Tag Team E-Book

SJD Peterson

• Herausgeber: Dreamspinner Press
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 360

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2013

Beschreibung

Guards of Folsom: Book Two Following the death of their sub, the former owners of the Guards of Folsom, Robert "Bobby" Alcott and Rig Beckworth, were left to pick up the pieces as best they could. After seven years, these two Doms are ready to move on and find the boy who will complete them. Their painful past comes crashing back when they meet Mason Howard, a submissive who just weeks ago lost his Doms in a car accident. Reeling from overwhelming grief that's complicated by a severe social anxiety disorder, Mason can barely leave his home. When Rig and Bobby find him, he's hit rock bottom, believing life is no longer worth living. Bobby and Rig set out to prove the younger man wrong. Fate has brought the three men together, but they'll have to face the pain of fear and loss head-on before they can all truly live again.

Leseprobe

By SJD PETERSON

NOVELS

Beyond Duty

Plan B

WHISPERING PINES RANCH

Lorcan’s Desire

Quinn’s Need

Ty’s Obsession

Conner’s Courage

Jess’s Journey

GUARDSOF FOLSOM

Pup

Tag Team

Riveted (short story)

NOVELLAS

Masters & Boyd

Tuck & Cover

Published by DREAMSPINNER PRESS

http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com

Copyright

Published by

Dreamspinner Press

5032 Capital Circle SWSuite 2, PMB# 279Tallahassee, FL 32305-7886

USA

http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of author imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Tag Team

© 2013 SJD Peterson.

Cover Art

© 2013 Paul Richmond.

http://www.paulrichmondstudio.com

Cover content is for illustrative purposes only and any person depicted on the cover is a model.

All rights reserved. This book is licensed to the original purchaser only. Duplication or distribution via any means is illegal and a violation of international copyright law, subject to criminal prosecution and upon conviction, fines, and/or imprisonment. Any eBook format cannot be legally loaned or given to others. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the Publisher, except where permitted by law. To request permission and all other inquiries, contact Dreamspinner Press, 5032 Capital Circle SW, Suite 2, PMB# 279, Tallahassee, FL 32305-7886, USA, or http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/.

ISBN: 978-1-62798-188-0

Digital ISBN: 978-1-62798-189-7

Printed in the United States of America

First Edition

October 2013

To my big sister.

I wish I could have been there

to be your helping hand up.

I miss you every day.

Author’s Note

Tag Team, while a fictional story, deals with some very personal and hard subjects for me. I do not, nor would I ever, take the subjects of pain, loss, depression, or suicide lightly.

You see, my fifteen-year-old niece, after being bullied for her weight, developed an eating disorder. My sister did what any parent would do and took her to a therapist for help. My niece was put on Prozac, and three weeks later, my sister found her on the kitchen floor with a self-inflicted gunshot wound to the head. She lived three more days. The guilt and heartbreak my sister experienced after her death sent her into severe depression. After four years, she simply couldn’t live with the pain anymore and ended her life as well.

If you know anyone who has experienced loss and heartbreak, who is experiencing depression or suicidal ideation, please, get them help. Be the helping hand they need to get them back on their feet again—or find someone who can. Never take any threat of suicide as a joke.

If you are in crisis or know someone who is, call the United States National Suicide & Crisis Hotline at 1-800-SUICIDE.

—SJD Peterson

Prologue

“GOD have mercy on his soul.”

God? There was no God, and there sure as hell wouldn’t be any mercy bestowed on Charles Robert Jones. Mason wiped angrily at the tears on his cheeks with his sleeve and glared at the priest who had come to say a last prayer for the dearly departed.

Neither the pastor nor the prayer had been Mason’s idea, nor would Charles have wanted it. No one seemed to care what he or Charles wanted. To the few family members who were in attendance—two sisters, an aunt, and a couple of cousins—Mason Howard didn’t exist. He wasn’t allowed to sit amongst them, relegated to stand at the back and away from the casket—wouldn’t want to upset the family with his presence. In fact, Charles’s older sister Maria had even gone as far as to call Mason and say, “We think it’d be best if you not attend.”

Mason hadn’t even dignified her with an answer, just hit the end button on his phone and threw it across the room. He responded to the request by not only showing up at the funeral home each day—he had been the first to arrive at the cemetery, which was another thing Charles wouldn’t have wanted. Mason shouldn’t be here; none of them should. Charles had made it perfectly clear that he wanted to be cremated and his ashes scattered over the land he had lived on and loved with Mason and Gregory. Again, Mason hadn’t gotten a say in it and apparently neither had Charles; the black casket about to be lowered into the ground was proof.

