“So I hear. Blindness and hairy palms, too. Oh, look! Fried artichokes.” He’d lost his mind. Really.
Coke laughed, the sound starting low then ringing out. It wasn’t an unfriendly sound, just full and tickled. Dillon stared a moment, then laughed, too. That was part of what made Coke so cool. The laughter. Dillon was good at that.
They ate artichokes and bread, pasta. Dessert. Good Lord, Coke could eat. The man enjoyed himself, too, chatting and gossiping, listening and laughing at stories.
“So then, Fred says, ‘What do you mean, it came out of a frog?’” Dillon waited, watching Coke double over, and it sent him off to laughing again, too.
“Good Lord. I tell you what, I’m gonna have a stitch in the morning. You want coffee?”
“Sure. I bet it’s good here.” He really wanted to go rub Coke’s kinks out, but coffee worked, too.
“Yeah, or I could make a pot at the hotel. Well, if Nate’s not in bed already.”
“What? We’re here.” No way did he want to worry about Nate.
“Yeah, we are.” Coke chuckled, relaxed back in his chair a little, crossed his legs at the ankle and waved down the waitress. “Two coffees, please.”
“Sure, honey.” The girl smiled at Coke, looking at him like she would her grandpa, and it made Dillon a little pissed.
The whole fucking world treated Coke like the man was eighty. Shit, Coke was what? Forty?
Well, it was time that someone started acting his age. Dillon figured he could help with that. Starting tonight.
Chapter Four
Dillon Walsh was going to drive him up the fucking wall.
For two weeks the man had poked and touched, shimmied and goofed off and teased and had always been right there.
It was crazy-making.
It was silly.
It was hot as hell.
Coke jogged up and down the arena, warming up, watching as the roadies got shit set up. The sound guys started up their check, and Dillon popped out from the back, testing his mic and doing a little pre-show boogie. Just for Coke, it looked like. That grin said all sorts of things.
He chuckled, thumped himself a little and kept jogging. “You ready for the show, son?”
“I am.” He got a little extra wiggle. “I’m kinda pumped. How’s your shoulder?”
“Solid as a rock.” He rolled his arm, the joint moving for him, finally. “Thanks for all your help with it.” Even if the rubbing was like torture.
“No problem.I like rehabilitating you.” Something flashed in those pretty eyes, something dangerous, and Dillon patted his ass before trotting off.
“Good Lord.” He was seriously fucked.
“Hey! Coke!” Sam Bell sat on the rail, the pocket cowboy waving hard. “You heard from Jason? How’s his head?”
Fuck a duck. “He’s got some recovery, still.”
Beau Lafitte wandered over and whacked Sam on the back. “If he needs us, tell him to holler.”
“I will.” Lord knew that Beau and Jase used to be real close. Coke had a couple guesses why they weren’t now, but nothing firm. Still. “I’ll tell him.”
“Thanks.” Sam and Beau said it together, like twins or something, and it made him chuckle. Made him laugh harder when Dillon streaked through with a water gun, shooting Sam right in the face.
“Oh, you little fucker!” Sam flew off the top of the chute, landing right behind Dillon in the dirt.
