Chapter 7
Tilden looked at his first year Russian class. There was still no sign of Mike. He’d tried to act nonchalant about Mike’s absence with Luke since Luke was already agitated, but both Tilden and Milton were concerned. Milton had stopped by Mike’s room this morning before his eight o’clock lecture, but found it empty. The floor’s resident advisor had also not seen Mike. From Jeremiah, Milton had discovered that Mike’s parents had a home on the coast. Tilden hoped that Mike had fled home. It was the expected response from a distressed freshman, but Luke had made it clear that Mike’s parents could be charitably described as distracted.
Tilden dismissed his class, watching the students file out in small groups chatting among themselves about the latest television show or Monday night football. Luke looked up at Tilden, the worry obvious in his expressive eyes.
“Where’s Mike?”
“I don’t know. Does he have a friend where he might have gone for a few days?”
“I don’t know of any. I think he went to high school somewhere on the shore for at least a year or two. His parents moved around a lot. You think he’s OK, don’t you?”
“Luka, I think he’s confused right now, but yes I think he’s OK. Try not to worry. You have enough on your plate right now.”
“You won’t just leave him out there, will you?”
“What kind of top do you think I am?” Tilden said with mock indignation and tousled Luke’s hair. “Come on, Trent’s expecting you to help at the bookshop today.”
“You just want somebody to keep an eye on me. It’s a make work project.”
“I do want somebody to keep an eye on you, and you know why. You made the choice; you live with the consequences. But Trent does need the help; he’s been complaining about needing an up to date inventory for the last two years.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Don’t look so glum. It won’t be that bad. Trent will feed you, and Mace is good company. Trent will let you study if you prefer.”
Luke made a face. “I don’t want to study all day.”
The Olde Curiosity Shop was quiet at this time of the morning. A few students clustered around the small tables, drinking endless cups of tea and tapping on their laptops. An older gentleman was leafing through an aged set of encyclopedias. Tilden could smell the combination of dust and decomposing paper that reminded him of the hours he’d spent searching the library stacks for just the right book. Mace waved from the soda counter where he was writing today’s specials on a chalkboard and gave Luke a slow smile.
Luke was tucked in behind Tilden’s shoulder, embarrassed and unsure. He kept his eyes on the floor and pretended that he hadn’t seen Mace.
Trent wiped his hands on a tea towel as he finished preparing a latte and came over to greet them. “Thanks for offering to help with our inventory. We’ve gotten way behind and neither of us are much good at it. Thirty minutes updating a database, and we’re both ready to shut the shop and go hunting or fishing.”
Tilden smiled at Trent, relieved at Trent’s quick assessment that Luke needed to feel as if he were doing valuable work, not just being babysat for a few hours. Tilden snagged a brownie from under a glass cake cover, broke it in half, and offered half to Luke.
“How are you going to teach Luke good eating habits when you’re feeding him chocolate at ten thirty in the morning?” Trent asked. His attempt to sound stern was destroyed by his inability to mask the smile that was breaking across his face.
“I promised Luke you would feed him,” Tilden replied, licking chocolate from his lips.
“I will, but I’d like to get a little work out of him before he empties the larder. Mace, will you show Luke where to put his books and then get him started in the mystery section.”
Mace set the glass on the counter and with a small nod indicated that Luke should follow him toward the rear of the store. Luke hesitated; Tilden squeezed Luke’s shoulder and gave him a slight shove towards Mace.
“I’ll keep a close eye on him,” Trent said as soon as the other two men were out of earshot. “I’ll also keep the blasted TV guys under wraps. Fortunately they both seem to have a fondness for sweets and fancy coffee.”
“I hardly notice them anymore except when I want a private moment. Sheldon said that subjects of documentaries rapidly forget about the camera’s presence. They’re easy to deal with at college except my first year class was hamming it up this morning doing dialogues.” Tilden smiled at the memory. “Milton’s lucky; they gave him a remote camera for his class.”
“That’s because Sheldon told Dave and Lionel that Milton lectured in a monotone. They use that time for a coffee break. Don’t worry, Tilden. I’ll take care of Luke, and I’ll find a way to ditch the camera crew if needed. I can always drug their coffee,” Trent said with an easy smile.
“I know Luke will be safe with you. He’s just so unsure of himself.”
“It’s all new for him. Still no sign of Mike?”
“No, I’m going to drive out to his parents’ house today. The phone service seems to be out of order, but I’m hoping he’s there.”
“Well, I’ll leave you to round up your stray. I’ll take good care of Luke.”
“Thanks, Trent.”
“Don’t mention it. I’m just pleased it’s not Sheldon.” Both tops laughed.
“I know what you mean. Last time I had Sheldon for the day I was never so glad to see Milton. I was ready to strangle him.”
“He can be rather trying,” Trent said. “I’ll see you tonight. Don’t worry.”
Tilden shot a quick glance at his map over on the passenger seat. If his calculations were correct, he should arrive at the Stollers’ house in thirty to forty minutes. He’d made good time. In summer these roads teemed with traffic heading toward Martha’s Vineyard and Nantucket, but with the approach of winter the traffic became sparser and sparser the closer he came to the shore. Even with the heat cranked up, Tilden thought he could feel the cold wind from the Atlantic. According to the directions, he was looking for a house right on the beach.
He wound through a tiny town. The majority of small shops that sold T-shirts proclaiming love for Nantucket, sailing, or other such things were closed for the seasons. Vendor carts, abandoned for the winter, were chained together in the town’s parking lot with kilometers of rusty chain wound about them as if a herd of determined thieves with bolt cutters were prowling the town. Tilden saw one hearty soul, head bowed against the wind, hurry from the post office to her car, and there were three cars in the parking lot of a local cafe. Its sign offering free children’s meals every Monday and Tuesday swung wildly on its one remaining hinge.
The house sat in a cluster of modest summer cottages, a living history of the coast before the wild opulence of Martha’s Vineyard. It was a gray clapboard with peeling paint and two missing shutters. One shutter haphazardly leaned against the corner of the house as if it were a yard ornament amongst the dying weeds. Tilden climbed the three steps to the weathered porch and knocked on the door. This didn’t look promising. At least to Tilden’s untrained eye, the house didn’t look weatherized for winter and appeared uninhabited. There was no answer to his knock. Tilden turned the handle on the door. Much to his surprise, the tumblers clicked over, and the door opened.
Even in the semidarkness, Tilden immediately spotted the huddled figure on the floor. He dropped to his knees; his hand moving to the boy’s neck. Please dear God, he thought. A long forgotten Orthodox prayer came unbidden to his lips as he touched the white skin. He saw the chest rise and fall, and felt the thud of the heart under his fingertips. A single sob of relief escaped his lips. Tilden glanced around the prone boy; he didn’t see any pills, just a bottle of cheap, grocery store brand vodka, and the acrid smell of marijuana smoke hung in the air.
