Read Sidecar for Free Online

an effort—his arm was bitching up a storm—but he carried Rufus to the back of the beat-to-shit Chevy Half-Ton that sat in the carport, next to the Harley.
    He set Rufus inside and got some old blankets and tarps from the garage, covered the animal so he’d be okay when he went into shock, and then walked back into the house, looking at the clock on his brand-new microwave as he opened the door.
    Oh shit! Was that the time? God, poor Rufus. The three twelve-hour shifts in a row had about knocked Joe on his ass. Usually he heard the dog barking at around eight in the morning, and it was already ten. Casey had been asleep since around seven the night before. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.
    Joe closed his eyes and tried to put shit in order. Okay. Casey first, Rufus second. He brushed his arm against the doorframe and saw black. Scratch that. First aid first, Casey second, Rufus to the vet’s third.
    He stumbled to his bedroom and shed his jacket in the corner, not even wanting to look at the sleeve, then went into the bathroom for some antiseptic and bandages. Oh God—a dog’s mouth. Those animals licked dead things, then licked their balls, then threw up and ate it. Joe got the bottle of rubbing alcohol out, braced his hurt arm on the sink, and, regardless of the mess, dumped half of it over the double jagged row of dripping, red bite marks. Each round hole was slightly torn, probably from when Rufus had jerked as Joe freed his leg, and Joe closed his eyes at the thought of infection and stitches. He put the rest of the alcohol away and pulled out a bottle of hydrogen peroxide, and then dumped that too, hissing as it bubbled. Oh God. The bite was pretty high up, and Joe fought off a mutter to himself. He was going to need help.
    “Kid!” he called through the door. “Kid, you up yet?”
    “Mmmffff….”
    Poor baby. He probably hadn’t slept in months—Joe hated to wake him up this way.
    “Kid— Casey! Buddy, I need your help here. I hate to wake you up, but if you could, maybe, come in here and give me a hand here with something?”
    Then, clear through the door, came the grumpy reply. “I thought you said I wouldn’t have to do that.”
    Oh God. Really? Jesus, this kid didn’t give an inch, did he? “Not that , dammit! I need to bandage my arm, and I can’t fuckin’ reach!”
    There was some movement and the uneven padding of feet. The kid who opened the door was bleary and irritated—but he wasn’t starving, freezing, or frightened, so maybe that was an improvement.
    He wasn’t a bad-looking kid—narrow chin and a heart-shaped face made him look almost girl-pretty. He had deep-set gray eyes, the kind that almost always looked sleepy or irritated unless he was actively trying to smile. Joe only imagined that last part. The kid hadn’t had a lot to smile about since they met.
    Those eyes widened when they saw Joe using a towel to gingerly dry off his arm.
    “Holy shit!”
    “How old are you?”
    “I’ll be sixteen on September fifteenth,” the boy said, and Joe raised his eyebrows.
    “It’s November twelfth,” he said, and he was unprepared for the terrible look of disappointment on Casey’s face.
    “Oh yeah… then I’m sixteen.”
    Joe grimaced and set about getting the antibiotic ointment out of the cabinet too. “How long since you knew what day it was?”
    “September third,” Casey said hoarsely. “Coach let practice out early, and me and Dillon got to my house early.”
    Joe sighed. He knew where this was going. The kid didn’t have it tattooed on his ass, but then, he wouldn’t need to wear his bandana in the right pocket in public to get laid, either. “What happened?” he prodded gently, dabbing the ointment on his arm and keeping his attention on Casey so he wouldn’t have to think about the pain.
    Casey couldn’t seem to keep his eyes off of Joe’s wound. “I started necking with Dillon, because, you know, we got bored, and we were talking about girls, and I started saying