Page 21 of Cooped Up for Christmas

“Right. Are you a thing?”

I took another snort of my java. “Ancient history.”

“Yeah. But…history.”

“We’re talking crumbling-mummy history. As in way-dead.”

“Okay.”

I frowned at him. “What do you mean by that?”

“Okay? I mean, okay. It’s just that…”

“What?”

He winked at me. “It doesn’t seem like it’s way-dead. Whatever that is. You know?”

I could only think of one response. “Humph.”

He leaned closer. “So, give me some dirt. Why do they call him Rocky?”

“They do not call him Rocky.” I gusted a breath. “No one ever calls him Rocky. He calls himself Rocky.”

“I just want to know why. Why the nickname?”

“It’s stupid.”

“All the more reason to tell me.”

“Okay. But it’s dumb.”

“Spill.”

“Ugh. I hate this story. Okay. When we were kids he used to get drunk and sing to the moon.”

Ben chuckled. “That sounds about normal.”

“But he always sang the same stupid song.”

“Rocky’s theme song, right?”

Hah! “Yeah. You’d think that. But no. His song was Rocky Raccoon. By John Lennon? How many times did I have to listen to that song? And he sings off key.”

“I most certainly do not.”

I should have known he’d be lurking somewhere.

“Oooh. Rocky Raccoon!” Ben warbled as he pointed at Coop, whose hair was slicked back from his shower. His long-sleeved cotton shirt clung to his chest. Damn, he looked good.

“Do you even know the song?” Coop asked him, pulling a mug out of the rack and filling it with thick, redolent brew.

Ben laughed. “Before my time, old man.”

Coop rolled his eyes. “Shut up, pup. It’s a great song.”

“Anyway, that’s why we started calling him Rocky.”

“She called me Rocky too,” Coop said, as he sat and dropped an arm around my shoulder. “She loved calling me Rocky.”