He shook Mike’s shoulders. “Mike, Misha, Mishenka, wake up. Did you take any pills? Mishka, you fool boy, answer me.”
Mike’s eye flickered open, and he tried to focus on Tilden’s face. “Who are you? Where am I?” he mumbled.
“It’s Tilden, Misha. “Did you take anything?”
“Just a little pot. Where am I?”
“You’re at your parents house.” House was a generous term for what was clearly a run down summer cottage now made even less habitable by the biting cold and the lack of electricity.
“I’m cold.”
“I’m sure you are. The heat seems to be off.”
“My parents turned the electricity and gas off before they left.” Mike shivered, shut his eyes, and pulled the thin blanket tighter around his shoulders.
“Misha, stay with me. You’re too heavy for me to carry.” Tilden shook Mike and pulled him to his feet. “Put your feet down; lean on me.”
Mike grabbed hold of Tilden’s neck and staggered to his feet. He groaned and hung limply against Tilden. The blanket fell to the floor.
“It’s no wonder you’re cold,” Tilden said taking in Mike’s clothes for the first time. Mike was wearing jeans that were strategically ripped and threadbare and a skin tight T-shirt advertising a chain of restaurants known for its scantily clad boy servers. “Do any of your neighbors live here year round?” Tilden asked, alarmed by the coldness of Mike’s skin.
“Mrs. Dupont across the street,” Mike muttered before he slumped back against Tilden.
Tilden took a deep breath, physically and mentally bracing himself. He was going to drag an inebriated boy across the street and ask a perfect stranger to use the shower and for a change of clothes. “Misha, I need you to try to walk.”
Tilden dragged Mike across the street and rang the doorbell of the neighbor’s house. From behind a red gingham curtain an elderly woman with old-fashioned hair curlers covered by a scarf peeked out. Tilden rang the doorbell again, and he saw the woman’s head disappear, hopefully to answer the door.
The door swung open the six centimeters the chain would permit. “How can I help you?” a frightened, skeptical voice asked.
“Thank you for opening the door. I’m Tilden Blake, a professor at Banner College. My ID’s in my back pocket in my wallet. Please feel free to check. This is Mike Stoller, your neighbor’s son and my student. He’s fallen ill and is very cold. I need to use your shower and find some clothes for him. There’s no hot water at his parents’ house.”
“His parents were always having parties with strange music and big bonfires.”
“I don’t know his parents, ma’am,” Tilden interrupted. “Mike is very sick. May we please come in?” Tilden heard the chain slide back on the door.
“You look like a decent fellow,” she said as she swung open the door. “Can’t be too careful nowadays with my husband passed away.”
She spoke with a strong accent, almost the vowels of Maine, Tilden thought as he stepped through the door. “Are you Mrs. Dupont?”
“Yes, I am. Now don’t just stand here dawdling; the shower is straight back and to the right.” The sight of Mike seemed to have galvanized her into action. “I still have some of my husband’s things. They’ll be a bit big on that boy, but they’ll be better than the rags he’s wearing.”
Tilden pulled Mike down the hall and wedged both of them into the tiny bathroom. Mike sat limply on the pink, fluffy toilet seat while Tilden stripped him and then undressed himself. Tilden would have to hold Mike in the shower; he couldn’t stand on his own. Tilden dropped his clothes into a pile on the floor and pulled Mike to his chest under the warm spray. Keeping a firm arm around Mike’s waist and a constant chatter about his actions, he washed him down and shampooed Mike’s short hair. He was rinsing Mike’s hair one final time when Mrs. Dupont’s voice floated through the door.
“I put some clothes for you just outside the door, and I have some coffee brewing.”
“Thank you, we’ll be right out.” Tilden turned off the taps and dried Mike with a towel.
“Do you have to do it so hard?” Mike mumbled as he leaned against the tiled wall. “You’re making my head hurt.”
“I think the headache’s from the cheap vodka.”
“Don’t remind me.”
“Sit down,” Tilden said, pushing Mike down on the toilet lid. “I’ll get the clothes for you.” Tilden dressed Mike in a pair of heavy corduroys and a wool shirt.
“It’s itchy.”
“Don’t complain. It’s warm. Come on, we need to go face the world.”
Mrs. Dupont was in the kitchen pouring two cups of coffee into large plastic mugs advertising a fifteen dollar oil change. “Alfred and I got the oil changed religiously every six thousand kilometers. I have enough of these mugs for the whole town.”
“Thank you for shower, clothes, and coffee,” Tilden said and took a gulp of the scalding liquid. “Where would you like me to send the clothes?”
“Oh, keep them. Its not like I can wear them. That boy does look better now, but he’s still awfully gray. Are you sure you wouldn’t like me to call the doctor?”
“Thank you, he’ll be fine with a little rest. You’ve been most kind. We’ll just be on our way.”
****
Luke stared at another shelf of crumpled, paperback mystery novels. Who knew that this many people read or even wrote cozy mystery novels? Luke had asked Mace in dismay about the categories of mystery novels: thrillers, cozies, procedurals, and private investigators. They each had their own section in the database.
“What’s a cozy?” Luke had asked, looking down the list.
“You know, a Miss Marple type.”
“Miss Marple?”
“Little blue-haired old lady who knits and gardens while her neighbors are busy knocking each other off over the perfect English tea.”
The explanation had hardly been enlightening, but Luke had just shrugged and continued staring at the computer screen and the mass of books jumbled through the shop.
“Trent’s mad about mysteries. If you can’t tell by the blurb on the back which category they fit in, ask him. He pretends that his interest is only for financial reasons, but we have a whole stack of Miss Marple wannabes on the bedside table, and he’s in his element every month when we do the English tea complete with milk and cucumber sandwiches for the mystery club.”
Luke flipped a book over after eyeing the unpronounceable name on the front cover; the rear blurb described a Swedish police officer and bragged of the number of languages into which the novel had been translated. It must be a procedural, Luke thought and typed it into the database. He entered a few more titles before picking up a paperback with a large brick house on the front topped with three Greek letters. He thought of Mike and the disastrous party Saturday night. Mike had missed Russian again, and both Milton and Tilden had been noncommittal when Luke had asked about his friend. Just down the narrow hall was the rear exit. It wasn’t alarmed, and Trent was up front with the customers. Mace was floating around, both helping Luke and preparing the lunchtime soup and sandwiches.
Luke set the book down on the shelf and peered out the door—no one in sight. This is ridiculous, Luke berated himself. I’m a college student; if I want to check on my friend, I don’t need permission. He opened the backdoor and nearly ran into Mace who was returning from emptying the trash.
“I just needed some fresh air,” Luke said, trying to smile easily.
“OK. I didn’t see you.”
