"Come on, pretty girl," Blake whispered, patting the side of the car. "Let me in." No matter how pretty the car was, if it didn't start cooperating with him, things were going to get rough for it. "And I really, really don't want to have to hurt you," he told the car, as if it could hear his thoughts. He felt the hose sink and let out a sigh of relief. "Well, thank, fuck!"

He used his foot to drag over an empty bucket that had also been in the barn and dropped to his knees. This was the worst part -- just a little suction, he didn't want to overdo it, as few things in life tasted as nasty as a mouthful of gasoline. Slowly, carefully, he sipped back mouthfuls of air, sealing the tube with his tongue between tries, so that he could tease the gas up the tube, until a set of unmistakable double clicks made Blake freeze.

"Don't even bother to turn around."

There was a cold gruffness to the voice that went very well with the cold end of the rifle being pressed into his cheek.

"Put your palms on the car and keep your eyes on the ground, boy."

Blake spit the hose out of his mouth and watched it snake to the ground. It was official. God hated him.

The gun was moved so fast that Blake didn't notice it until he felt the end of the rifle crack against the back of his head.

Shit.

"Did I tell you to spit that out?"

Blake shook his head. "No, sir."

"Then why in the fuck, you no-good, dumb ass, thieving little shit, did you think you could spit it out?"

Blake wasn't sure there was a right answer for that. "Um, because I'm an idiot?"

The barrel of the gun was pressed harder against him. "Well, I suppose that's a good an answer as any."

Shit, shit, shit. Come on, Blake.

Blake cleared his throat. "I don't suppose you'll let me go based off the fact that I just made your night with my clever wit, would you?"

"Nope. I don't suppose that I will. Not even with that second attempt there."

Blake shifted nervously, trying to ease the pressure on his overworked knees. "Are you going to shoot me?"

"Hmph," the man huffed. "Nope. Too messy. I think we'll just sit here nice and tight until the cops get here."

Well, that sucked. He couldn't imagine any instance where this would not be considered a parole violation.

What did you expect? You steal enough stuff and you're going to get caught. I've warned you a thousand times. Now you'll end up back in jail over five dollars' worth of gas. Nice work, Blake.

Blake slowly turned, still on his knees, keeping his arms in the air so that he wouldn't appear to be threat. He flinched when the tall redhead sighted the gun more diligently.

"I told you --"

"I know, I know," Blake said quickly. "You told me not to move. I'm stupid, not deaf." His heart was beating like a drum, but he had to take a chance at talking himself out of this. After all, if the option was going back to prison or getting shot, he was going for the latter. "I just ... listen, I mean ... the cops? Is that really necessary? Nothing's gone ... nobody's hurt."

The man stared at Blake down the long, long barrel, one eye squinted shut, his expression giving him a very strong Clint Eastwood vibe. "You break into my barn, on my land, try to steal my property, and then have the audacity to think I'm not going to get the cops involved? You really are stupid, boy."

Blake kept his hands in the air even though his arms had started to shake. No food, very little sleep, and too much stress had his body acting out. Maybe it would help though -- make him look like some poor, scared little waif. He swallowed hard, trying for dramatic. "Can't we, I don't know, maybe just work something out?"

"Oh, yeah?" The man cocked his head. "What could you possibly have that I would want?"

"I don't know," Blake shrugged lightly. He flicked his gaze down to the front of the man's jeans. He snaked his tongue out in a quick little flick. He slowly drew his gaze back up to the man's eyes. "What do you want?"

There were two ways that usually went. Suspicious interest, or disgusted refusal. It was never stunned disbelief, though.

The man lowered the shotgun to his waist. "What in the ... Jesus Cripes, boy! Not that, that's for damn sure!" He propped his free hand on his hip. "What the hell is wrong with you? What would your parents say? Because I'll bet you weren't raised like that."

Blake coldly leveled his gaze on the man. "That would be a bet you'd lose then, pal. Because that's exactly how my daddy raised me."

An unreadable expression settled over the redhead's face. Sympathy? Confusion? Blake had no idea what it was, as the man managed to mask most of it, but Blake was surprised by the way it changed the man's features. He wasn't half bad looking when he wasn't scowling down a shotgun. The man shifted his weight onto one hip, propping himself over the shotgun like it was a crutch and Blake winced. Even he knew better than to play so flippantly with a gun.

After a long pause and what Blake could only assume was a reassessment of the situation, the man sighed, straightened, and lifted the gun over his shoulder. "Well, I suppose you should come on up with me to the house until I can figure out what to do with you."