close, his lips grazing Brad’s ear.
Brad jerks his head away, forcing himself with difficulty to focus as he tosses back, “Forget it, it ain’t loaded! Use my Pocket Navy, left ankle. And grab me a loaded cylinder while you’re down there.”
Nate obediently withdraws his hands and Brad bites back his disappointment. He’s still frustrated from Missy’s unfinished blowjob back at Sydney’s, and plain pissed he didn’t get to blow his load before this whole clusterfuck came about.
Nate drops to the side, stretching down Brad’s leg with a flexibility that makes Brad’s breath quicken. He goes straight for the ankle holster, yanking up Brad’s pant leg to get at the gun there.
At just .31 caliber, the Pocket Navy’s no guaranteed death-dealer like the Colt .45 or Nate’s Army Outlaw, but it’ll do in a pinch. Nate works the piece out of its holster, then procures the extra cylinder from Brad’s side bag faster than an eyeblink.
Brad proffers the reins so Nate can steer while Brad reloads, but strong arms come around his waist and Nate reaches for Brad's Colt instead. He wraps his hands around it, ignoring the tight grip already there, and swaps the cylinder out with an efficiency that suggests experience.
"Thanks," Brad says a bit breathlessly. Nate doesn't respond, just squeezes Brad's fist one last time before launching into a cowboy move that done stops Brad’s heart for a stretching moment, the kid throwing himself up in the air as he twists around to plunk back down, this time facing backwards in the saddle with his shoulder blades digging against Brad's.
Brad hears him take one—two—three shots into the night, clean and calculated in a frankly impressive display.
The Injun assault lessens significantly after that, and around him Brad hears his men take out the rest of the straggling party with ease.
Brad's in no way surprised at the outcome of the waning firefight, but that don't make it any less of a relief to have the doggone bullets finally cease chasing ‘em like a swarm of angry hornets. Before long, only the sound of pounding hooves and panting horses rolls through the dry, Washoe air.
Up ahead, a shadow of a building looms up on the horizon. It’s Brad’s ranch, sitting pretty like the sweet dame she is. Hummer must’ve led them here instinctually.
Brad slows Humvee to a canter, cognizant of his horse's sweaty flank and spent breath while the other riders pace him in the wind-down. Together they keep silent and focused; nothing like a fierce firefight to drum out the swagger from a bunch of loudmouthed cowboys.
Behind Brad, Nate's since maneuvered around to face front again, but his breathing's harsh and his arms around Brad's waist are worryingly limp and ineffectual. When they approach Brad’s land, Hummer slows to a trot before curving into a gradual, final stop in front of the porch. Nate lists dangerously to the right and Brad quickly holsters his gun, reaching back to clamp onto Nate's leg for fear the kid'll slide right off like a sack of potatoes.
Brad immediately dismounts, paying no heed to stabling Hummer even as the other men walk their horses to the other end of the porch where they can tie up their steeds to the wooden bar out front.
Still atop Humvee, Nate’s made no indication he’s anything but just plumb tired, but Brad knows something’s up.
“Nate,” Brad says, holding out his hand. Nate ignores it and swings his leg easily over the side to jump down.
He stumbles a bit though, and Brad has to keep himself from dashing forward like a handwringing dicksuck. He swallows thickly, watching Nate dust himself off with one hand, the other still holding on to Brad’s Pocket Navy.
“Fick, you all right?” Brad asks, eyes roving over Nate’s body. It’s too damned dark to tell if the kid’s been hit—too many layers of clothing to catch sight of any wound.
“Jus’ fine,” Nate replies, but the sharp inhalation after that makes him sound about anything but fine.
Brad strides forward and brusquely begins to pat him down. Nate protests, saying some shit about how he’s perfectly all right and how he just needs directions to the closest inn so he can get some shut-eye, but when Brad thumps against Nate’s inner thigh, his words end on a hiss.
From the other side of the ranch, Brad sees his men filter out en cadre. He lifts his head and calls out, “Fick’s been shot.”
Poke rounds up, wincing in sympathy. “Shit, dog.”
Rudy gets there next and moves in front of Brad, dropping down to one knee to inspect the damage. The muscles shift back and forth under Rudy’s gleaming skin as he gently reaches out and feels around the punctured fabric of Nate’s trousers.
Brad watches stoically for a minute but impatience quickly wins out and he nudges Rudy aside, crouching down to take over the job.
“Shit, they didn’t get your dick, did they?” Ray comes up behind Poke. “Because that would fucking suck. Oh man, can you imagine if—”
“Ray,” Brad says curtly. “Take care of Hummer for me, would ya? I’m busy.” He doesn’t bother to make eye contact, but he can practically see the knowing expression on his deputy’s whisky tango, inbred face as Ray pauses significantly before pivoting back around with the loud scrape of grit under his boots.