Luke waited two minutes after he heard the door close to make sure Mace didn’t return with Trent before he jogged off to his old dorm room. He still had the key in his pocket. Mike might hide from Milton or Tilden, but surely he would talk to him. The dorm was quiet as Luke climbed the stairs and fumbled with his key in the lock. Ian, the resident advisor, who lived two doors down, poked his head out the door when he heard Luke rattle the knob and kick the perpetually sticking door.
“Hey Luke, have you seen Mike?”
“No, I was hoping he was here.”
“Nope, nobody’s seen him since Sunday. I got a note from the administration that you had a special dispensation to move out. I know I’m not the best resident advisor, but I wish you’d told me you were that unhappy.”
“It wasn’t you. It was other things,” Luke said quickly.
“Hang on. That’s my phone.”
Luke looked over the room while Ian spoke on the phone. As far as he could tell, all of Mike’s possessions were still in the room. A laptop sat on the battered desk, and Mike’s jacket sprawled over the back of a chair. His book bag was thrown under the desk, the same place that Luke had seen it on Saturday. Luke was still staring at Mike’s things when he was interrupted by a cough.
Ian was leaning against the doorframe and threw Luke an apologetic smile. “I’m usually a hands off RA, but Dr. Brown just called me, and now he’s looking for you. He asked me to hang on to you and said he’d be right over. Sorry, dude, but why don’t you just make yourself comfortable.”
Luke flopped down on the bed, pulling his knees to his chest. “Couldn’t you just have told him I wasn’t here?”
“No, I’m a history major. He’s my advisor and grades my senior thesis. I’m not pissing him off when I’m scheduled to graduate this spring.” Ian was silent for a few minutes. “You’re not in some kind of real trouble, are you?”
Luke was surprised to see Ian watching him with a worried expression on his face. Ian’s job had always seemed a formality, unlocking doors when keys were forgotten and coaxing coins from the reluctant change machines in the laundry. Luke had never sat down and talked to him.
“I’m not much of a counselor, but if you need somebody to chat with, I’m here. I know I’m straight, but I’m not a bad guy.”
“I’m not in any real trouble.” Luke groaned. “Well, not the kind of trouble you’re thinking of. Milton’s going to kill me for taking off.”
“You call Dr. Brown by his first name? That’s brave. I wouldn’t do it, and I’ve even been invited over to dinner a few times.” Ian got a sharp glint in his eye. “You’re not with him, are you? There is that rumor about Saturday night...”
“God, no! That would be scary. Milton Brown as my top.” Luke swallowed hard, realizing he’d just said too much.
Ian’s eyes opened wide in surprise. “Oh, so you’re a kinky boy—with the professors even.
“It’s not like that,” Luke protested.
“Really?” Ian said, laughing. “So where do you keep the whips and chains?”
“Ian,” Luke spluttered, then repeated, “It’s not like that.” God, he hoped it wasn’t like that. The spanking had been bad enough; he didn’t want to imagine a whip.
“I can just see Dr. Brown in leather with a whip. The history students would really jump.”
“I don’t think he’s into leather.” Oh, please, let them not be into leather. A little spanking was one thing; chains and tiny leather shorts were another.
“You don’t have to tell me,” Ian said in a more serious tone. “But as a vanilla, straight boy I’d love to know what I’m missing, and the rumor spreading around campus about Saturday is pretty hot.”
Luke blushed. “I might as well tell you; it’s not going to be secret much longer. I’m Tilden Blake’s brat.” Or maybe it was boy or submissive or bottom. He didn’t really know; he’d landed in deep water without knowing if sharks were circling just under the waves. Brat seemed like a safe term. It was what the show had used. Somehow it was easier to swallow than submissive.
Ian whistled. “I was only kidding. No wonder they’ve been prowling around like caged tigers. You do this 24/7?”
“For a vanilla, straight boy you seem awfully familiar with the terms.”
It was Ian’s turn to blush. “I’ve done some reading—like to keep up with all the trends.”
“Naughty little straight boy.” Luke was interrupted by Milton clearing his throat. Milton glared at Luke. Luke dropped his eyes to his thighs and picked at his jeans. Ian had melted from the room, leaving Luke alone.
“I thought you were helping Trent today?” Milton’s voice was quiet but forceful.
“I was worried about Mike,” Luke said, swallowing hard and blinking back tears. Luke didn’t want to cry, but when Milton looked this stern, the tears came involuntarily.
“Tilden’s got Mike. Trust us; we told you we’d take care of it, little one.” Milton walked over to the bed, sat down, and wrapped his arm around Luke. “I know you were worried about Mike, but you can’t disappear. Trent was worried.”
“Mike’s OK?”
“Yes, he might not be when Tilden’s finished when him.”
“Are we keeping him?”
“He’s not a lost dog. He has to want it, Luke. It’s ultimately Mike’s decision.”
Luke shot Milton a huge grin. “He’ll want it.”
“Are you sure? He has to give up significant control. It’s not always easy. I think you’ve found that out, and you’ve only been with us a few days.”
“Yeah, I guess.”
“Hey, I know I’m not Tilden, but you can lean against me if you want.” Milton tightened his grip and pulled Luke’s head against his chest. “After yesterday, I think I’m entitled to this.”
Luke lay against Milton, his head resting on the lapels of Milton’s blazer. Milton was right; Luke wanted Tilden. He was in trouble; he had to be after giving Trent the slip, and he wanted the man who was going to enforce the rules. How mixed up can I get? he thought.
Milton ruffled Luke’s hair with his free hand. “It’s not that bad. Tilden will discipline you, but he’s not going to kill you. He loves his little ruffians.”
“How’d you know what I was thinking?” Luke said, pushing himself off Milton’s chest, embarrassed by his comfort seeking.
“I’ve had a bit of practice at this. Are you ready to get up?”
“Yeah, I can walk myself back to the bookshop.”
“Oh no you don’t,” Milton said, keeping a firm hold on Luke’s wrist. You can come sit with me while I cover Tilden’s class and teach my seminar. I’m not telling Tilden we lost you again.”
Luke started to protest, and Milton effortlessly pulled Luke sideways and landed two firm swats on his upturned backside. Luke yelped as each swat landed.
“Don’t even think about complaining. You’ve earned this.”
“Yes, sir.”
The classes were torture. The combined third and fourth year Russian class was watching a Russian television serial of Sherlock Holmes with no subtitles. Milton gave Luke the vocabulary list, but it was still incomprehensible. Luke only recognized the title from sounding out the letters and the signature pipe of Mr. Holmes. The actual action of the story involved multiple fast carriage rides and prowling through dark, foggy streets. Even as the ending credits rolled across the screen, Luke didn’t know who had committed the murder.
