Epilogue
Dillon sang, shaking his ass, so glad to be back at Coke’s after the last two weeks of events that he could possibly explode with joy. Boom. Little sparkly bits of Dillon Walsh. Everywhere.
Which, really, if he exploded would probably break his contract and God knew, CEO Sandy and his lawyers would be all over that shit.
Hell, they’d been extremely clear about how Dillon needed to get his ass back to work the second Cowboy Christmas was over, work out the rest of the summer, even if Coke had to stay in Texas and recover.
Good thing they had more and more breaks through August and September.
He grinned at himself. He was becoming a homebody—even if that home was Coke’s.
He was making iced tea. Iced tea. Him. Mister I Like Pop. Damn. Coke was a heck of an influence on him.
Coke had gotten his neck brace off—even if he couldn’t go back to work—and Dillon had been really patient. Really, really patient. He hadn’t even screamed when he found out that AJ and Bax were the ones who took the stitches out and removed the brace, not the doctor.
Of course, it had been close. Especially when Nate shrugged, still sporting a black eye from where Dillon had popped the bastard, and grinned. “At least he didn’t tell Jase do it, Dillweed.”
Dillweed.
Great.
Of course, that hard punch he’d thrown at Nate seemed to go a long way toward them being buds. Nate had been a lot more open and teasing with him since then.
“I like that song.” Coke came ambling in, looking around. Doc had sent Dillon with instructions to get Coke fattened up and into physical therapy in Austin or Dallas.
“Yeah? I’m thinking of doing a few songs at the after-party next time.” He loved to be on stage.
“Excellent. I’ll come with.” Coke stopped, head tilting. “You hear that?”
“Hear what…?” Oh. Oh, shit. He’d gotten in late the night before, sneaking in while Coke was asleep, and he’d brought a present, which he’d forgotten he’d left in the garage.
A live present or two that had probably made a terrible mess.
“Fuck! Be right back.”
“Uh. Okay.”
He could hear Coke, moving slower behind him.
Dillon burst into the garage, hoping the presents hadn’t destroyed anything important. Of course, it was impossible to have puppies and nice things, right?
Two floppy-eared basset babies bounded out, barking, white-tipped tails held high. The yarping was… Wow.
“Oh, my sweet Lord,” Coke murmured behind him.
Dillon whirled around, hands down to stroke ears. “Doc Madding said you needed to do physical therapy. I knew you wouldn’t do anything they said but the swimming, and I thought, hey, dogs.”
“Oh, look at y’all babies…” Coke knelt, moving careful, but better than last time. The little girl—tri-colored and husky and loud as hell—leapt for Coke, ears wild, trusting in those strong arms like every animal, baby and remarkably talented entertainer of the year rodeo clown he knew.
Dillon held the little boy puppy back, his nose wrinkling a bit. Someone had rolled in an accident, if he knew dogs. He actually did, too, having grown up with Huskies. “Let me clean this one up while you figure out what to name that one.”
“Pansy. I like that name.” Well, okay then. That was…definite. Coke scooped her up, following along. “Where did you find these babies? And what are you naming yours?”
“Mine? Why is this one mine? Because he pooped all over himself?” Dillon glanced back, making sure Coke wasn’t straining. The babies were pretty small. No more than the ten pounds Coke was allowed to lift. “Poop! I should call him Nate!”
“Oh, man…” Coke laughed hard, Pansy’s ears flopping. “Call him Jerome. That’s Nattie’s middle name.”
“Jerome is a superlative name for a basset hound.” Dillon grinned when little Jerome wiggled as if he understood he had a name now.
“It’s a good name.” Coke hummed, laughing as Pansy licked his face. “Lord, look at y’all. We’ll have to go get beds and bowls and biscuits and seatbelts for the truck.”
“I got bowls, but we’ll have to upgrade as they grow. I, uh, I hope you’re not allergic to dogs.” God, what if Coke was? “They needed a home. Their breeder was going to put them down if no one picked them up and promised to get them fixed.”