Charles’s family had finally been able to contain him in a shiny box, the kind they could understand. The box, the setting, the words, none of it was who Charles Robert Jones was. Now some man—a messenger of a God long dead to Mason—was trying to redeem a soul condemned—possessed by sin.

Mason had tried to tell both Maria and Charles’s other sister Carol what Charles’s last wishes were, but they’d refused to listen to him. He’d fought as hard as he could for Charles, but he’d failed. He had no legal rights. He didn’t get any say in what happened to the man he knew better than all of them. It didn’t matter that he’d been the only person, present company included, who had shared the man’s life every single day for the last twelve years.

That wasn’t true. There had been one other person.

Mason tipped his head back, looking up at the changing sky with tear-filled eyes. His chest tightened so painfully it stole his breath. Oh God, Gregory, he cried silently. Look what they are doing to him.

In the distance a bolt of lightning cracked, splitting the horizon. The clouds churned, gray swirling billows overtaking the robin’s-egg blue of an otherwise peaceful summer sky. As if even the heavens were manifesting Mason’s anger, bearing witness to Gregory’s defeat, and reflecting the sorrow of Charles’s soul trapped in that pine box.

At least Gregory had been cremated as had been his wish. His ashes sat on the kitchen table of their seaside home, waiting to be set free. Mason choked on a sob as it hit him in the center of his very being. He was putting one lover in the cold hard ground alone and abandoning the other to the winds, when their earthly remains should have been intermingled forever.

The creaking of a winch pulled Mason from his musings just in time to hear the priest say, “Unite us together again in one family, to sing your praise forever and ever. Amen.”

The choked sound of sobbing from Charles’s family inflamed Mason as much as the priest’s hollow words did. These people with their bullshit of being together again in one family, the fake tears, caused rage to claw at Mason’s chest, bile to rise up in his throat, and he trembled with the power of it. He wanted to scream at the injustice of it, to howl, Me! I’m his family. Me, who loves him unconditionally for who and what he was. He’s mine! He belongs to me and Gregory. We’re his family.

Click. Click. Click.

Mason covered his ears, the agonized screaming in his head not enough to drown out the maddening sounds of the gears turning. Each click took Charles farther and farther away. Soon he’d be out of reach, gone forever.

Click. Click. Click.

Stop them. You fucking coward, stop them. Do it. Do it NOW!

Mason’s fingers curled in hair, setting off sparks of pain on each side of his skull, and he squeezed his eyes shut. His heart hammered in his chest, the adrenaline surged through his system, and he couldn’t breathe.

As the familiar signs of a panic attack coursed through him, Mason sank to the ground against his will, his knees giving out as he gasped for breath. The pain in his head, the screaming inside it, the shiny black casket, the click, click, click of the winch, Gregory, Charles, all of it pressed down on him, and his chest clenched, throat constricted, he couldn’t fucking breathe.

Focus. Breathe.

Somewhere in his haze-filled brain, he knew what he had to do. He had to relax, breathe, and focus. It would pass, and if it didn’t, if he couldn’t relax enough to get air into his lungs, his body would shut down and override his fucked-up head. Waking up from a panic-induced sleep sucked; the screaming headache would leave him dazed for hours. He’d lived through hundreds, thousands of these attacks throughout his life; he just needed to focus, listen for the soothing sound of Gregory’s voice, the calming touch of Charles’s hands, because without them to pull him back from the edge….

Dead.

Mason tried to open his eyes to stop the haunting images that blinked in his head, flashing like a strobe light. Twisted wreckage— Mangled bodies— Blood.

NO!

They would come for him. Gregory would talk him down. Charles would touch him and soothe him, and the three of them would snuggle together afterward. Mason couldn’t do it without them.

They wouldn’t leave him.

Ever.

They had promised him when they put the collar around his neck. He would forever belong to them, and Gregory and Charles had vowed they wouldn’t ever leave him.

Open your eyes, boy. Focus right here. Open your eyes and look at me.

At the sound of Gregory’s authoritative voice, Mason’s eyes flew open, the edges of his vision dark. Mason blinked, trying to do as he was told, but everything was blurry and his eyes closed of their own accord. “Sir,” he managed to wheeze out. “Help—”

Mason’s entire body trembled, and his oxygen-deficient lungs caused an agonizing burn to spread through him, but he wouldn’t fail his master. Mason pushed the pain down into the pit of his churning gut, rose above the misery. There wasn’t anything he wouldn’t do for Gregory.

