A/N: The events depicted herein are an act of fiction, and not recommended for real life. Do not try this at home.

Chapter 10

Don entered the kitchen at a run, startling Alan, who sat at the kitchen table. "What?"

Don took a breath. "One favor cashed in. Charlie's ATM card was reported missing this afternoon."

"By Charlie?"

Don grinned. "Yes, Dad, by Charlie — or someone else who knew all the right codes."

His father paled, and Don hurried on. "It's no one else, Dad, you wouldn't kidnap a guy, steal his ATM card and then report yourself."

"Has anyone tried to use it?"

Don paced the kitchen floor. "Don't think so. I've got a lot of contacts I can use unofficially, Dad, but the information's never going to be as good as if I could go after it with my badge."

"Can we tell where he was calling from?"

Don stopped pacing and frowned at his father. "No. If I could have ordered the phones at the bank tapped, and used a GPS tracer…but he left his cell phone here, anyway."

Alan sighed. "I found his wallet today. The only things missing are that ATM card and his learner's permit. Probably took that for identification?"

"I guess," Don said, his earlier excitement deflating. "Shit, Dad, I'm so sorry…"

Alan looked at him sadly. "I know you are son. All we can do is trust Charlie now." His father looked even sadder, suddenly. "Maybe we haven't done enough of that."

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It was the most incredible physical feeling he had ever had. It was better than sex. Despite what Don might think, Charlie had experienced sex. Several times. Enough times, now that he thought about it, to know that piloting an 18-wheeler down the freeway in the middle of the night was not as good.

But it was a damn close second.

It was 3:30 in the morning when he heard Joe ask, "Ya wanna drive, Charlie?"

"What?" He had been ashamed that his voice actually squeaked. "I'm sorry. I don't really have a license."

"To drive the big rigs, ya mean?"

"Well, no. To drive…at all." Charlie was glad the cab was dark enough that he didn't have to see the other man's face. After a few more miles, though, skinny Joe arched himself to the steering wheel, said, "Slide on in here under me."

Charlie wasn't quite sure what to think of that. Joe was talking about driving, right?

"It'll be all right, boy, nuthin' ahead but flat road."

He couldn't help it. He slid on in under Joe. Joe twisted like a pretzel, disappeared for a minute to the bottom of the cab. Charlie started getting scared again when he felt Joe's breath on his leg. Then a skinny hand grabbed his ankle, planted his foot on the pedal. Joe popped back up, slid over toward the window. His teeth glowed in the dark when he grinned. "How's that feel?"

Like the second most incredible thing he'd ever felt, in his life. Like the truck was a beast he was riding. Like the vibration of all those wheels channeled into the circle in front of him was going to rip the steering wheel right out of his hand. Like he had lost his mind.

"Good," he answered.

"Just need me 20 minutes," Joe said, and curled into the window. "Y'all don't move nuthin'."

So Charlie drove on, into the night.

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Seventeen-and-a-half minutes later, when the two had switched back and Charlie realized what he had done, he started shaking. He thought he might get sick.

Joe yawned. "Get me summa that coffee, will ya Charlie?" He kept talking as Charlie tried to pour the hot liquid without spilling it, dropping it or throwing up in it. "Tell ya what. Help me drop this load and pick up my new haul and I'll give you twenny bucks. Even take ya out fer breakfast." He shot a side glance at Charlie, accepted the coffee. In the dim light of the cab, it looked like he was grinning again. "A trucker's breakfast. Celebrate your first run."