“We should get him to Doc’s,” Walt suggests. “See if he’s still awake.”
“It’s just a flesh wound,” Nate argues. “I can clean myself up if you would all stop hovering like nursemaids.”
“Doc’s out,” Poke replies, ignoring Nate completely. “He left for a house call in Silver Springs yesterday, not supposed to be back ‘til the weekend.”
“Well, any one of us can patch him up for now,” Rudy says. “I got a bottle of Phoenix Bitters at my house, and a bed—”
“I’m taking him,” Brad interrupts, standing up to his full height. His eyes don't leave Nate's, and Nate blinks up in a priceless expression that borders somewhere between exasperation and relief. Brad adds, “We’re here already. Plus, that bullet would’ve been mine if it didn’t go through Fick first, so he’s my responsibility.”
The tone of his voice begs no room for dissent. With a collective shrug and murmurs of good luck, the Washoe police slowly disband, leaving Nate and Brad alone in the night.
“Come on,” Brad says, stepping in to pull one of Nate’s arms over his shoulders. Surprisingly, Nate keeps his attitude in check and Brad says, quieter this time, “This way.”
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Characters: Brad/Nate, Ray, Poke, Walt, Rudy, etc.
Author:
aeroport_artRating: NC-17 overall
Warnings: western!AU
Word Count: 36k (2,400 this part)
Summary: 1888, Reno, NV. Sheriff Brad Colbert used to get along just fine...that is, until a morning shootout broke out in his town leaving three men dead. A babyfaced stranger by the name of Fick rolls in around the same time, and Brad ain't convinced the two events aren't related.
Brad and Nate scramble through Sydney’s to the din of exploding wood and bullets zipping overhead. When they finally get outside, they take cover behind the first thing they see—an overturned cart.
“Can’t stay out here all night,” Nate huffs, ducking a blown chunk of wood that flies over his head. “Too many people around!”
Noble sentiments aside, Brad knows they sure as hell can’t stay here—the cart in front of them’s getting shwacked like a lumberjack’s log as they speak. Brad yells to be heard, “We’ll draw the Injuns outta town, move the fight somewhere fair!”
Nate nods. “Good idea. My horse is out back, but I’ll meet you here. Count of three—” Nate commands, when a burst of gunfire takes out the last peg of wood keeping their cart upright. Damned thing crashes magnificently into a hopeless pile of splinters and for a long, scary-still moment, they’re crouched in the swirling dust, nuts fully exposed. Brad hears Nate curse under his breath.
Like synchronized wind-ups, they both launch towards their respective steeds, keeping low to the ground as bullets pepper their heels.
Brad reaches his horse first and good ol’ Hummer stays stock-still, letting Brad clamber on with ease. Once astride, Brad pulls his Colt from his thigh holster and fires a few rounds into the dark, suppressing their invisible shooters long enough for Nate to come around to the front of Sydney's.
“Nate!” Brad shouts. “Where the fuck are you, you damned Yank?”
Nate comes running out on foot, his pale skin and clothes glowing like a beacon in the low moonlight. “I counted eight men. They’re mounting their rides,” Nate shouts, “And they took my damned horse!”
“Fuck,” Brad mutters, kicking Humvee into gear so that they trot over to where Nate’s standing around, useless with no gun or horse to save his hide. “Get your ass up here, you look like a bull’s eye glowing in the dark like that. We’ll get you somewhere safe.”
“That’s a negative, Sheriff. Those men are here for me,” Nate says adamantly. “I’m not involving you.”
Brad doesn’t even try to reason. Just walks Hummer over, moves Nate’s pistol from the back of his jeans to the front because otherwise that could get real uncomfortable for Nate real quick, then leans down mid-stride to grab him by the scruff of his neck and drag the Marshal along for a few tripping steps before Nate gripes loudly enough for Brad to let go.
“Smugness doesn’t become you,” Nate says from the ground, where Brad knows Nate can’t see his face. He feels the smirk on his face grow.
Without free stirrups for Nate to boost up with, Brad offers down his hand. They lock wrists, Brad pulling him up in one long motion until they’re both seated in the curved saddle like two peas in a pod.
Nate fidgets like he don’t know where to put his hands and Brad’s about to say something teasing about their proximity—it’s there at the tip of his tongue—when the low thunder of hooves rolls ominously into the air.
All right, so no time for horseplay. Not now, at least. Brad grabs the reins with his free hand and whips them against Hummer’s flank with a cry of ha! and they kick-start down the street. Behind him, Nate wobbles from the momentum but quickly catches himself by plastering to Brad’s back like paint on a wall, arms coming ‘round front. His long-fingered hands clasp together, resting low in Brad’s lap.
