Toronto Tales 1 - Cop Out by KC Burn Read Free Book Online

day Kurt had visited. Despite Ben’s car in the driveway, Kurt didn’t have a picture in his mind of anyone but Davy living there.
    And Davy better be there now. Kurt hopped out of the cab and threw a twenty at the driver. He moved as fast as he could up the drive. Not as fast as he’d like, but he carried the cane now as a just-in-case and didn’t want to go back to needing it.
    Finger pressed on the doorbell, he waited. The annoying ringing he’d expected to hear wasn’t audible, so he pounded on the door with his cane. Davy yanked the door open, annoyed and sweaty.
“What?” The irritation faded, a bit, when he focused on Kurt.
    “Hey, Davy. What’s up? Ready for lunch?” Tomorrow, he was going to bring his car over, and they were fucking going out for lunch.
“I told you I wasn’t feeling well… and wait. There aren’t any tunnels around here.”
Kurt shrugged. “I lied.”
    Davy’s mouth opened and closed like a goldfish. “But… but… how could you?”
Tempting as it was to laugh, Kurt refrained. “You lied, too, you know. You look like you’re feeling just fine.”
    Red climbed Davy’s throat and stained his cheeks a fiery pink. “Can I come in?” A rhetorical question, since he pushed past Davy, much the way he had the first day. At least Davy wasn’t wearing pajamas again.
    Dear God. It was hot as the fires of Hades. “Davy, what the hell is wrong with your air conditioner?” Should he offer to take a look at it? Of course he might make it worse.
    He walked into the kitchen. “At least open some windows. It has to be cooler outside than in here.” And brighter too. Wrestling with the window over the sink, it opened with a pained screech informing Kurt the windows were rarely, if ever, opened. A slight breeze, warm and humid, wafted in.
    “That’s better.” He’d been here enough, and been pushy enough that he didn’t wait for Davy to offer him a drink—he’d waste away from dehydration if he did. Davy didn’t talk a whole lot, and he clearly hadn’t quite figured out what to make of Kurt’s daily visits. But there hadn’t been a sign of the scary, sleeping-all-the-time, prelude-tooverdosing Davy displayed the first couple of days.
    Opening the fridge, the light didn’t come on. But one came on in Kurt’s brain. Turning on his heel, he let the door swing shut behind him. Davy had followed him into the kitchen but stared at his bare feet.
    Suspicion filling him, Kurt stalked closer to Davy and flicked the light switch behind Davy’s shoulder. Off. On. Off again. On again. Nothing.
    A power outage wasn’t unusual. Brownouts were a regular occurrence when the temperature rose above a certain point, but it wasn’t that hot out. A brownout wasn’t a good reason for the shame skating across Davy’s face, even though Davy wouldn’t look at him.
    “Davy, what’s wrong with the power?” Kurt clenched his fists to keep from shaking the man. Was he trying to kill himself by slow roasting? Since Kurt hadn’t let him starve himself?
    Then he saw the drops hitting Davy’s feet. Tears. Dammit. He wasn’t going to do this in the kitchen, though. He was practically still bruised from the day Davy had cried in his arms—those kitchen chairs were instruments of torture.
    He stalked past Davy to the living room. At least it wasn’t white, but the monochrome beige made him feel like he was inside a mushroom. Thankfully these windows opened more smoothly, because he had a twinge in his left arm from opening the window in the kitchen. It was getting better, but he didn’t want to piss off his physiotherapist or she wouldn’t let him start driving tomorrow, or go back to work soon. The light levels improved significantly with the blinds open.
    Turning back, he saw Davy standing in the doorway in that same whipped posture. He pointed at the plush, nondescript couch. “Sit.”
Surprisingly, Davy sat. The man might not talk much, but nevertheless, Kurt had expected a bit of resistance.