Hound Dog & Bean (10 page)

“Ow,” Bean said. “Cool!”

“That should make it feel good,” H.D. replied.
It should. I hope it does.
He wanted to help this man who had jumped in to help him, apparently with no thought to his own safety. How rare an action was that in the world today? The guy didn’t know him in the least.

H.D. wanted to make sure if Bean did get a black eye, and it was looking like he would, that it would at least go away as fast as possible. Thank God his nose wasn’t broken. That would, or could, mar an extremely handsome face. And hell’s bells, Bean was good-looking. Not what H.D. usually went for, but sexy all the same. For one thing, H.D. liked his men hairy. Long hair was always a plus, facial hair almost a necessity, and chest hair a bonus. Bean had no hair—not on his head, that was. His hairline fell far back on his scalp, and apparently, rather than go with the ridiculous I’m-not-fooling-anyone comb-over, he’d just elected to shave it all off. And interestingly, it worked for him. Bean had a nicely shaped skull, and the skin was a nice color. Not that awful shiny pink of a lot of bald men.

Of course, the beard helped even more. It was brown, with highlights of lighter and darker shades, and it was thick and well groomed and very soft. He knew that from when he’d cupped Bean’s cheek (and why the hell had he done that?) earlier that day. Silky soft. H.D. found himself wondering what that hair might feel like rubbed against certain places on his body—felt his dick twitching at the thought.

Would Bean’s incredibly broad chest be smooth like the top of his head or hairy like his face? H.D. loved a furry chest—wished he had one—and was thankful men liked smooth chests, although the preference seemed a little too latent hetero for him. Men should be hairy! So should a hound dog, but sadly, there was no plastic surgery for that. Unfortunately, Bean was wearing a T-shirt, so there was no clue to the condition of that chest.

H.D. did know one thing. Bean was sexy. Damned sexy. Even with papaya smeared around his eyes. It didn’t change the fact that being on his knees between Bean’s legs was pretty erotic, and if it weren’t for Poindexter, and, of course, the fact that the poor man had been punched out that very morning (
for me
!
He did it for me
!), H.D. would probably be doing something else about now.

Damn for the way things had worked out.

Then again, maybe something could be done later…. Why give up? Bean would still be around tomorrow. And the day after that.

Patience, oh Hound Dog. Patience.
Why rush? Hadn’t somebody once said something about pleasures being greatest when anticipated? All things come to he who waits? He almost laughed thinking about it. He could take that thought in all kinds of naughty directions, couldn’t he?

And was it his imagination or did the bulge in Bean’s pants look bigger?

That’s when he noticed Bean looking at him.

Really
looking at him. It was like those eyes were sucking him in, and his heart started to pound and his mouth went dry and
oh God
….

“What?” Bean asked. “Do I have something on my face?”

Was Bean blushing? H.D. gulped. “You okay, mister coffee man?”

“Sorry,” Bean responded and looked away.

H.D. glanced down and… ah! He grinned. Yes. He could see something shifting! Oh, yes. This could be fun. Did he flirt now?

Patience. Patience….

Oh, fuck it
.

With great deliberation, he licked the spoon free of the remaining papaya. He wasn’t too subtle about it either.

Bean’s eyes went wide and then just as quickly slammed shut. “Ah! Shit! Gook in my eye!” He started to rub and H.D. stopped him.

“No, dude. Don’t want to do that!” He grabbed Bean’s hand. Held it. Felt funny suddenly. A good funny.
Shit. You’re acting like you’ve never been laid before
. “Let me see….”

H.D. let go of the man’s hand and took a thumb to the side of Bean’s eye (just what the hell was his real name?) and lifted slightly as Bean started blinking. “It’s okay. I don’t see any in there. Can you try to stop blinking?”

Bean sighed, then nodded. “Yeah, I think so.”

Poindexter cleared her throat. H.D. looked up to see she had her arms crossed and her eyebrows raised even higher than the rims of her oversized glasses. He gave her a shit-eating grin, and to his relief, she burst into laughter.

“You know, boys, I think I need to get out of here.”

“You don’t need to leave,” Bean said.

“Oh yes. I do. I need to… ah… wash my hair! Yeah. That’s it.”

H.D. clamped a hand over his mouth to stifle his own laugh.

She crooked her finger at him as she walked toward the front door.

H.D. laid a hand on Bean’s knee—“I’ll be right back”—and followed her to the door.