Every Tuesday afternoon Milton taught a seminar on the European revolutionary movements. The class was held in a conference room where both the professor and students sat around a small table. Luke sat next to Milton, relieved that he didn’t know any of the upperclassmen taking their seats until Ian scrambled into the room just before the bell rang. Luke could feel Ian’s eyes on him and was sure there would be a knowing grin on his face. Luke kept his head down, pretending to organize the pen and paper that Milton had given him. Milton must have noticed Luke’s discomfort because before starting the class he introduced him as a freshman who had a special interest in Marxism and was sitting in for a paper he was writing for a different class. The class had only six people—impossible to lay your head on the desk and vanish into the crowd. Luke watched the clock, convinced that it had to be broken. Finally the first hour ended and nobody moved. Luke groaned to himself; it was a double period.
Luke’s mind drifted to earlier today. He’d slipped out on Trent. There was no question that he’d violated the edict to stay with a top. Luke didn’t want to get spanked, but he was sure that was where the day was going to end. Tilden had left no doubt that unplanned disappearances were forbidden. Luke grimaced as he thought of laying across his top’s knees. Tilden’s hard hand, or worse, the paddle, across his exposed rump. It would hurt, but Luke eyes stung from the thought of displeasing Tilden. His top had gone and rescued Luke’s best friend, and Luke hadn’t been capable of staying where he was left.
Milton was having a fast and furious exchange with a student on the Marxist evaluation of the capitalist economy when he slid a sheet of paper over to Luke. “Hang in there. We’ve got you,” was written in tiny, block print. Luke looked up at him; Milton caught his eye and nodded. Luke sighed; it wasn’t in his hands. Consequences would be meted out, but they would also fix it.
****
Mike trailed Tilden into the kitchen. It was only a couple of days ago that he’d choked down eggs under the watchful eyes of three tops, and here he was again, trapped in the glare of Tilden’s gaze. Tilden had said little on the car ride back toward campus except to ask Mike if he was warm enough and if he was hungry. Mike had expected to be returned to his dorm room, but now he was sitting in this kitchen. Tilden was fiddling with an electric teapot contraption and poured two glasses of tea.
“How do you like it?”
“I don’t,” Mike grimaced. His parents had gone through a phase where they’d drunk nothing but green tea and eaten nothing but brown rice. Mike hoped to never see another cup of tea again. Of course in his family that was probably a forlorn hope. Both his parents were always flinging themselves into new cultural experiences. Right now they were somewhere in India studying yoga and meditation, and Mike could hardly imagine his mother not becoming fixated with the Japanese tea ceremony at some point. She’d already gone through a six month infatuation with flower arranging. The house had been full of sticks and dried berries stuffed in vases.
“I’ll make it weak with jam. That’s the most tolerable for non tea drinkers.”
Mike watched Tilden stir raspberry jam into the dark liquid and slide it across the table. Mike played with his glass. Oddly, Tilden had served the tea in glasses instead of cups or mugs.
“I’ll reheat some soup for us.” Tilden took a large pot out the refrigerator and set in on the stove. “I can usually manage this. Anything beyond this, I have to call Trent for rescue work.”
Mike didn’t smile at Tilden’s attempt at small talk, but continued to run his finger around the top of his glass. “Can you take me back to my dorm now?”
“No.”
“I’m not you prisoner,” Mike shouted at Tilden.
“No, you’re not, and we’re also not talking to each other across the length of a football field. You needn’t shout. We’ve rescued you twice. I think we’re entitled to a civilized conversation.”
“I didn’t ask to be rescued. You fucking tops just can’t stay out of my life. It’s my life.” Mike raised his voice and banged the table in frustration, sending tea sloshing out his glass.
Tilden tossed Mike a towel. “Wipe it up. It’ll make a ring.”
Tilden was calm, straddling a chair, sipping tea as if guests slopped tea on the table and shouted everyday. Mike was finding the calm maddening. With his parents, they either waved their arms around in exasperation and stormed out or tried to interest him in one of their bizarre hobbies. Mike had never seen the benefit of organic chicken raising or visiting a sweat lodge.
“I’m going home,” Mike said savagely and threw the towel down on the black and white tile floor.
“Sit down, Misha,” Tilden said in the same calm tone and reached down and picked up the towel. “Please wipe the tea off the table.”
When Mike thought about it later he wasn’t sure what came over him; maybe he wanted to know what Tilden would do. Would he have more staying power than his parents? Mike grabbed his glass of tea, tipped it over, and watched the brown liquid run across the wood of the kitchen table and drip in big drops onto the floor. He turned and hurled the glass; it ricocheted off the refrigerator door and scattered across the floor like a thousand piece jigsaw puzzle spilled from the box. Mike turned toward Tilden expecting a red faced maniac throwing his arms about and shouting; instead Tilden moved his chair enough to avoid the drip of tea and sat watching Mike, his eyebrows raised, but otherwise his expression bland.
“Should I get some more towels and the broom?” Tilden asked in a maddeningly calm voice.
“Only if you want to clean up. I’m leaving.” Mike shot up from the table and kicked the chair over with a satisfying thump. Tilden had moved quicker than Mike had planned and stood in the doorframe, not menacing, but occupying the space, his legs spread hip width apart, one arm resting on the door jam. Mike hesitated.
“Yes, if you want to get in a knockdown barroom brawl you could probably move me. You’re about my height and a good deal younger. But I have a few kilograms on you and more experience. I’ve been in a few brawls. The fighters were usually drunker, but a lot tougher and more streetwise than you.”
Mike rammed his body into Tilden, swinging wildly. Tilden wrapped his arms around Mike and caught both his wrists. The grip was steady, but not immobilizing.
“If you want to get away, you can. I’m not holding that hard. But I don’t think you want to get away,” Tilden whispered into Mike’s ear.
Mike slumped against Tilden, swearing a blue streak but making little effort to pull away. Tilden herded Mike in front of him; the glass crunched underfoot. Tilden pushed Mike down on the back stairs and sank down next to him, never breaking physical contact.
Mike didn’t know how long they sat. The kitchen clock was out of view, and he’d forgotten his watch. They were still sitting without a word spoken between the two of them when the back door swung open and Milton walked in with Luke. Milton came to a quick halt and grabbed Luke’s arm as he saw the spilled tea, the broken glass, and the two men sitting on the stairs.
“Luke, go up to my room. Use the front stairs.” That was Milton. His voice was soft, a lower pitch than he used when he lectured but frighteningly authoritative. Luke looked at Mike, the concern etched across his face. Milton must have considered the hesitation disobedience because he rapidly landed a swat across Luke’s hip. “Go upstairs,” and then more gently “We’ve got it.” He pushed the hair back off Luke’s forehead in a gesture of surprising tenderness and kissed him firmly. “Go.” With one final look at Tilden and Mike, Luke moved out of the kitchen.
Milton walked over to the phone and dialed. “May I speak to Trent Long, please.”