A little thrill shoots through Brad…mainly from the knowledge that eight bloodthirsty savages are riding towards them with intent to kill, but maybe also a little bit from Nate’s solid presence at his back. Warm puffs of air gust over the sensitive knob of Brad’s spine from Nate’s soft breathing.
Brad shivers. Nate notices and leans back—tries to scoot away, too, but the jostling of the ride just makes their hips bump back together.
They make for the eastern edge of town, breaking the Reno border into unsettled territory where street lamps don’t reach, just moon and stars washing over the familiar backdrop of Washoe terrain. In the barren air, the claps of gunfire chasing them sound ever-louder, ever-nearer.
Brad flattens himself against Hummer, twisting around as Nate smoothly leans to the side, letting Brad fire off a couple rounds. A strangled cry rises up—one down, seven to go.
Above the distant rumble of pursuers, a separate set of hooves suddenly gallops toward them, pulling up hard to Brad’s right side. He braces himself for a mounted duel when a loud, familiar voice pierces the air, “Whoa, watch where you point that thing!”
It’s Ray. Of course it’s Ray. “Ain’t you gotten yourself dead, yet?” Brad asks loudly.
“You’d cry yourself to sleep,” Ray retorts, when his ten-gallon gets punctured by a passing bullet. “Whoa, motherfucker!” Ray swings around and shoots off more bullets than strictly necessary, but the outlying roars of pain indicate some found themselves tidy homes.
“By the way, Brad, I tracked your Injun!”
“Come on, Ray, are we really doing this?” Brad calls, as Hummer gracefully jumps a ridge of brush in the dark. Not so gracefully, Nate’s arms bounce up and smack Brad in the chin. Rolling his eyes, he adds, “Are we seriously having tea-time conversation while our asses get lit up by a flotilla of lunatic savages?”
“Word to the motherfucking yeah, Brad! I found your biggest fan, Meesh—whoo-whee, did he talk to this Beretta!” As if to make a point, Ray shoves his arm out and lobs a few rounds before continuing, “Turns out all these murderous Injuns are just following the sweet scent of fresh pussy. Their leader’s some Apache squaw named Cocheta. Must be some hot piece of ass, all these guys breaking out of the reservation down in Ojo Caliente to chase her! Gotta give ‘em props for being such horny motherfuckers!”
“And the dope?” Brad asks. He feels Nate lean closer, probably hoping to catch what comes next.
It’s hard enough to listen as is, but the rest of Ray’s diatribe gets drowned out by new riders coming up to Brad’s left. The panting of hard-ridden horses resonates louder and louder, but when Brad turns around to look, he’s glad to find that it’s just his men. He counts ‘em—Poke, Walt, and Rudy with his shirt off—what the fuck?—all galloping in a line, letting off slugs like the ammo’ll explode in their guns if they sit too long.
“Nice night!” Brad yells in salutation. Rudy pumps his fist into the air and Walt lets loose a spirited yee-haw!
Invigorated, Brad spurs his horse to a higher speed. He re-joins the fight with a deafening bang from his peacemaker, gunpowder sparking at the muzzle. In the shadowy light, he sees another target hunch over and slide off his horse.
Like fish in a barrel, Brad thinks, lifting his gun to take aim again.
When he pulls, the trigger clicks empty. “Shit,” he swears, and it’s right then that he feels Nate’s hands tugging on the Outlaw stuck down the front of Brad’s jeans. The barrel catches on the waistband, however, so Nate slides his hand along the muzzle—into Brad’s trousers—and tries to wriggle the gun out with firm fingers.
“Shit,” Brad cusses again, though for wholly different reason. “The fuck you doing, Nate?”
“I want my gun,” Nate replies in a punched-out voice that sounds way too close, his lips grazing Brad’s ear.
Brad jerks his head away, forcing himself with difficulty to focus as he tosses back, “Forget it, it ain’t loaded! Use my Pocket Navy, left ankle. And grab me a loaded cylinder while you’re down there.”
Nate obediently withdraws his hands and Brad bites back his disappointment. He’s still frustrated from Missy’s unfinished blowjob back at Sydney’s, and plain pissed he didn’t get to blow his load before this whole clusterfuck came about.
Nate drops to the side, stretching down Brad’s leg with a flexibility that makes Brad’s breath quicken. He goes straight for the ankle holster, yanking up Brad’s pant leg to get at the gun there.
At just .31 caliber, the Pocket Navy’s no guaranteed death-dealer like the Colt .45 or Nate’s Army Outlaw, but it’ll do in a pinch. Nate works the piece out of its holster, then procures the extra cylinder from Brad’s side bag faster than an eyeblink.
Brad proffers the reins so Nate can steer while Brad reloads, but strong arms come around his waist and Nate reaches for Brad's Colt instead. He wraps his hands around it, ignoring the tight grip already there, and swaps the cylinder out with an efficiency that suggests experience.
