Tag Team (6 page)

“Doesn’t look like anyone is home,” Rig muttered the obvious.

“They could be sleeping,” he replied, even though he didn’t believe it.

The day before he’d left a note stuck in the screen door. It had been missing when he’d returned hours later. He’d also had the odd sensation that someone had been watching him as he tried to peer in the heavily tinted windows. Bobby was convinced it had been either the cowardly Dom who was abusing the boy or the boy himself, too afraid to call out for help, but someone had been watching him. How he knew was a mystery, but something deep inside him was convinced his suspicions the boy was in danger were truths. He was sure of it. He needed to see and talk to this boy, for his own peace of mind, and then…. Bobby wasn’t sure what he’d do once he got to see the man. He’d figure it out when the time came.

The wind picked up, creating a low mournful sound, and in the distance the sky rumbled. Bobby pushed his hair away from his face and knocked sharply on the screen door. “Hello,” he called out.

He could feel Rig flanking him. Always the protector, Bobby thought, even for those he deemed his equal. The thought made him smile slightly as he knocked again, a little harder this time. He shone the beam of light from his flashlight through the small window at the top of the door, but the mirrored tints only sent the ray of light back at him and he blinked against the harshness of it. “Fuck,” he muttered and shoved at his hair again as the wind whipped it into his eyes.

“Bobby!” Rig shouted.

The hint of alarm in Rig’s voice caused Bobby to jerk his head in the direction of Rig’s beam of light. A figure lay sprawled on a large chase lounge, a half-empty bottle of liquor dangling precariously from his fingers. Without thought, Bobby went to the man and set the bottle aside. It was his sad sub he’d been looking for.

“Hey,” Bobby said touching the man’s cheek gently, the skin cool beneath his finger.

“Hmm,” the man mumbled without opening his eyes or moving.

“Wake up,” Bobby encouraged, patting the stubbled cheek. “C’mon, kid, show me those peepers.”

Another incoherent grumble came from the man, but he still didn’t stir.

“Fuck!” Rig growled next to him, grabbing Bobby’s attention.

“What is it?” he asked, looking toward Rig who was holding a piece of paper in his hands.

Without answering, Rig picked up what appeared to be a prescription bottle, a frown marring his brow as he read it. Then instantly Rig pulled off the top on the bottle and poured out the contents, the pills making a pinging sound as they hit the tin table.

Bobby stole a quick glance at the stranger; he was breathing rhythmically and shallowly but hadn’t yet moved or opened his eyes, and panic raced through Bobby as he turned back to Rig. “What the fuck is it?”

“I don’t think he’s taken any,” Rig commented, pushing the pills around one at a time. “From what I can tell there aren’t any missing.”

“Goddammit, Rig, what are you mumbling about?”

“This,” Rig said angrily and shoved the piece of paper at him.

Bobby took it and read:

If you are reading this, then I am already gone. I apologize for the stress or inconvenience this may cause you. I am sure finding a dead body was not on your list of things you wanted to do today, and your unease will be my last regret. I have left my cell phone; it is fully charged, I have no family or friends, so please call the local authorities.

I have tried to make this as easy as possible for you. You’ll find the house is in order, a note expressing my wishes for what is to be done with our home, belongings, and remains. In my wallet, which is on the kitchen table as well, you will find what cash I have and my ID. Please, I beg of you, take the money, but please don’t take anything else. I know it’s not much and you may not care, but I feel I must tell you, I am already going to hell. I’m okay with this, but please, please, please, let me do one good thing in death. Let me help at least one person by providing something to comfort another, a small sliver of repayment for how my lovers provided and comforted me.

Mason Allen Howard

Tears blurred Bobby’s eyes as he read, and he blinked them away as he crushed the note in his hand. How could someone become so desperate they sought out death? To write such a note? Anger flared in Bobby’s veins, burning away his tears, and his vision narrowed in on the man lying on the lounge.

He grabbed the man’s narrow shoulders and shook him. “Mason.” He shook him harder when the man only grunted, head lolling back. “Mason, open your eyes.”

“S…. St…,” Mason groaned. His mouth was working, but no words passed his dry lips.

“Open your fucking eyes now!” Bobby shouted in desperation.