“Trent, is Sarah working?... Can you and Mace come home?...OK. Thanks.”
Milton hung up the phone, opened a closet, and dragged out a mop and a broom. “Are you ready to clean this up?” he asked. “I assume Tilden wasn’t throwing tea around in a temper fit.”
“No,” Mike spat. “You have no right.”
“Maybe,” Milton agreed and shrugged his broad shoulders. “But you’re going to clean up the mess. It’s common courtesy. It has nothing to do with us being dominants.”
Mike stared at both professors. He’d always thought that he was stubborn, but Tilden and Milton appeared immobile. “Fine, if you’re going to be such pricks about it, I’ll clean up the damn tea, but you’ve got to let go of my wrists.”
“Of course,” Tilden said. “Thank you.”
Mike swabbed the table with excess force, throwing the sodden cloths onto the floor. He glanced at Milton and Tilden, expecting a reaction, but they were both sitting with their arms folded across their chests, silently watching. Mike was mopping the floor when Trent came in with Mace. Trent must have guessed what to expect because he made no comment except to send Mace upstairs to keep Luke company. Mike wrung the mop out one final time; the tiles gleamed under the kitchen’s fluorescent lighting. Now he wished that he had more to clean. Three tops watching every move unnerved him.
Tilden motioned for Mike to come sit on the stairs again. Trent was sitting on the counter and Milton at the kitchen table. Tilden wrapped his arm around Mike’s shoulder and pulled him into his chest. Mike stiffened but didn’t struggle.
“What now?” Mike muttered. “I’ve cleaned up the mess. Can I go now?”
“No.” It was Milton who answered. “At the very least, we’re owed an explanation.”
“I know my rights; you can’t force me into a relationship, especially this kind.” Mike’s tone was hostile, but he leaned into Tilden’s chest and didn’t flinch when Tilden kissed the top of his head.
“Misha, we won’t force you into anything, but I think we’ve all made mistakes here, especially me,” Tilden said.
Mike started to interrupt but Tilden hushed him. “No, let me continue. I’ve known your relationship with Luke was more than roommates or fuck buddies, as you guys so crudely put it. I should’ve said this immediately when it became obvious to me.” Tilden took a deep breath and slowly slid his index finger down the side of Mike’s face. “I’m not a romantic, but this is...” Tilden trailed off and bent down and kissed Mike on the lips. “Luke and I would like to become a threesome.” Tilden kissed Mike again, running his fingers through Mike’s short hair.
Mike leaned into the kiss; he couldn’t help himself. Tilden was calm, in control, everything Mike wasn’t. Mike struggled to make sense of his feelings.
Before Mike had a chance to respond, Milton spoke. “You’re upset right now; don’t answer until you’ve heard all we have to say. I think you want to be with Luke and Tilden, but you must tell us in words not actions. Your actions have been screaming for Tilden to intervene, running off to the coast, having a drunk fest, throwing tea all over the kitchen, but you must tell us. If you go with Luke and Tilden, it’s a commitment to a lifestyle that can be unpleasant at times, even frightening. The restrictions can seem oppressive, especially in a household with three dominants, but we would be here for you, and I think that’s what you want.”
“Mike,” Trent said with a quiet smile from the counter top. “I don’t really know you, but I’ve gotten to know Luke the last few days. He’s worried about you. And I know Tilden very well. He’ll take good care of you.”
Milton continued before Mike could speak. “There are other options. I can contact your parents, and you could go stay with them, or I could arrange for you to stay with a neutral dominant in town. I’m not comfortable with Trent or I acting as a neutral top because of your relationship with Luke.”
“Why can’t I go back to the dorm?” Mike asked, even though he made no effort to escape Tilden’s embrace.
“Freshmen aren’t allowed to leave campus,” Milton said.
“No one cares. It happens all the time.”
“I’m sure Dean Tyler wouldn’t be happy if I told him about your little escapade.”
Mike grunted. “That’s blackmail.”
“Hardly.” Milton shrugged. “Make up your mind.”
Mike looked at the three tops. “You expect me to decide my life in an instant. Man, you guys are crazy.”
“No,” Milton said forcefully. “We expect you to verbalize the decision you’ve already made. Our hands are tied until you give us consent.”
“What about Luke?” Mike asked.
Trent slid off the counter. “I’ll get him.”
Mike lay against Tilden’s chest. If he were honest with himself, it was where he wanted to stay, but could he do this? What did he really know about these relationships? A forgotten memory from childhood and sensational articles in Cosmopolitan. They would punish him. Luke had to have been punished after Saturday. What had it been like? He looked OK when he ran up the stairs earlier, not maimed. But then how hard could Tilden spank? He was an academic, after all, not a body builder.
Mike’s disjointed worrying was interrupted by Trent’s return from upstairs. Trent was talking to Luke in low tones, and he had his arm comfortably looped around Luke’s shoulder.
“You’re forgiven, but I’m sure Tilden will have a few thing to say about it.”
“I heard about your little runner,” Tilden said with a smile. “And yes, you’re in trouble for it, but it’s not the end of the world. Let’s go into the study where we can talk more comfortably.”
Luke grinned at Mike. “We better enjoy it. It’s probably the last time either of us are going to sit comfortably for the rest of the evening.”
Luke seemed so carefree, joking about an upcoming punishment, but maybe he was only putting on a brave face. Mike grabbed Luke’s shoulder, shaking him hard. “Are you sure about this?”
“You’d better be staying. I love you, dammit.” Luke drew Mike into a hug, slapping him hard on the back.
“Come on guys. Let’s go talk,” Tilden said softly. He wrapped an arm around each young man’s waist and guided them into the study.
The camera crew followed them toward the study. Tilden turned toward them. “Couldn’t you guys take a dinner break?” Tilden asked. “Mike’s not a part of the show.”
“Sorry, Tilden, you’ve given us the slip all day. We’re not missing this. It’s good stuff,” the taller cameraman said.
“Lionel.” Luke whined. “Can’t you find something else to film, like the rain?”
“No way. We might get an Emmy out of this.”
“We’ll just have to live with it,” Tilden said. “Stay out of the way, and you will have to get out if I do more than talk.”
Mike sank down on the sofa. He pulled his knees up and wrapped his arms around them. Tilden ruffled Mike’s hair as he sat down beside him and looped his arm around each young man. Tilden pulled Mike into his chest, so Mike’s head almost touched Luke’s who snuggled against Tilden’s other side.
“This is nice. A handsome man on either side. How did I get so lucky?”
Mike tried to smile but he expected it came out looking like the forced smile for a passport photo. “What happens now?”
“What do you want to happen?” Tilden asked.
“Don’t you make that decision? You are the top after all,” Mike said, sarcasm seeping into his tone.
