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“Of course.” I grab my phone from my pocket.
“What’s his number?” I ask, opening the keypad of my phone.
“555-3636,” he mutters, his face pulled into a grimace.
“Hello,” he answers with a raspy voice.
“Dylan?” I answer urgently.
“Yeah?” he responds cautiously, not recognizing my voice.
“This is C, get to the old tire factory on Bentley, Dingo is hurt bad,” I rattle off quickly.
“What happened?”
“Roscoe.”
“Shit…” he mutters quietly.
“You will see my truck in the parking lot, drive past that and come to the side of the building,” I instruct.
“I'm on my way,” he replies.
“Hey, Dylan,” I say quickly before he can hang up.
“What?”
“Don't stop or talk to anyone,” I warn.
“Yeah, I won't. I'll be right there,” he says then he hangs up.
I put the phone back in my pocket. “He's coming,” I tell Dingo.
“Good... C, can you help me put my pants up? I don't want him to see me like this.” Embarrassment laces his voice.
“Yes, sure.” I get up and walk behind him and kneel down on the ground behind him.
“Hey, Dingo,” I say, leaning over him so I can see his face.
“Yeah?” he breathes in pain.
“Your pants are pretty much just as low as you usually wear them already,” I joke, pulling his boxers up to cover his naked, pimply ass.
“You’re a bitch, you know that, C?” He chuckles, then he groans again from the pain.
“Yep, I know,” I laugh back.
“Lift up a little so I can pull your jeans up,” I instruct, tugging on the waistband.
“Ahhh,” he moans in pain, lifting his hips just enough for me to get his jeans up over his hips.
“Got it, you can relax now,” I inform, getting them up as high as I can. Moving back in front of him I ask, “You doing okay?”
“I don't know, I think so,” he mutters.
“Hey, C,” he whispers.
“Yeah?” I bend closer so I can hear him.
