Coke and Dillon and Bassets
The title says it all (m/m)
Copyright 2011
“Uh, cowboy? Is that Jerome running across the arena with Nattie’s underwear in his mouth?”
Because if it was, Nate was gonna pitch a bitch.
Dillon turned away from checking the day roster that hung at the end of the chutes and glanced at the arena. “Looks like a basset hound, babe. Pansy is bigger than that.”
“Huh.” Coke rubbed the back of his neck as Jerome rounded the camera cage, huge paws digging up dust. He’d told Nattie to zip his ready bag. The puppies had slept in that cavernous thing from the beginning. They loved the way Nate smelled, and they were always stealing his socks and undies and shit.
Dillon nodded. “Yep. You gonna go get him?” The pre-show crowd wasn’t hardly even started, just the fan club folks trickling in.
“I ‘magine I oughta. Even though he’s your dog.” Coke watched a little longer, those big dark ears flopping. He levered himself up, whistled low. “Jerome! Git yer butt over here!”
About the time he got all the way to his feet, Nattie came through the gate, rolling his shoulders, Pansy nipping at his sneakers.
Dillon started chuckling and Coke had to agree. The chase was on.
“Howdy, Hoss. How’s it…” His eyes narrowed. “Is that… Are those my…”
Dillon grinned. “The blue ones Tracy likes. I was sad it wasn’t the rainbow ones from International Male.”
Oh, shit.
Nate gave Dillon a look that boded ill for later before turning and chugging out into the arena like a freight train gaining speed.
Pansy stopped, then tilted her head up, her howl filling the air like a ghost fucking train or something. Of course, that had Jerome stopping — or trying to, huge feet sliding in the dirt for a second before tangling in the blue undershorts.
About that time Jerome’s butt went up over his head and Nate reached him.
Coke barked. “Careful, y’all!”
Dillon screeched, “Jerome!”
Man… The dust was… Wow.
So was the little ripping fabric sound. Oh, man. There was a smattering of laughter, too, from the growing crowd. Jerome looked at Nate, who clenched his hands, and the little butthead dog threw those shorts right up in the air like they was a toy.
Which was when Pansy sailed through the air like a flying trapeze and grabbed them in her mouth before running like crazy. Man, her short legs could move.
He’d have called for them, except for the fact that he was cackling so hard he couldn’t.
Dillon was even worse. The man was bent over holding his tummy, laughing like a loon.
“Hoss!” Nate was gonna have a stroke.
“Sorry, Nattie.” He put two fingers in the corners of his lips and blew, hard, the whistle ringing out.
Both bassets stopped short, stared at him,
He pointed to the dirt before his feet. “Now, y’all.”
Jerome came pattering over, tail up and wagging. Pansy, though, she came slow, jowls flopping down around her prize.
Nate followed behind, hands on his hips and Coke could swear he could hear Dillon say, “Babe, that was hot.”
He grinned, rescued the briefs and handed them over. “I owe you a beer.”
“You owe me a six-pack, Hoss.”
“Oh, now.” He grinned, snorted. “After the show, if no one gets hurt worse than your drawers, it’s a deal.”
Nate grabbed Dillon, gave the man a noogie. “And for laughing, you’re buying the steak, asshat.”
Dillon chortled. “Watch the make-up, man!”
Coke just shook his head before Dillon trotted out to warm up the crowd and he took the bassets back to crate them for the show. Pansy would be out there helping Troy with the bullpen loading if he didn’t.
He rubbed ears and handed out treats before closing the cage door. A little pre-show run was good for them, right?
Good for all of them.