“Misha, listen. You’re making the biggest decision of your life right now. You need to make it honestly and openly. I want each of you to answer my questions with a yes or no.” Tilden kissed each brat on his forehead. “Luka, do you want a threesome?”
“Yes.”
“You understand that you must share me?”
“Yes, but I get Mike.”
“Yes or no answers. You love Mike?”
“Yes.”
“Misha, it’s your turn now. Do you want to be in a threesome?”
Mike squirmed around to look at Luke.
“Mike, please say yes,” Luke pleaded.
“I’m a selfish bastard. I don’t know if I can do this. I don’t do relationships.” Mike squirmed trying to get out of Tilden’s grip.
“You haven’t answered the question,” Tilden said, refusing to release his hold on the struggling Mike. “You can have this if you want it. Nobody will take it away. Trust us.”
“Yes.” Mike choked out. “Dammit, yes I want it. Are you going to make me say that I love Luke? Because I do.” The words came out in a rush with hardly a breath between them. “I want security. I want guidance. I want love. I want to be taken in hand. All the things that books and magazines say are part of the right relationship, all part of the fantasy of the right relationship. But I live in the real world. It’s not going to happen. I have to take care of myself.” Mike wiped his eyes with the back of his sleeve. “I’m not going to cry. It doesn’t help.”
“Mishenka,” Tilden said and stroked the short, dark hair. “I can give you those things. I want to give you love and security, and I’m a real live person. I’m not prince charming; life won’t be happily ever after, but I’ll be here for you. Are we good to do this? Luka? Mishenka?”
“Yes.” Luke’s voice was loud and clear.
“Yes,” Mike said softly into Tilden’s shirt.
“I’ll add my yes,” Tilden said and kissed Mike’s forehead and then Luke’s before he untangled himself from his two partners and went to sit on the desk. “Rebyata, we’ve got today to deal with before we can live happily ever after.”
Mike looked at Luke. “Rebyata?”
“I don’t know,” Luke answered with a shrug. “Tilden’s big on throwing in Russian words. I think he does it when I’m stressing out. There’s probably some study that says foreign language learning improves with stress.”
“It means guys, kids, brats,” Tilden said. “We need to get back to today. This disappearing act is going to stop and that means both of you. Am I understood?”
“Yes, sir,” Luke answered promptly.
“I guess,” Mike said.
“Misha, do you think it’s unfair that you’re in trouble today?” Tilden crossed his legs and settled back against his desk.
“No-—yes, it’s jeopardy after the fact.”
“I think you were doing it to get our attention. Well, you’ve got my attention now, and part of that attention is discipline.”
Mike played with the cuff of his shirt. He was still wearing the borrowed clothes. Tilden was right. He was attention seeking. But he could barely admit it to himself.
“OK, Mike. We’ll talk more in a minute. Luke, what about you?”
Luke kept his eyes down and rubbed his hands against his thighs. “I took off today when I was on restriction, and I got Mace in trouble.” Luke wiped the tear that was sliding down his cheek and cleared his throat.
“Thank you.” Tilden paused before he continued. “Two partners is as new to me as it is to you. I’m inclined to think that it would be best to handle discipline one at a time.” Tilden walked around to the far side of the desk, opened a drawer, and pulled out two notebooks. “But first I want to do a little housekeeping. Mike, this notebook is for you. You’ll write the rules of our relationship, any lines I have you do, or other writing assignments. This other notebook stays on the desk in the study. It’s for all of us to write our thoughts or concerns and for all of us to read. Threesomes must communicate with each other. This is new to all of us; you’re going to have to help me.”
“Luka, are you OK to go sit with Trent and Milton for a few minutes while I discuss things with Mike?”
Luke nodded and got up. “He won’t kill you,” he whispered to Mike as he walked out.
“Misha, are you OK with this?”
How could he answer that?
“Mike, you have to be an active participant in this. It’s not something I do to you.”
Mike’s stomach clenched, and he drew his long legs into a tighter ball on the sofa.
Tilden moved back to the sofa and with a determined tug pulled Mike so his body partially rested in his lap. “It seems that talking about your feelings is not one of your strong points.”
“Yeah, big strong top got that right.”
“Misha, is that what you want? A he-man top to make you do, to force you. I can make the rules tight, but I won’t force you. You must meet me halfway. Do you understand that?”
Mike couldn’t make himself speak. He knew he was pushing Tilden, but perversely he had to know how far. Would there be a wall?
“I asked you a question, boy.” Two hard slaps landed on Mike’s hip.
Mike gritted his teeth, but refused to answer. Tilden reached under Mike and unbuckled the belt that was holding up the too large, borrowed pants and with a quick tug pulled them down and exposed his boxers. Without a word, Tilden landed two swats on Mike’s exposed thigh.
Involuntarily Mike jerked and hissed.
“You participate in this. Do you understand?”
It was the same question, and now Tilden had his hand resting on Mike’s boxer clad butt. Mike knew it was a warning, but he blew through the caution light and remained silent.
Tilden landed six swats on the identical spot. Mike bucked and reached back. “Stop! It hurts.”
“Are you willing to participate in this conversation, or do you need more time looking at the floor?”
“Yes,” Mike choked. He could feel the tears on his cheek. It hadn’t hurt that much; he shouldn’t be crying. Tilden swept Mike upright and tucked Mike’s head into his chest.
“I’ve got you. You won’t scare me away or push me away.” Tilden rubbed Mike’s back gently, his hand offering wordless comfort.
Mike could feel the tears forming behind his eyes; they cascaded down his cheeks. He was powerless to stop them. Tilden pulled Mike further onto his lap and ran his fingers through his hair, tracing the small gold ring in Mike’s ear.
“Cry all you want. I’ve got you,” Tilden murmured.
Mike didn’t stop crying until his eyes felt stuck together and his throat was sore. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to do that.”
“Do what?” Tilden asked softly.
Mike was silent. He couldn’t confess all his follies.
Tilden flipped Mike back toward the floor and rested his hand on the young man’s thigh. “Do what?” he asked again.
“Fall apart, cry, run away, throw tea on the floor, get Luke in trouble.” The words came out in a jumbled rush.
“Slow down, Mishenka. Let’s talk about this one thing at a time. You’re not in trouble for crying or falling apart. We’ll catch you. You just have to let us and that’s going to be hard for you. A lot harder than it is for Luke. I don’t expect you two to be identical.”
Mike started to struggle on Tilden’s lap, embarrassed by the confession and the indignity of the position.
Tilden landed a hard swat. “Be still. You’re much more talkative when you’re facing the floor, so you’d better get comfortable.”
“This isn’t fair,” Mike muttered. “You’ve got all the advantages.”
“Did I tell you it would be fair?”
“No.”
“Let’s talk about running away and drinking yourself into oblivion. Oh, I almost forgot—smoking mind altering substances.”
