Damn.
Dillon led him to the bed, letting him sink down and propping pillows behind him. Lord, it was like having a day at the spa. Only without all the strangers and wax and shit.
Coke got Dillon settled in close, tucked in nice and easy and handed over the remote. It was damn near perfect.
Even when Dillon turned on some Japanese game show called Ninja something or other. That boy could be plain weird.
Good thing Coke liked him.
Chapter Twelve
Dillon put his contacts in, then tucked his shirt into his jeans, the crisp white looking okay against his neck and face. As long as no one had to see his fish belly, he’d be okay. He clapped his cowboy hat on his head, then tucked his sunglasses into his pocket before checking himself in the mirror next to the bathroom.
Coke had woken stiff and sore, but feeling much better, and Dillon had conned him into breakfast and going to the little science museum that wasn’t far from their hotel. They had plenty of time to do that, come back and have a swim and a nap, and get to work on time.
Woo.
The museum had a huge model train thing that kids got to play with. Dillon figured he qualified as a kid.
“Coke! Come on, babe. Move your bones!”
“My bones areold, honey.”
Coke came out, anything but old in a fine, blue button-down, creased jeans and a straw hat that hid the bruised, swollen set of stitches on his face. When the sunglasses went on, the man looked amazing.
“God, you’re hot.” He bounced over and took a kiss, letting Coke know he wasn’t old at all.
Coke’s arm wrapped around his waist, holding him close as the kiss went on a little longer.
“Mmm.” He pulled away, feeling a little bruised himself, but only in the best way. “You ready, babe? I could eat a horse.”
He saw that quick grin, the stitches pulling visibly. “Only a horse? Man, I was hoping for water buffalo pancakes.” He got a soft swat on the butt. “Let’shasta.”
“Yeah.” He just hoped they didn’t run into anyone. Maybe it was kind of selfish, but he wanted Coke to himself.
There was a little eighties themed diner about three blocks off—Pat Benatar and Michael Jackson posters on the walls, teal and hot pink décor, and odd gourmet things on the menu. It was almost full, but there weren’t any familiar hats, so Dillon counted himself lucky.
Besides, they had eggs and bacon and pancakes, too, so it was a fit. He settled across from Coke, grinning from ear to ear, fingers tapping out a rhythm on the table.
They were playing Duran Duran. God, those videos had beenhot. Coke put his sunglasses on the table, glancing up at the waitress with a smile. “I need a large orange juice, please ma’am, and a big-assed coffee.”
The waitress cackled, glancing at him. “What about you, hon?”
“Coffee and a glass of chocolate milk.” He wanted some sugar. Maybe he’d have chocolate chip pancakes.
The girl nodded, peering at Coke again. “Did you get the number of the truck that hit you?”
Coke nodded. “Yes, ma’am. J-3721.” That number was branded on Ballbuster’s ass.
Dillon cackled. “Yeah. It was moving fast, too.”
“Apparently. I hope so. Put some vitamin E on those, huh? Otherwise they’ll scar.”
“Good idea.” Dillon gave Coke a look, thinking about all the ways he could rub in some cream or something.
Coke nodded, eyes hot and dark, staring at him. “Yeah. We’ll have to get some.”
The waitress popped her gum and left to get their drinks.