She peered at him over the tops of her glasses. “Be gentle with him.”

He gave her his most innocent expression. “I have no idea what you mean,” he said, then waggled his eyebrows.

She only giggled and then went on her way.

H.D. turned back to Bean. Sure, he was a little sore. But when H.D. was done with him, he’d feel a whole lot better.

But that was when he remembered Sarah Jane.

Well shit.

He had no idea how to get a hold of Mrs. Rosenberg.

Son of a bitch.

He went to his injured host’s side. “Hey, Bean. I need to get out of here for a bit. I forgot my dog.”

“Your dog?”

“Well, not
my
dog exactly. I’ve been keeping her at my place until I can find her a forever home. I left her with this elderly lady in my building, and it’s past time for me to be there.”

Bean sat up in his chair. “H.D. You’ve done more than enough. You go on. I’ll be fine. Just let me know how long I’m supposed to leave this stuff on my face?”

H.D. stood next to Bean’s chair, filled with indecision. What if Bean did have a concussion? How was he supposed to make himself something to eat?

Bean gazed up at him, looking like he was wearing an orange domino mask. It was hard not to laugh.

“I’ll be fine, H.D. For goodness sake. I got punched. People have been getting punched since the cavemen days…. What the hell are you grinning for?”

H.D. shook his head. “Nothing,” he said and grinned all the wider.

Bean shook his head, looking totally confused. “Go. Go home.”

Home? That was hardly where things had seemed to be heading. “I would like to get you something to eat.”

“I’ve got some leftover barbeque in the fridge. I’ll be fine, really. If I suddenly feel like I’m dying, I’ll call 911. Deal?”

H.D. shrugged. “Okay. If you’re sure.”

“I’m sure. Go check on your dog.”

H.D. gave a single nod. He still felt funny about all this: like he still owed the man something. But hadn’t he done enough? Then he got an idea. Later, he wouldn’t even be sure where it had come from, but it was out of his mouth before he knew it. “If you let me make you dinner tomorrow.”

“Dinner?” Bean was clearly surprised.

The Hound Dog loved to surprise people. “Yeah. Dinner. You gotta grill?”

“I do,” he replied. “Dad is the king of grills. He just got a new one and gave me his old one.”

“Great. You like fish? I make killer salmon.”

Bean smiled. “All right. Why not?”

Why not indeed
, thought H.D.

H.D.
DIDN
’
T
even think about the fact that he had made a date until he was halfway home. The realization was so abrupt, he clenched the brakes on his handlebars hard enough that he was almost thrown over them. It was like he’d been paralyzed for the briefest instant—but with what? Surprise? Fear? No—not fear. A hound dog wasn’t afraid of shit. Most definitely not some man.

It wasn’t like he’d never been on a… dare he say it? A date. He’d certainly been asked out enough times in his life. And if the stars were aligned the right way, or his dick was as hard as chrome steel, then he’d meet up with some guy. As long as it was casual and never at H.D.’s place.

A bunch of us are going to go play darts at The Watering Hole this Thursday. Wanna go? You and me can play “darts” after.

Sometimes he’d show up. Sometimes he wouldn’t.

I go to the park every Sunday afternoon—spread a blanket and have some cheese and crackers. Maybe a bottle of wine. Come look for me some time.

And if H.D. wasn’t busy doing one of about a hundred things, and the guy in question was good sex—then he might wind up at the park for cheese and…. Yeah, well…. A lot of parks had trees or restrooms to duck into.

H.D. most assuredly had not accepted the invitation from a trick he’d found on E-MaleConnect to that little family barbecue—
Oh sorry, I have to work that day… ah, yeah,
all
day
.

Imagine! Him, Hound Dog, being trotted out before parents and relatives like a boyfriend or something!
Him
. A boyfriend. It was to laugh.

But this? This dinner thing? This was tantamount to a date.
He
didn’t ask men on dates. The only thing saving him was that he was going to Bean’s place, and not H.D.’s own little apartment—his den. His safe (secret) place.

“Aaaaarrrghhhh!”

“You okay?” asked a young man.

“I…. Wh-what?” he stammered, startled.

“You looked like you almost fell.”

“I… what?” H.D. shook his head. “No. I’m fine.”

“It was just the ‘aarrgggghhh’ and all, you know? I thought maybe you were hurt.”