“Marijuana’s legal.”
“It may be legal, but it’s a mind altering substance, and you mixed it with alcohol—not very safe, especially when you’re alone. Blatant disregard for your safety will get you paddled every time. What else was on your list?”
“Saturday evening.”
“I think that fits under blatant disregard for safety. One spanking can cover both drinking episodes. In addition, you don’t drink any alcohol until I say so, and you don’t go off on your own.”
“You’re grounding me. It’s college.”
“You’ll live. Anything else?”
“The tea.”
“The temper tantrum in the kitchen. Lines will work for that. I think we’ve got this covered. Do you need to talk more, or are you OK with what’s going to happen?”
Mike was surprised when he heard himself say, “I’m OK with it.” He’d just handed his Russian professor permission to punish—no, not punish—to spank. No use thinking of it euphemistically or abstractly as punishment or discipline. He was getting spanked. It been years since he’d been in this position. Instinctively he gripped Tilden’s leg harder.
“Easy, I won’t kill you. I’m going to paddle you. Have you ever been spanked?”
“Yes.”
“By your parents.”
“No,” Mike snorted. “They’d be mortified to consider it. A parent of a friend, and it was more like a few swats than a spanking.” The scene replayed in Mike’s mind.
****
The stench was terrible; you couldn’t smell the cop shows on television. That was probably a good thing since their ratings would plummet. The combination of cheap disinfectant, bad coffee, two day old vomit, and urine would not be conducive to the audience’s viewing pleasure. The hardness of the bench was not conducive to his sitting pleasure, and his shoulders were beginning to ache. When the officer had first put the cuffs on, it had been an illicit thrill, but now he wanted to rub his wrists and roll his shoulders. Being released soon seemed unlikely; both the uniformed officers and the plainclothes detectives were engrossed in their computer terminals. A fifteen-year-old would-be letterbox bomber forgotten.
Mike scooted to the end of the bench and kicked the wall in frustration. The institutional green peeling paint didn’t seem to notice. He kicked harder.
“Hey, I wouldn’t do that, son.” A giant of a man was staring down at him, a coffee cup dwarfed in his massive paw.
“I’m not your fucking son. Leave me the fuck alone.”
“Mike, Mike Stoller,” the man said in surprise. “I’m Tommy’s dad. I haven’t seen you in years. It must be six years now. I’d never thought I’d see you here on a Friday night. What’d you do?”
Mike glared at him, trying to bristle with defiance, which was hard when your handcuffed and a huge man was leaning over you talking softly. Tommy had been his best friend in fourth grade before they’d moved again for the umpteenth time. He’d been to their house a few times, even went trick or treating with this giant. No wonder they’d dressed up like cops and robbers; Tommy’s father was a cop. “None of your damn business.”
“You don’t play the tough guy well. Settle down before you get yourself in any deeper.”
Mike seethed as the detective ruffled his hair.
The detective turned to the officer on duty. “Ace, what’d you pick up the boy for?”
“Trying to blow up some mailboxes. Fortunately the bombs were duds.”
“Can’t you reach his parents?
“No, the boys says they’re on some kind of archeological dig with no phone service.”
“Any priors?”
“No, but we’ll have to send him to juvenile hall since we can’t reach a guardian.”
“I’ll vouch for him.”
“You sure?”
“Yep, he’s a friend of my son’s.”
“Suit yourself. Saves the paperwork.”
“Mike, stand up. I’ll cuff your hands to the front. You’ll be more comfortable. I can’t un-cuff you until we leave the station.”
“I don’t want your charity.” Mike then called Tommy’s father every foul name in the book.
The detective propped one leg up on the bench and waited. When Mike ran out of breath, he spoke again. “That was an impressive list, but my name’s Frank. You called me everything else but that.”
The cops within hearing distance grinned and laughed, and Mike fumed. Frank ignored the whole thing, pulled Mike to his feet, and re-locked the cuffs with Mike’s arms in front. Mike didn’t really remember the details of the rest of the evening in the station. He was towed around after Frank, told to sign various papers, and handed a bottle of water and a packet of pretzels. It was the walk to the car that he remembered in vivid Technicolor.
Frank unlocked the cuffs as soon as they exited the station and put his arm around Mike’s shoulders. “Blowing up mailboxes was a really stupid thing to try to do. You could’ve hurt somebody or worse. That would’ve meant real jail time. What on earth were you thinking?”
Mike spun around and shouted. “Who the fuck cares what I was thinking? You’re not my dad. Leave me the fuck alone.”
“Be quiet, boy.” Frank’s voice was steel, not loud, but it could’ve cut through a wall of granite. Mike was too far gone and took a wild swing at Frank. The next thing he knew, Frank had him in a choke hold, his arms restrained behind him, and bulldozed him to the car where he pushed him down on the hood. The giant landed six blazing fast swats on Mike’s backside.
“That’s enough, little boy. I warned you plenty of times. Now get in the car and be quiet. Frank bundled him into the front seat and secured the seatbelt. Mike was too shocked to move. It had happened so fast he couldn’t react except to wipe the few tears that were running down his cheeks.
Mike spent the next four months with Frank, his partner Caleb, and the now nearly grownup Tom. It was the best four months of his youth. Frank never swatted him again; he even apologized for the impromptu spanking over the car hood. He said he should never have done it without Mike’s express permission. It wasn’t like he didn’t discipline him the months he lived there. He put him in a corner, sent him to his room, and made him write an infinite number of lines. Just a glare from Frank could make Mike instantly drop his eyes and blush with shame.
It was Caleb, that had really enlightened Mike that summer. He found Mike alone crying in his room after some minor altercation over the dishes that had resulted in a lines assignment. “You OK, Mikey?”
“I hate being called Mikey.”
“I know, that’s why I do it. It gets your attention.” Caleb smiled. It was impossible to get angry with Caleb. He was always smiling and willing to do all kinds of crazy things like race the lawn mowers or have diving contests off bridge piers. All these things made Frank grouchy, and Tom thought they were insane ideas and watched from afar. “You know Frank’s not mad at you?”
“You could’ve fooled me with that scalding lecture and the bazillion lines.”
“He’s a top. He’s reacting to your signals as a brat. It’s just harder with you because he doesn’t think he should touch you since you’re a kid. He’s even hesitant to hug you since you’re not his son. I would’ve gotten swatted for that, but then we could’ve had a good cuddle, and it would be all over. All forgiven.”
“What are you talking about? Your partner, your lover hits you? That’s abuse.”
“You’ve got a lot to learn, kid. He spanks me; he doesn’t punch me, and it’s not abuse. I’m his submissive. I’ve agreed to it. Just think about it because it’s part of you, and it’s not wrong. Finish your lines now, kiddo. Frank will be up in a few minutes to talk to you.”
