Free Real Men Don't Break Hearts by Coleen Kwan

up his eyes. “Yeah…I used to get calls about you all the time.” He turned to his partner. “Hey, Wozza, you remember the complaints we used to get about Nate Hardy?”
    “Heh, do I ever. Got caught for shoplifting, didn’t you?”
    Nate felt the back of his neck grow hot. It seemed like another lifetime when he’d stolen three video games from an electronics store. When his stepfather had discovered those games, he’d reacted in typical fashion: pulled off his belt and thrashed Nate black and blue, until Nate was nauseous and thought he’d received enough punishment, but still his stepfather continued, laying into him with maniacal glee. Until something in Nate had snapped, and he’d grabbed the belt and lashed it across the brute’s face before dashing out of the house and running all fifteen kilometers to Robbie’s place.
    “The judge sentenced me to six months’ community service,” he said.
    The two cops exchanged looks. “Huh. Community service.” The second cop spat in the dirt.
    He should have gotten more, considering his long history of misbehavior, but Robbie had turned up at court and spoken for him. When he wanted to, Robbie could be quite persuasive, and he’d drawn the magistrate’s sympathy with his detailing of Nate’s dismal home life.
    The first cop folded his arms across the barrel of his chest. “So you say your briefcase has been stolen. Any valuables in it?”
    “Yes. About five hundred dollars in cash, a Rolex watch, a Mont Blanc pen, as well as some confidential business papers.”
    “A Rolex and a Mont Blanc pen. Fancy shmancy.”
    “Also a picture.”
    “What, like a Picasso?”
    Nate gritted his teeth. “A photo of my dead brother.” These two were enjoying taking the piss out of him, and he doubted they’d do anything about finding his stolen property. “Look, when I arrived I saw a bunch of teenagers loafing about on their skateboards. They looked like locals. Maybe one of them decided to come back to see what he could pinch.”
    “So you got an eye for troublemakers, eh?” The cop pretended to scribble something into his notebook. “Well, we’ll certainly look into that, won’t we, Wozza?”
    “Uh-huh. I’m sure we’ve got nothing better to do than chase up Rolex watches and Mont Blanc pens stolen from a Maserati.”
    “We’ll let you know if anything turns up. In the meantime I’m sure you have insurance. Have a good night, sir.”
    Nate scowled after the two cops as they ambled back to their vehicle. “Now he knows what it’s like to be on the other side,” he heard one of them mutter.
    Crud. Why had he wasted his time calling the police? History was coming back to bite him one more time. He got into his car and shoved his fingers through his hair, too wound up to stay at home. Too irritated by all the people lining up against him. First that cocky teenager giving him the finger, then Mrs. Bennett, then the punk who’d broken into his car, and finally the cops who were only too happy to see him get a taste of his own medicine.
    He gunned the engine and took off with a roar, tires squealing. That’d get Mrs. Bennett grumbling. But he didn’t care. He’d had enough of being nice.

    The Duck Inn was about ten kilometers out of Burronga on the Old Hume Highway. The historic pub had been done up to the rafters and attracted a well-heeled crowd. Not exactly the kind of place to suit Nate’s belligerent mood, but he had enough sense to avoid the rowdier pubs. In his current frame of mind he knew he’d just attract trouble.
    He shouldered his way through the packed main bar and bought himself a beer. A couple of glammed-up women in short skirts and high heels gave him encouraging glances as he cast around for an empty seat. From the way they were eyeing him, he was sure he’d have no problem approaching them for a chat. He knew the routine. Problem was, he was tired of the same old act.
    Cradling his beer, he headed for a corner of the bar counter. The