Mason’s eyes fluttered open, and before him stood a figure dressed all in black, its pale fingers curled into a fist. It all came rushing back in a flash, every agonizing detail—his pain, his loss, his new reality. Maria’s dark eyes bore into him accusingly as she opened her hand and let the dirt fall into the grave.

Darkness surrounded him like giant arms, welcoming him into its embrace, and Mason gave himself over to it. He felt himself floating away, the pain fading too. His last conscious thought: Please don’t let me wake this time.

Chapter 1

RIG BECKWORTHwas stretched out in his lounge chair, dark shades shielding his eyes, skin glistening with coconut oil. He was the study of a happy tourist. “Rest and relaxation,” he’d said. “Scantily dressed boys,” he’d said. “We’ll have fun,” he’d said. Bobby glared at him. “Does it look like I’m having fun?” Bobby grumbled under his breath.

“What was that?” Rig asked sleepily.

Bobby continued to grumble, cursing low as he adjusted the umbrella in a feeble attempt to shield his body from the Florida heat. “My popper is popped,” Bobby complained and then winced when sweat ran into his eye. “Goddammit!” He wiped at his burning eye and wet face with a damp hand towel.

“Your what has popped?” Rig chuckled and rolled on his side to look at him.

“My popper.”

Rig cocked his head and lifted his shades, his expression confused.

“You know the little plastic thing they stick in a turkey?” Rig’s frown deepened, and Bobby waved him off and sighed heavily. “Never mind, I forgot I’m talking to the king of pizza and TV dinners.”

“Good thing I have you, then, huh,” Rig said with a smirk and lowered his shades.

“If I have to sit out here in this heat, you’re not going to have me much longer. I’m hot,” Bobby whined. “There is a reason Florida doesn’t have bears, Rig. It’s too hot and we have too much fur.”

“Aww, c’mon, baby, it’s not that bad,” Rig coddled. He lay back in the lounger, tilted his chin up toward the sun. A broad smile spread across his face, and Bobby suddenly had the urge to slap it off.

Bobby’s eyes narrowed, and he gritted his teeth. Over the last twenty-four years together, the only time Rig called him baby was when he was a) fucking with him, or b)…. Nope, only when he was fucking with him. Rig had never been overly romantic or one to use endearments.

“I’m here so you’re not the only bear sweatin’ it out,” Rig added. “And this bear loves it.”

“No. You’re a cub,” Bobby corrected.

Rig was far from smooth. He had a head full of thick, dark curls that brushed the top of his collar, and his sparse goatee and soul patch were dusted with silver. When Bobby had first met Rig all those years ago, he’d been tall, with lean well-defined muscles. Rig’s chest, stomach, and limbs had been lightly covered in dark hair. He hadn’t changed much, though the lean body was now softer. At forty-eight, he wore the number of years he’d lived on his face.

Rig rolled once again and turned his head to Bobby. “You could shave—”

“Don’t even suggest it,” Bobby interrupted.

“I’m not saying shave it off, but maybe instead of trying to look like one of the front men for ZZ Top you could… trim it a little.” He snapped his fingers. “I know, you could be like their drummer.” Rig’s brow furrowed, and he considered Bobby for a moment. “You know, I bet that’s not his real name.”

Bobby ran his hand over his chin, pulled at the two-inch-long hair. “Mine’s not even close to that length,” he said irritably. “And what do you mean not his real name? Who?”

“Their drummer,” Rig said with a hint of exasperation. As if Bobby should have just known whom he was talking about. “I mean, seriously, the two front men have beards that go halfway down their torsos and the one guy in the group who doesn’t have one, his last name is Beard? I don’t buy it. Remind me to google that shit when we get back to the house.”

A bead of sweat rolled down Bobby’s forehead, but he wiped it away this time before it could burn his eyes. That’s it. He tossed the towel aside and sat up, sending the umbrella tumbling to the sand. “How about we go google it now? Because seriously, this weather sucks out loud.”

“C’mon, Bobby, we just got out here and the locals will be getting out of work soon. You don’t want to miss the pretty boy show, do you?”

Wakitta was a small southern Florida town, situated on the gulf. It had a couple of great restaurants, collectable shops, and a bakery, but without the commercialized tourist traps like many gulf-side towns. The fact that Wakitta hadn’t fallen to the big developers was part of its appeal for him and Rig—at least for Bobby it would be appealing in the fall and winter, but summers in southern Florida sucked.

