Some nights, nothing went according to plan. This was one of those nights. Dillon didn’t often turn tricks anymore, but sometimes it was required to make ends meet, and so the stripper had found himself in a seedy motel with an even seedier John. He was usually a pretty good judge of character, but this one slipped under the radar, and he ended crumpled up against the sidewalk where he was picked up, definitely more roughed up than he’d been before. He was trying to gather himself back up, straightening his clothes and wiping at the drying blood on his face when he was blinded by blue lights. Great. He let out a weak grumble and was about to attempt a run for it when a familiar form climbed out of the patrol car, causing his panic to subside. Slightly.
“I know, I know, I’m going home, Charlie,” he offered the officer in greeting, trying not to wince as he wiped pointlessly at his face again. “Are you stalking me or something?”
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