H.D. stopped, put one foot on the ground to brace his bike, and looked at the… well, not much older than a kid really. A kid with big brown eyes and the whitest hair he had ever seen. Surely that color didn’t appear naturally except atop an albino.

White Hair placed a hand on his hip, and H.D. noted a look that was both concern and… what? H.D. saw the kid’s eyes flash to his dreads and then his low-riding jeans. His feet. His blouse.
Judging me
, he thought.
You think I’m a drugged-up hippie
.

H.D.’s had opened his mouth to say something snide when the kid reached out and without asking—which was nothing new—took a cluster of dreads in his hand. “Oh, cool,” said the kid. “Your hair really rocks.” He moved
deep
into H.D.’s personal space. “I wonder what those would feel like on my balls?”

It was not what H.D. had been expecting, and he burst into laughter, while a jolt flew right to his dick.

White Hair pouted. H.D. climbed off his bike and stepped closer and ran his fingers through what turned out to be heavily product-filled hair. It was stiff. “Damn,” he said. “I was wondering what yours would feel like on my balls. Thought your hair would be soft….”

“Oh, it is!” the kid exclaimed. “I can rinse this shit out. I just like to take care of it is all. I bet you don’t know this, but my hair ain’t naturally this color.”

“Oh really?” H.D. was amused. He wondered if the kid was bleached everywhere.

“I even bleach down here,” the kid said, pointing downward.

H.D. chuckled in delight. God, he loved being hit on. It must feel as good as getting a tummy rub to a puppy.

His pursuer got so close their chests and… yes… oh, yeah, crotches were touching. “Want me to prove it?”

“Prove what?” H.D. growled, knowing very well what.

“That my bush is just as blond as my hair?” came the return growl.

“Sure.” H.D. thrust his growing erection against his potential partner’s.

“My name is Blue,” said the kid and thrust back.

A hippie’s kid, H.D. thought. Or some New Ager’s. If Blue really was his name. “I’m Hound Dog,” he replied.

“
Grrrrr….”
said Blue. “I like that. I like that a lot. Let’s go inside.” He turned and headed up a walk through a front yard grown well over knee-high and past unkempt shrubs. The house itself was run down, the paint peeling, the bottom step to the porch missing.

Abandoned?
H.D. wondered. But then he noticed Blue’s butt, as high and round as a pair of tetherballs, and decided he didn’t care.

He flashed on Bean. Handsome, sweet Bean, but then forced himself to focus on that undulating, mind-blowing little ass in front of him instead.

I’m gettin’ me some of that
, he thought, turning his mind away from the coffee man and scary words like “date.”

He was a hound dog, after all. And a hound dog does what a hound dog does….

And hadn’t that always served him well?

After that he forgot all about Bean.

Or he tried to….

B
EAN
TRIED
to watch television but there really wasn’t anything on. Nothing interesting. How many hundred channels, and nothing he wanted to see. A thousand permutations of
CSI
and sports. He was supposed to like sports; he was a man after all. But hell, he was supposed to like women too. Ha!

The shiner Bean had been expecting had turned into two. Twice the fun. So he decided to put some more papaya on his face. It couldn’t hurt, and actually, it felt pretty good.

Bean found it in the refrigerator along with a second unmolested fruit. Hmmmm…. Was he supposed to mash it or eat it? He elected to eat it. The smell was making him hungry.

That made him think of the leftovers from Tate’s Barbeque, so he got that out, and after opening the doggie bag to make sure there was no aluminum foil wrapped around the ribs, he popped it in the microwave oven to heat.

The doggy bag made him think of dogs and how the thought of getting one was now turning over more and more in his brain, just like a puppy with a bone. That thought made him smile—a dog with a bone and how cute they were and how if you pretended you were going to take it, they growled at you, and oh, that would make him laugh! You couldn’t help but like a dog. What man
didn’t
like a dog?

Maybe he really should pop into Four-Footed Friends and see what they had to offer.

And that, of course, made him think of H.D. and how much, for some reason, he liked the man. Not only was he cute as hell, but he had a rear end that put lead in Bean’s pencil. But more, H.D. was nice. He was a downright sweetheart. So gracious and unselfish and kind. He had spent so much time coming up with those oils and making the mashed papaya and massaging the stuff onto Bean’s face—and hadn’t he been gentle?—and H.D. hadn’t needed to do any of it. Brubaker hitting Bean wasn’t H.D.’s fault.