It wasn’t only the town’s charm that appealed to them, Bobby thought with a wry grin, but also the fact that the obscure beach was a favorite among the local gay men. Still. He pulled his unruly curls back into a small ponytail and secured it with a band.

“You sit out here and bake,” Bobby said. He grabbed his towel, draped it around his neck, and heaved himself out of the lounge chair and winced when the hot sand burned the bottom of his feet. “Christ, I hate this shit,” he growled and stepped into his flip-flops. “Tell me again why I let you talk me into this ridiculous vacation?”

“Because you love me and knew I wanted to come.” Rig grinned and scooped up a bottle of suntan oil and poured a generous amount on his chest and stomach.

Bobby glared at him, but Rig ignored the irritated look as he slicked up his torso and hummed happily. Once again Bobby felt compelled to slap the damn smiling man, but he curled his hand into fists and stomped off without a word.

“You’re going to miss the show,” Rig reminded him again.

“And you’re turning into one of those pervy dirty old men, Rig,” he said pointedly.

“I’ve always been a pervy old man. What’s your point?”

Bobby cursed and shook his head at Rig’s boisterous laughter as he struggled in the soft, shifting sand. “I’m going to go explore.” In the shade. “I’ll be back,” he tossed over his shoulder and headed for the tree line.

The area just off the beach was really more bush and scruff than what he’d call a forest, but there were a few pines, palms, and some kind of weeping trees with long strands of moss hanging from them. A clearly defined pathway had been tromped down among the bush, the sand and dirt well packed, making it easier for him to walk. The temperature was still ungodly hot, but the shade did offer a slight measure of relief.

The farther Bobby made his way along the path, the more irritated he became. Discarded condom wrappers, empty beer cans, and other trash littered the ground, proof the area was a popular spot. He was all for a hookup, a random fuck in the woods, but Christ, did they have to be such pigs? He sat heavily on a fallen tree, huffed out a frustrated breath, and wiped at his face. He kicked angrily at an empty beer bottle and scowled at it as if it were the reason for his ill mood. It shattered against a rock. Everything seemed to be irritating him these days.

Born Robert Alcott, Bobby had been a headstrong kid, a leader. Hell, he’d taken charge of his kindergarten class. Throughout his life, he’d always been in control. He thrived on being in charge, was good at ruling others, knowing what they needed, and providing it. Being a Dom was so ingrained in his genetic makeup that without purpose, someone to control, care for, love, he would go insane. Now Folsom was gone. The club he’d opened decades ago, passed on to younger, more innovative minds and in the very reliable hands of Blake and Ty. Bobby’s whole life had revolved around the place. It’s where he met Rig, and he did love the man without question, but Rig, being an aggressive Dom himself, didn’t need Bobby like a submissive did. Bobby needed purpose, dammit! This life of vacations, retirement, boring days…. He was only fifty, for fuck sakes, not eighty.

Bobby closed his eyes and took deep calming breaths. He listened to the lulling sound of the gulf waves in the distance, the gull’s cry, but his gut still churned, pulse a little too quick from his troubled thoughts continued. He couldn’t keep hanging out at Folsom, at least not in the capacity he had been. What he needed, what both he and Rig needed, was a sub. Not just a boy to play with for the night, one who might be entertaining—because those were a dime a dozen. No, what he needed to focus on was finding the third that would make him and Rig complete.

As the truth of it settled down on him, Bobby opened his eyes and stared at the foliage overhead as it swayed gently, the lush green highlighted by the pale-blue sky. In the distance, he could see the darker blue of the water. A serene feeling washed over him as he looked out over the beautiful landscape. He knew what he had to do. As soon as they returned to New York, he and Rig would step up their search for the perfect man to complete them.

After carefully picking up the pieces of glass and wrapping them in his towel, Bobby continued to follow the path. As he stepped past a high wall of brush, the landscape opened up, and to his left, a set of white, wooden stairs led up a hill to a small white bungalow with bright blue shutters. Anyone standing behind the large picture window would have a stunning view of the gulf.

Movement near a small orange tree grabbed Bobby’s attention. A man on his knees, dressed in a white tank top and blue shorts, examined the orange he held in his hand briefly before placing it in a basket and reaching for another. Squinting from the glare of the bright sun, Bobby reluctantly left the shade of the trees and tromped up the steps. Might as well do the neighborly thing and say hello.