“Allergic? Me? Nah. I’ve had lots of dogs. Millie used to come on tour with me. Drove Ace crazy, when the kid was riding. Millie was a sheepdog—all hair and…uh…hair.”
“Oh, wow. Well, this is cool, then? I mean, we’ll probably have to put them on a leash or something when we’re out at the pool.” He got Jerome to the utility sink and started scrubbing.
“We’ll make them a little dog run. Somewhere safe.” Dillon felt a hand cup his ass, squeeze a little. “Thank you. They’re doll babies.”
“You like?” Dillon glanced over his shoulder to smile at Coke, but all he got was a face full of water for his trouble. Jerome shook like crazy the moment he was distracted.
“Lord have mercy. There’s a pen around here somewhere… Can I leave her with you while I go hunt it?”
“You bet. Holler if it gets heavy.” See him. See him let Coke do for himself. Dillon would clean the floor, too.
That was going along well until he heard a clang and an oof and then a, “Dillon? Help?”
He ran over to find his stubborn bullfighter on a ladder, holding himself up with one hand, a huge metal pen unfolded and dangling from the other.
“Shit!” Dillon plopped Jerome on the floor with his sissy and grabbed the sagging pen, letting it clang and crumple on down. Then he went after Coke.
“Don’t holler, now. I found it.”
“I’m not hollering.” Easing Coke back down the ladder, he hugged that silly man, kissing the back of that beat up neck. “You just need to tell me when shit is in the attic or on a high shelf, okay?”
“Mmm.” Coke hummed a little. “Do that again.”
“This?” Dillon squeezed a little. “Or this?” Then he kissed Coke’s skin one more time.
“That.” Coke shivered a little, moaned.
“Mmm-hmm.” Oh, he loved how Coke’s skin tasted, and all those new scars just proved that the man had survived and would be fine. Dillon could live with that. He pressed his lips under Coke’s ear.
“Love you, babe.”
He loved how that nickname made Coke shiver, moan. “You know, we could get the babies set up and talk about…reconnecting, some.”
“We so could. They’re ready for a nap, anyway.” Jerome was sprawled on his back, idly chewing the toe of Dillon’s boot, and Pansy was sound asleep against Coke’s foot.
“There’s a nice soft bit of grass under the bedroom window. We’ll set the pen there.” Coke bent down, scooped Pansy up.
“That’s a good idea. I’ll bring this one, come back for the pen.” He left Coke outside with the pups and went to get the pen. He had to laugh when he got back, seeing his Coke with two very droopy hounds, tickling their feet.
“Look at the size of these paws, cowboy. We’re gonna have so much fun with them.”
“You know it. They’re going to come on the road with us.
We’ll take them to my place for Thanksgiving…
” The pen almost defeated him, but Coke helped, and they got the babies walled up, safe while they napped in the shade.
They were adorable, all ears and tails and white fur, curled up like a yin and yang symbol in seconds.
“Oh, Thanksgiving sounds like a hoot. I got Andy and Jase to watch the place for six weeks come the holidays.” He got a shy smile. “Thought we could have a white Christmas, too.”
Dillon blinked a little, then whooped and grabbed Coke’s arms, kissing the man silly. When he pulled back, he had a little moment of panic. “Did I hurt you?”
“Only if by hurt, you mean make me all flitter-pated.”
“Oh. So, what was this about getting reacquainted?” Checking one last time on the bassets, he grabbed Coke’s hand and started pulling the man inside. That adjustable bed waited for them.
“I was thinking that my brace is off, and my hand is good as new. We never did get that whole make-up sex, you know?”
“This is true. There are still the pulleys and ropes.” Look at Coke blush when he said it, too.
The man recovered well, though, giving him an impish grin. “Well, yeah, but I ain’t had time to install the trapeze, yet.”