Mason’s eyes twitched briefly as if he was trying to open them, but he gave up with a sigh and they closed again. Mason was limp in Bobby’s hands, which caused both the desperation and anger to surge. “Did you take any pills?” Bobby gripped the man’s shirt and jerked him roughly to a sitting position. Mason was a sub, a collared sub; Bobby doubted the man would be able to ignore a given command, and he used that to his advantage. “Boy,” he said, adding a loud, authoritative snap to his voice. “Answer the fucking question now! Did you take any pills?”

“No, sir,” came a weak muffled reply and a slight shake of Mason’s head.

Bobby huffed out a breath of relief, then took a deep one to help center himself. “Open your eyes, boy,” he demanded with a calm, even tone.

“Sir?” Mason slurred, but his eyes fluttered open. His eyes were bloodshot and a bit glazed, but he was obeying Bobby’s command and keeping them open, albeit with difficulty.

“Rig, see if the door is unlocked, we need to get this boy in the shower,” he told his partner without taking his eyes from Mason. Keeping a tight grip on Mason with one hand, he slid his other hand up to stroke the boy’s cheek, rubbing his thumb across his dry bottom lip. “Good, boy,” he praised. “Keep those eyes open for me.”

“Yes, sir,” Mason said, his words still garbled but his tone stronger.

“It’s unlocked,” Rig told him, coming back to stand next to Bobby. “Let’s get him up.”

Bobby nodded and wrapped an arm under Mason’s, Rig doing the same on the other side of the boy, and together they pulled him to his feet. Mason was nearly dead weight in their arms, his head falling forward as if it was too heavy to hold up, but he was on his feet. It was all Bobby could ask for. The slight man would barely have been a strain to lift, and Bobby’s first instinct was to do so and wrap him in his arms, but he needed to get the kid to wake up, assure himself he had nothing more than alcohol in his system, so he forced himself not to act on the instinct.

Awkwardly, Bobby and Rig got the man through the front door, their larger sizes making it a bit difficult, but they managed without losing their grips. The first thing Bobby noticed as he flipped the light switch by the door on was how spotless the house was. Not a bit of clutter anywhere, the room devoid of any personal touches. Not a single picture adorned the pale blue walls, no knickknacks, nothing but an oversized tan leather couch, two matching recliners, and a TV on an empty stand. The only thing that indicated people recently occupied the home were the two stacked boxes placed neatly near the door. Had Mason already begun to pack away his life inside them, thinking he would never need them again? The thought made Bobby’s chest clench painfully.

The first door they passed led to a small bedroom, and they moved on without turning on a light. Mason mumbled incoherently, the only sign the man was still awake besides the slight shuffle of his feet. For the most part, he and Rig held Mason’s entire weight. Mason was small of stature, probably no more than five foot six, maybe seven, and thin. Too thin. Bobby could feel each rib beneath his fingers, his arms and shoulders boney.

“Hold him and I’ll get the water going,” Rig offered as he flipped on the light in the large bathroom. It was impressive and unexpected in what appeared to be such a small home.

A large garden tub took up the entire back wall with a garden window spanning the same length above it. Tropical plants and candles surrounded three-fourths of the white porcelain tub. Thankfully for them, on the left wall was a walk-in shower, and better still, a large bench on the opposite end of the wall that contained four showerheads.

Bobby nodded and pulled Mason close, wrapping him in both arms. The smaller man instantly nuzzled Bobby’s chest as he continued to murmur. He tried to make out what Mason was saying, but his voice was almost a whisper, the words all the more difficult to discern with Mason’s face pressed against the fabric of Bobby’s shirt. A protective feeling came over Bobby so suddenly it very nearly knocked him on his ass, and he tightened his grip and kissed the top of the boy’s head. He inhaled the man’s scent, the aroma of coconut shampoo filling his nostrils.

The water flowing, Rig stepped up to Bobby, his blue eyes filled with apprehension and concern, and gave Bobby a gentle smile. “I’ll hold him while you get his clothes off.”

Bobby hesitated, not releasing Mason, and held Rig’s gaze. “You sure we should do that?”

“Either now or after they are soaked,” Rig reasoned and shrugged one shoulder.

Rig had a point, but as he allowed Rig to take Mason from his arms, he still didn’t reach for the smaller man’s clothes. Instead, he cupped Mason’s face in his hands and tilted his head up. “Mason, I’m going to take off your jeans and T-shirt so we can get you in the shower and help you sober up. Is that okay?”