Closer now, Bobby got a good look at the younger man. Even in a kneeling position, Bobby could tell he was slight, but the muscles of his thighs and arms, while lean, were well defined. He appeared to be in his early twenties. His hair was a dark chestnut brown, cut short, his jaw clean-shaven, and his skin was a deep olive tone. Bobby couldn’t quite make out the color of his eyes, but they were dark, possibly brown, although it was hard to tell with the dark circles beneath them. In profile he had a long, narrow nose, and his lips were full, kissable. He was absolutely gorgeous. A warm spark of attraction and longing warmed Bobby’s groin. He pushed down his desire and did his best to keep it in check, despite the ripple of envy that settled in his gut, as he took the last couple of steps towards the man. Some lucky son of a bitch had already claimed this beautiful boy, as evidenced by the thin leather collar around his neck.

“Hi,” Bobby said cheerfully and raised his hand to wave. “I’m staying—”

“Oh,” the man yelped when he noticed Bobby. His brown eyes—he had been right, melted chocolate brown, in fact—went wide with shock as he fell back on his hands and scrambled away, knocking over his basket and sending the oranges scattering.

There was more than fear in those brown orbs. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to startle you,” he said regretfully and reached out to help the man to his feet.

The stranger ignored Bobby’s offered hand, rolled to his feet, and took off in a dead run to the house, slamming the door behind him.

Bobby stood there stunned long after the man had disappeared inside. “What the fuck?” he muttered. His first instinct was to follow the man, to beat on the door and demand to know what the hell was going on. There was something about the situation that nagged him, there was way too much sadness in him for someone so young—and the irrational fear. Bobby wondered if the man’s Dom was possibly abusing him. Yet, he hadn’t seen a single bruise, and Bobby was the trespasser.

He continued to stare at the house, debating what he should do. After a long drawn-out moment, Bobby sighed, resigned. He gathered up the oranges, placing them back into the basket, and set it next to the front door. He had the sneaking suspicion that he was being watched, but when he looked toward the window, no one was there.

He and Rig would be in town for another week. He’d make a point to stop by, keep his eyes open, and then decide what, if anything, he should do about the sad brown-eyed man.

Chapter 2

“THAT’S it. Just focus on my voice and breathe,” Gregory murmured.

Mason took in a ragged breath, holding it briefly, before letting it out slowly and then another.

“Such a good boy,” Charles praised, his large hands roaming across Mason’s chest, down to his stomach, and back up in a soothing pattern.

The burning fire in his lungs gave way to a pleasant warmth that spread through him, allowing his muscles to release their tension as he gave himself over to his Doms’ voice and touch.

“Good boy,” Gregory echoed in a calm, encouraging voice. “Open your eyes, boy.”

Mason’s eyes fluttered open, and he blew out another breath in relief when Gregory’s concerned blue eyes came into focus. He reached up and gently ran the tip of his finger along the crease between Gregory’s brows. “Thank you, sir,” he said hoarsely, his throat raw and dry. “I’m sorry I worried you again,” he whispered with regret.

Gregory wrapped his hand around Mason’s wrist, kissed his finger softly, then held Mason’s hand against his stubbled cheek. “Shh. No apologies needed.”

“What was going on in this pretty little head of yours that sparked the attack?” Charles asked, his breath warm against Mason’s ear.

Mason turned his head slightly to look up at Charles. “I’m not sure, sir,” he answered honestly. Another pang of regret flickered when he saw the mirrored look of concern. “I’m so—”

Charles quieted Mason by placing a finger over his lips. “What did Master Gregory just tell you, boy? No apologies.”

Mason looked between his two Doms, opened his mouth to apologize once again, but snapped it shut before the words could escape. Charles’s hand fell away from Mason’s mouth to resume the quieting caress along Mason’s chest and belly. With a contented sigh, his pulse now a steady rhythm and his breathing slow and even, he melted back against Charles’s large chest.

“The last thing I remember I was polishing the furniture, singing along with Eric Clapton, and the next thing I knew I was lying in your arms and Master Gregory was telling me to breathe.” Mason cocked his head again to look at Charles. “By the way, sir, this is really nice,” he said appreciatively. Not only did he not know what had triggered the attack, he also had no clue how he had come to be stretched out on the couch, resting against Charles, but he wasn’t complaining. He turned and snuggled deeper into his Dom’s comforting warmth.