"Thanks," Brad says a bit breathlessly. Nate doesn't respond, just squeezes Brad's fist one last time before launching into a cowboy move that done stops Brad’s heart for a stretching moment, the kid throwing himself up in the air as he twists around to plunk back down, this time facing backwards in the saddle with his shoulder blades digging against Brad's.
Brad hears him take one—two—three shots into the night, clean and calculated in a frankly impressive display.
The Injun assault lessens significantly after that, and around him Brad hears his men take out the rest of the straggling party with ease.
Brad's in no way surprised at the outcome of the waning firefight, but that don't make it any less of a relief to have the doggone bullets finally cease chasing ‘em like a swarm of angry hornets. Before long, only the sound of pounding hooves and panting horses rolls through the dry, Washoe air.
Up ahead, a shadow of a building looms up on the horizon. It’s Brad’s ranch, sitting pretty like the sweet dame she is. Hummer must’ve led them here instinctually.
Brad slows Humvee to a canter, cognizant of his horse's sweaty flank and spent breath while the other riders pace him in the wind-down. Together they keep silent and focused; nothing like a fierce firefight to drum out the swagger from a bunch of loudmouthed cowboys.
Behind Brad, Nate's since maneuvered around to face front again, but his breathing's harsh and his arms around Brad's waist are worryingly limp and ineffectual. When they approach Brad’s land, Hummer slows to a trot before curving into a gradual, final stop in front of the porch. Nate lists dangerously to the right and Brad quickly holsters his gun, reaching back to clamp onto Nate's leg for fear the kid'll slide right off like a sack of potatoes.
Brad immediately dismounts, paying no heed to stabling Hummer even as the other men walk their horses to the other end of the porch where they can tie up their steeds to the wooden bar out front.
Still atop Humvee, Nate’s made no indication he’s anything but just plumb tired, but Brad knows something’s up.
“Nate,” Brad says, holding out his hand. Nate ignores it and swings his leg easily over the side to jump down.
He stumbles a bit though, and Brad has to keep himself from dashing forward like a handwringing dicksuck. He swallows thickly, watching Nate dust himself off with one hand, the other still holding on to Brad’s Pocket Navy.
“Fick, you all right?” Brad asks, eyes roving over Nate’s body. It’s too damned dark to tell if the kid’s been hit—too many layers of clothing to catch sight of any wound.
“Jus’ fine,” Nate replies, but the sharp inhalation after that makes him sound about anything but fine.
Brad strides forward and brusquely begins to pat him down. Nate protests, saying some shit about how he’s perfectly all right and how he just needs directions to the closest inn so he can get some shut-eye, but when Brad thumps against Nate’s inner thigh, his words end on a hiss.
From the other side of the ranch, Brad sees his men filter out en cadre. He lifts his head and calls out, “Fick’s been shot.”
Poke rounds up, wincing in sympathy. “Shit, dog.”
Rudy gets there next and moves in front of Brad, dropping down to one knee to inspect the damage. The muscles shift back and forth under Rudy’s gleaming skin as he gently reaches out and feels around the punctured fabric of Nate’s trousers.
Brad watches stoically for a minute but impatience quickly wins out and he nudges Rudy aside, crouching down to take over the job.
“Shit, they didn’t get your dick, did they?” Ray comes up behind Poke. “Because that would fucking suck. Oh man, can you imagine if—”
“Ray,” Brad says curtly. “Take care of Hummer for me, would ya? I’m busy.” He doesn’t bother to make eye contact, but he can practically see the knowing expression on his deputy’s whisky tango, inbred face as Ray pauses significantly before pivoting back around with the loud scrape of grit under his boots.
“We should get him to Doc’s,” Walt suggests. “See if he’s still awake.”
“It’s just a flesh wound,” Nate argues. “I can clean myself up if you would all stop hovering like nursemaids.”
“Doc’s out,” Poke replies, ignoring Nate completely. “He left for a house call in Silver Springs yesterday, not supposed to be back ‘til the weekend.”
“Well, any one of us can patch him up for now,” Rudy says. “I got a bottle of Phoenix Bitters at my house, and a bed—”
“I’m taking him,” Brad interrupts, standing up to his full height. His eyes don't leave Nate's, and Nate blinks up in a priceless expression that borders somewhere between exasperation and relief. Brad adds, “We’re here already. Plus, that bullet would’ve been mine if it didn’t go through Fick first, so he’s my responsibility.”
The tone of his voice begs no room for dissent. With a collective shrug and murmurs of good luck, the Washoe police slowly disband, leaving Nate and Brad alone in the night.
“Come on,” Brad says, stepping in to pull one of Nate’s arms over his shoulders. Surprisingly, Nate keeps his attitude in check and Brad says, quieter this time, “This way.”
Back | Next
