“You guys are not serious.”
Coke grinned, the greasepaint wrinkling around his eyes.
Four of them – Nate, Coop, Coke and Fred – all in old-school rodeo clown get-ups. Baggy shorts, suspenders, striped tights. Coop even had a wig on. A bright green, afrotastic wig.
“You have to work tonight.”
“Uh-huh.” Coke and Nate were dressed just alike, makeup and all and, for half a second, Dillon could see it, the Terrible Twosome, fighting bulls together in every little event that was paying.
He’d pay good money to have seen that, more than the once he had.
“I don’t know what’s got your panties all in a wad, Clown-Boy.” Nate gave him a once-over. “You’re the one with a hula skirt and a lei.”
“The coconut bra is a nice touch, mate.” Fred was a fucker.
“Uh-huh. Your belly’s going to get cold, though.” Coke would notice his stomach. “This is Massachusetts. Winter comes early up here.”
“It’s just for the…” He stopped, shook his head. “Just tell me you have your vests on under the costumes.”
The boys all snorted in unison, like a weird four-part dismissive bullfighter harmony.
“We are working tonight, ain't we, Hoss?” Nate looked at Coke.
Coke looked back. “We are, Nattie.”
“And we wear our vests when we work, don’t we?”
“We do, Nat…”
“Oh, shut up and go fight bulls, asshats.” He rolled his eyes and turned to stomp away, the coconut bra chafing his skin.
Something hit him between the shoulders on his way out and he spun around, ready to kick someone’s ass. He looked down, one of Coke’s soft-soft t-shirts at his feet.
“Happy Halloween, cowboy.” Coke gave him one of those grins, one that made promises.
“Go to work, Coke.”
Coke laughed at him, tossed him a bag of M&Ms. “You first.”