Gregory pulled the cushions from the back of the couch, threw them to the floor, and pushed his way in to wrap his arms around both Mason and Charles. “Well, the good thing is, it’s over now,” Gregory said and kissed the back of Mason’s head.

This was the only good thing about one of his crazy-ass freak-outs. His Doms knew exactly what to do, cared enough about him that they stopped whatever it was they were doing and came to help him. It bothered Mason that he couldn’t be stronger, couldn’t control the attacks, which in turn forced Gregory and Charles to come to his rescue. Even with strict adherence to his medication schedule, sometimes the attacks just snuck up on him. It was over; he wasn’t going to dwell on it, not when he had his men snuggled up against him.

Mason placed a kiss on Charles’s bare chest. The soft hairs tickled his lips and made him smile, and then he turned his head and begged a kiss from Gregory, who gave it without hesitation. “Thank you. I’m much better now.”

“What song were you listening to?” Gregory asked.

“‘Tears in Heaven.’”

“Well that clears up the mystery of why,” Charles chuckled. “My poor, sweet sentimental boy,” he teased lightly and kissed Mason’s forehead.

“Stop worrying,” Gregory added and ground his groin against Mason, pulling a deep moan from him. “Nothing could ever rip us away from this sweet ass.”

Mason opened his eyes. The early morning light streaming in from the bedroom window was harsh, and he closed his eyes again. He pulled the covers up over his head, not wanting to wake. The dream had just been getting good. Gregory’s hard cock rubbed against the crease of his ass, Charles’s tongue pushed deep into his mouth, exploring, devouring him. Mason laid there for long moments trying to will himself back to sleep, to return to the arms of his lovers, but he couldn’t. A smile played across his lips. I’ll bribe them with their favorite breakfast of pancakes and bacon. He was sure they would show him their appreciation, and if he was lucky, he wouldn’t need to dream. The real thing was so much better than any fantasy.

Careful not to wake his Doms, Mason crawled out from under his nest of blankets and quietly made his way out of the bedroom. A quick stop by the bathroom without turning on any lights to take care of business, then he headed to the kitchen to start breakfast.

“First, coffee,” he muttered and rubbed at his tired eyes.

Mason pulled the coffee can from the freezer and scooped the grinds into the filter. A prickling feeling started at the base of his skull, working its way down his spine as he poured water into the coffee maker. A shudder rippled through him and he scanned the area around him, but nothing seemed out of place. He shrugged and pushed the On button. The scent of freshly brewing coffee filled the small kitchen immediately, and he inhaled deeply as he rubbed at the weird sensation on his neck. He hated the taste of the stuff, found it bitter no matter how much cream and sugar he added to it, and the taste of it on his lovers’ tongues was a little eww, but he loved the rich aroma.

Before pulling out the ingredients he’d need, Mason checked the small CD player he kept in the kitchen to make sure his “happy” playlist was in it. Satisfied it was and with the volume turned to low, he switched it on to the sounds of Creedence Clearwater Revival. He hummed along as he whipped up the batter. There was only one mishap with a wayward egg that landed on the floor, but other than that, he had the batter smooth, the griddle hot, and the bacon in the oven in no time at all.

However, the uneasy feeling only intensified, Mason’s stomach cramping, as it dawned on him that he had woken on his pallet instead of in the bed with his men. What had he done the night before to displease them? He tried searching back through the night, past the wonderful dream, but his thoughts were disjointed, unclear, as if he were trying to look through murky waters to find the answers to the disquiet. Impossible task.

Mason frowned at the pancakes as he flipped them, the edges burned. Whatever he had done to cast him out of favor, his attempt at breakfast wasn’t going to win him any brownie points. He scooped the cakes from the griddle and grudgingly threw them into the garbage can, regreased the griddle, and poured new batter on it.

Focus, Mason. Take a deep breath and try again. It didn’t matter what he had done; what mattered was that he make up for it, make it right. Gregory and Charles always forgave him as long as he tried his best. Biting his lip, he pushed all other thoughts away except the task at hand. He could do this.

This time when he flipped them, the cakes were a perfect golden brown. As he continued preparing breakfast, poured the coffee, and set the table, the dark thought kept moving toward the surface, but stayed just out of reach. When he tried, it floated out of his grasp as if it were encased in a bubble. He poked at it, his curious nature not letting it rest, but no matter how hard he poked or how deeply he tried to concentrate on finding the answer, it stayed just out of reach. If he could just pop it enough, just a little, he had a better chance of not repeating his mistake, and he needed to know. Whatever he had done had been bad enough that he was blocking it out. Guilt? Shame? Was that what had his pulse pounding and causing the ache in his chest?