Neither Caleb nor Frank ever spoke about it that directly again, but Caleb gave him some reading material, and Frank hugged him or ruffled his hair every time after he was punished.
****
“Stand up.” For a second Mike thought it was Frank’s voice, but it was Tilden’s. “Take you pants off. I’m going to have you lay across my knees on the sofa. With your height, I think we need to support your upper body.”
Mike untied his boots with shaking hands, slid the borrowed trousers the rest of the way down, and folded them over the desk. Tilden pulled a small paddle out of the center desk drawer and set it between his feet.
“You ready?”
“Yeah,” Mike said, taking a deep breath and remembering Caleb’s words about forgiveness and absolution. He hoped this was worth it. The swats fell quick and hard, rapidly turning into a blur of sizzling heat. With the first swat of the paddle, Mike gave up all pretense of stoicism and hollered loudly with every stroke. He swore that drinking, smoking, and running away would never happen again.
Mike didn’t know how long he lay across Tilden’s lap sobbing after the paddling had ended. Tilden ran his fingers though Mike’s hair and whispered endearments in Russian. Tilden shifted so Mike’s head rested in Tilden’s lap and his feet on the sofa. Tilden rubbed Mike’s shoulders and stroked down his back. Mike turned and looked up at his top. He wished he could draw or capture Tilden’s expression forever in his mind. He couldn’t describe it in words, but it was the essence of protectiveness, love, family.
“Do you think you could get up for a few minutes, so I can take care of Luke?”
Mike nodded and let Tilden guide him into the bedroom and change him into a pair of borrowed pinstripe pajamas and then into the bathroom to wipe his face. He didn’t feel ashamed or embarrassed by the care-taking, just cherished. Tilden walked Mike up the two flights of stairs, his arm draped across his young man’s shoulders.
Up in Trent and Mace’s apartment, Luke was sprawled out on a sheepskin rug watching television, and Mace was wrapped around Trent, mixing something in the galley kitchen. There was a faint smell of allspice and cinnamon.
“Pumpkin muffins,” Trent said with a small smile.
Milton set the book he was reading on the table and enfolded Mike into his arms. “Come sit with me, so Tilden can have a few minutes with Luke.” Not going with Milton didn’t seem to be an option, so Mike eased down on the brown leather sofa without resistance. Tilden kissed his forehead and reached out a hand for Luke. Luke grimaced but took the offered hand without complaint and trailed his partner out of the room.
“Are you feeling better now?” Milton was serious; he wasn’t teasing. He expected Mike to be feeling better.
Mike took a quick inventory. Physically he felt like death warmed over. There was no getting around the fact that he’d had way too much to drink topped off by a little marijuana, plus Tilden had done a great job torching his butt. A flame thrower couldn’t have done any better. Mike shifted his weight to sit more on his hip. Mentally he felt calmer than anytime since Luke had walked into Tilden’s arms. How had he gotten so messed up? He’d thought the fling with Luke was a little fun for both of them. He couldn’t have been more wrong, and now he had Luke again or at least sort of. Tilden ran this show. He’d made that obvious. Mike reflexively rubbed his backside.
“I’m not talking about physically. I know you’re sore.” Milton rubbed the back of Mike’s neck.
“Better.” Mike said aloud, but in his mind he added, Am I crazy?
“Good. We forced you a bit. I’m glad we made the right choice. Now shut your eyes and try to rest. It’s been a hard few days.”
Mike must have drifted off because he was startled by the sound of a door banging and a briefcase hitting the floor.
“Why are we all hiding up here? Oh, what do we have here? Freshly spanked baby brat.”
“Sheldon, behave.” Milton’s tone carried a clear warning.
“Well, it’s obvious. He’s in his pajamas, and it’s not seven yet, and his eyes are red and swollen.”
“Sheldon, sitting room, now.” Milton’s voice cracked across the room, even the camera guys flinched. “Don’t give me that innocent look. You know exactly what you did. Unless you want me to put on a display for Mace, Mike and the camera crew, walk down those stairs without another word.” Milton turned back to Mike and ruffled his hair. “I’m sorry; I’ve got to go. My partner needs me for a few minutes. Why don’t you stretch out and get some sleep.”
“It’s OK. We’ve got him,” Trent call from the kitchen. “Go take care of Sheldon before he drives us all nuts.”
“I thought we were over the need for a weekly spanking. I guess I can always hope,” Milton said with a shrug.
“Do you really spank him every week?” Mike blurted out. He couldn’t imagine a worse fate.
“Ask him sometime. I only do what he wants.”
Mike pulled the striped wool blanket tighter around his shoulders. He didn’t understand Milton’s last comment. He was too tired to work out the puzzle and shut his eyes, letting the homey sounds of Trent and Mace lull him to sleep.
Mike shifted and cracked his eyes open. Sprawled out across the floor in the flickering light of the television were three couples. Trent and Mace were lying side by side, Trent’s arm possessively over Mace’s back. Milton was sitting with his back propped against an armchair sharing a muffin with Sheldon, whose head rested in Milton’s lap, the carrot color hair glowing in the dim light. Luke looked asleep, using Tilden’s shoulder for a pillow.
Tilden must have noticed movement out of the corner of his eye. “Misha, come down here. There’s plenty of food, and I miss you.”
Mike hesitated and Trent, who was the closest to the sofa, grabbed Mike’s hand and pulled. “You can’t miss the slumber party. It’s not like we do this very often. There’s food scattered all over. Help yourself.”
Mike grabbed a muffin and a couple slices of cheese. “Why are there pickles?”
“That’s Tilden. He loves pickles,” Sheldon said. “He wanted some comfort food after spanking two boys.”
Mike was glad it was dark, so nobody could see him flush.
“Careful,” Milton rumbled. “I could always spank one boy twice.”
“No, that won’t be necessary.” Sheldon mumbled, “Mike, I’m sorry about earlier. I should have been more tactful, you being new and all.”
Mike shrugged. He wasn’t sure how to take Sheldon. He thought he was still being laughed at, but Sheldon had been spanked, and at least from what Milton said earlier this was a common occurrence. “It’s all right,” he muttered
“You accept an apology about as well as Sheldon offers them—lousy,” Mace said, rolling out of Trent’s reach.
“Mace, their bad habits are rubbing off on you,” Trent teased. “Maybe I need to keep that spatula handy.”
Mike sat down next to Tilden but quickly flipped over onto his stomach when his butt made contact with the hard floor. “What are you watching?”
“Some film with a lot of fishing. It was Mace’s pick,” Luke said as if that should explain the fishing choice.
Tilden rested his hand on Mike’s back. “Are you doing OK?”
“Yeah, I am.”
“You sound surprised?”
“I just never expected to be having a slumber party with four spanked brats.”
“Life is full of surprises.” Tilden hugged both his boys.
No comments:
Post a Comment