Mason’s stared at him, unblinking, for a few seconds, a confused expression on his face as if he was trying to figure out what was being asked of him.

“Mason?” Bobby nudged when the man didn’t respond.

“Hmm?” Mason hummed, his eyes still unfocused.

“With or without clothes,” Rig grumped. “He’s going in the shower.”

Fuck it. Bobby pushed down Mason’s jeans and briefs, lifting one leg and then the other, and tossed the clothing aside. He tried to give the man a little privacy or dignity or whatever he was trying to do as he struggled to keep his eyes averted from Mason’s naked flesh, but his curiosity and his need to inspect the boy for injuries won out.

Mason was rail thin, and his skin was a pale, sickly color but he found no bruises or other signs of injury on the man. Carefully, he and Rig worked to get the man’s T-shirt up and off without dropping him. Once free of Mason’s head, Bobby threw it in the same direction as the other discarded items.

“Okay, let’s get him in,” he told Rig once Mason was free of his clothing. They set Mason down on the bench, and Bobby held him with one hand splayed across Mason’s chest while Rig adjusted the showerheads. The minute the cool water hit Mason’s flesh, he sputtered and began struggling to get up.

“Easy, boy,” Bobby said gently.

Mason wasn’t having any of it. He ignored Bobby completely, cursing and spitting as he continued to try to get away from the spray of water. “Let me go!” he shouted, pushing at Bobby’s hand.

Mason expectedly jumped to his feet. Bobby’s hand slid across Mason’s wet chest, unable to get purchase on the slick skin. Mason’s hands flailed in front of him as he tried to shield himself from the jets of water, and Bobby was forced to grab the man’s arm at the last second before he could shut off the tap. With a huff of irritation, Bobby grabbed Mason around the waist and plopped his ass down on the bench, forcing Mason to take a seat on Bobby’s lap.

“That’s one way to get him under control,” Rig chuckled. “Good call.”

Bobby glared at the laughing bastard. “Go make yourself useful and make some coffee or something.”

“Let me go,” Mason screamed, his legs kicking and arms flailing.

Bobby gritted his teeth when Mason’s heel came in contact with his shin and then grunted when Mason got a handful of Bobby’s curls and yanked hard. Ignoring the pain, Bobby ripped Mason’s hand from his hair, at the same time grabbing the man’s other wrist and pinning his arm across his torso.

“Glad to see you’re more awake. Now you want to tell me if you took anything other than too much booze?”

“Fuck you! Lemme go,” Mason demanded, still kicking.

“Need some help?” Rig inquired with a smirk.

“I got him,” Bobby snarled at Rig as he struggled to keep the kid under control. “Goddammit, will you just go make the fucking coffee,” he snapped.

Rig watched the scuffle for a moment longer, but must have decided Bobby could in fact handle it and left the bathroom without another word.

Even inebriated, the little thing was incredibly strong, but his movements were sluggish and Bobby anticipated him and jerked his leg out of the way just in time to avoid another painful blow. He threw his legs over Mason’s calves and effectively pinned all four limbs. “Stop struggling,” he bit out against Mason’s ear. “Answer the question, or I’m going to have my partner there call for an ambulance and have your stomach pumped.”

The man in his arms went still. Bobby couldn’t even feel the rise and fall of the man’s chest, but he felt the rapid pace of his heart. They sat there for long seconds, frozen.

Finally, Mason took a deep breath and began to tremble. “No,” he said barely above a whisper.

“No what?” Bobby asked, keeping his voice low and nonthreatening. He eased his hold just slightly, not wanting to cause the man any undue pain, but tight enough he wouldn’t be able to get away.

“I… I must have… I…,” Mason stammered. He cleared his throat a couple of time before he continued. “Just booze.”

The shaking in the smaller man increased, before a pitiful sound, like that of a scared wounded animal, broke free, echoing off the tiled walls. Bobby could do no more than hold Mason as he screamed out his agony until Bobby’s ears rang from the high-pitched screech.

Rig came barreling through the door, nearly ripping it from its hinges, his eyes wild as they settled on Bobby and Mason. “What the….” Rig took a few slow steps toward them, his body tense, coiled tight as if he were ready to spring at any kind of danger.