Mason stared at the table for a moment longer, hoping it would come to him, but it was no use. He sighed heavily in defeat and frustration and went to wake his Doms and face his punishment.

Mason moved down the hallway, his steps sluggish and slow as if he were walking in wet concrete. A heavy cloud of dread drifted down on him as he stood outside the room he shared with Gregory and Charles. Mason looked down at his nude body, his legs trembling visibly; they were so weak he wasn’t sure how he was still standing. This made no sense. He’d never been so scared in his life. He’d always faced his punishment with his head held high, always admitted his faults, his mistakes, and did his best to learn from them with the help of his two loving Doms.

Nearly crippled with the weight of the trepidation, Mason was forced to reach out a shaking hand and support himself against the doorjamb as a wave of nausea ripped through him. He swallowed hard, the bile burning his throat and took harsh breaths through his nose. Jesus! What had he done? What offense could he have possibly committed that had him so scared? He tried once again to poke at the bubble, but it continued to elude him.

It was no use.

Mason barely made it to the bathroom before falling to his knees next to the commode and retching. Tears streamed down his eyes, tears he knew not the cause of, as his stomach spasmed. Nothing came up. And he continued to dry heave. Why wasn’t his dinner coming up? They always ate dinner at six o’clock, Gregory a stickler for routine. Had he not eaten? Had that been when he messed up?

When his stomach finally gave up and settled to a slow churn, Mason wiped a hand across his mouth and rubbed at his wet eyes.

Where are they?

Mason stared down at his body. His skin was a sickly pale color, and his normally flat stomach seemed to have folded in on itself. So thin. He appeared to have lost weight, a lot of weight, but that made no sense. The dark bubble floated once again to the surface. Instead of trying to poke it, he did his best to peer through the swirling clouds within it. He watched in fascination as the dark clouds pulsed, began to clear, only to darken again before he found the answer.

You’ve gone mad.

No! Mason forced himself to rise, the room swaying, and he held on to the counter momentarily until the sensation calmed. He wasn’t crazy. There was something going on inside his head he couldn’t explain, but he wasn’t without hope. He knew who could help him figure this out.

Mason moved to the sink and splashed cold water on his face, held his cold hands against his burning eyes until the pain eased slightly, and then rinsed out his mouth. Grabbing a hand towel from the counter, Mason ran the soft material over his face and neck.

His heart stopped dead in his chest when he caught a glimpse of his reflection in the mirror. A stranger looked back at him, an emaciated man with hollow, dead eyes. What the fuck is wrong with me! He continued to stare at the stranger in the mirror. He blinked when Mason did, trembled as Mason did, but it couldn’t—

Maybe I’m still dreaming.

That had to be it. Obviously the wonderful dream he’d been having had morphed into a nightmare. Soon he’d wake wrapped in a jumble of arms and legs, and the three of them would have a good laugh together over breakfast. Charles always loved to interpret his dreams, came up with the most creative, silly reasons for them.

Mason threw the towel at his nightmarish self in the mirror and laughed.

Without hesitating Mason threw open the door to his bedroom, no longer concerned about the feeling of dread, and stepped inside. The blinds covered the window, but the bright sun streamed through the slits, washing the room in bright light. His blankets were still a tangled mess on the floor where he’d left them, but it was the king-size bed that seemed completely out of place. The tan bedspread was neatly in place; the white pillows rested against the headboard, neat and empty.

Mason automatically picked up his blankets from the floor and absently folded them as he continued to stare at the bed. Where were his men? He willed himself to wake up, but even as he set his blankets on the dresser, the bed remained empty. He scanned the room to see if anything else was unusual, but everything was in its place, perfectly neat. He knew he hadn’t made the bed before leaving to make breakfast; he’d left Gregory and Charles sleeping.

“Wake up,” Mason ordered himself and slapped his checks.

Still the bed remained empty.

Mason searched the room, then the guest room, the bathroom. His pulse roared in his ears as the dread returned with a vengeance, intensified. Wake up.

The kitchen was empty. The dining room table was set, steam still rolling up from the two coffee mugs, the chairs unoccupied, so he moved into the living room.

“Gregory!” he cried out. “Charles. Where are you?”

Silence.

Wake up, goddammit! Wake the fuck up!

He tried the front door, but it wouldn’t open. Locked. It made no sense, they wouldn’t lock the door to sit on the porch, but it was a nightmare, it didn’t have to make sense. He turned the lock and pulled open the door and ran outside. He couldn’t breathe, his heart hammered so hard it felt like it was going to pound out of his chest.

The lounge chairs were empty.

“Gregory! Charles!” he screamed. “Fucking answer me!”

Silence.

He looked to the left. Charles’s Envoy sat in the driveway. He turned to the right and cocked his head. A basket of oranges sat next to the railing. Mason narrowed his eyes and studied it. “Where the hell did that come—”

Twisted wreckage.

Mangled bodies.

Blood.

Mason’s knees buckled, and he reached out and caught himself, the pain in his hands and palms barely registering over the feeling of his heart being ripped from his chest. He wasn’t asleep; it was a nightmare, one he would never wake from.

The anguish stirred his stomach, and each painful memory from the past three weeks came rushing back as the bubble popped. All the guilt rose to the surface, the pain, all of it spilling from his eyes, blurring his vision, but the sharp edge of each image, each painful moment, dug the knife deeper, relentlessly twisted it into his heart.

Mason rolled to his side, curled into a tight ball, and sobbed.

He was never going to wake from this nightmare.

Chapter 3

THE stifling heat in the room pulled Rig from a deep sleep as sweat rolled down his temples. He grumbled and shoved off the covers. His eyes flew open when the blankets hit the floor with a loud thump, followed by a very not-Bobby-sounding yelp. Rig rolled over and peered down over the edge of the mattress. A dark-haired head popped out from under the covers, hazel eyes glaring up at Rig.

Rig jabbed a finger at him accusingly. “Who the fuck are you?”

“That’s your beach bunny,” Bobby said sleepily from behind him.

Rig turned his head to see Bobby sprawled out on the other side of the bed, rubbing his morning wood with one hand, scratching his chest with the other.

“You want to help me up?” asked a whiny voice from the floor, the tone like that of nails across a chalkboard.

Rig cringed and buried his face in the pillow and cursed. What the hell had he done last night? He remembered him and Bobby being invited to a bonfire, the alcohol flowing, and the cute boys dancing in their speedos and shorts. Rig lifted his head and peered over the mattress again, the stranger still glaring up at him, and now with a hand held out expectantly. Rig didn’t recognize the guy, definitely not one of the cute dancing boys. Rig huffed out a disgusted breath and rolled into Bobby’s side.

“Did I fuck that guy?” he whispered against Bobby’s ear and then wrinkled his nose as the aroma of smoke, stale alcohol, and sex filled his nostrils. “Or did you? Christ you stink.”

“So does your breath,” Bobby growled and grunted as he shoved at Rig. “I fucked him, you bottomed him,” Bobby added.

Rig’s head snapped up, and he stared wide-eyed at Bobby, at the same time clenching his ass—no pain—he narrowed his eyes. “The hell I did.” He never… well, rarely bottomed, and when he did, it was only for Bobby. Both of them being natural Doms and tops made it necessary to compromise from time to time; not that he didn’t enjoy being fucked once in a while, but still.

He swatted at Bobby when the bastard started to chuckle and pushed himself back against Bobby’s side, then threw a leg over the man. Bobby hissed when Rig’s thigh landed on his erect cock, and he slapped Rig on the ass. Hard. “Watch it!”

“Serves you right, fucker,” Rig complained and rested his head on Bobby’s chest.

“Is someone going to help me up?” the boy on the floor whined again.

“No! I’m sleeping,” Rig mumbled.

“Would you stop being a grumpy prick? It’s not my fault or Joey’s that you drank so much,” Bobby chastised, but he didn’t try to push Rig away.

“Joey,” Rig muttered under his breath and closed his eyes as the pounding in his head made itself known. After a few seconds, he heard grumbling and bare feet tromping across the floor, but he ignored it. Bobby’s steady heartbeat and the even rise and fall of his chest was lulling Rig back to sleep. The overhead fan blowing a stream of cool air over his damp skin caused him to shudder, and Bobby tightened an arm around him. He’d worry about Joey and his hangover later. Maybe once he had some more sleep, the events of the night before would come back to him. He was not a morning person, never had been.

The second time Rig woke, he found himself alone in bed. His head was still pounding, but at least it wasn’t as hazy as it had been the last time he’d opened his eyes, and thankfully there was no stranger using him as a pillow. Rig stretched, his back protesting with a series of pops, but it still felt good and he settled into the soft mattress and stared up at the white ceiling.