Chapter 11
The feast preparations were coming along about as well as Tilden had expected, lots of small setbacks but so far no major disasters. Of course the turkey had only been in the oven a few minutes, not long enough to burn or catch fire. At least Tilden had known how to clean and truss the bird. After living in Russia, where you bought chickens with the head and feet still attached, the turkey had been a cinch. Now making the gravy was going to be a different matter. After reading the instructions in the cookbook, Tilden had turned that project over to Brad. Hopefully years of practice in the chemistry lab would allow him to quickly master the art of lump free gravy.
Mike and Raul had taken over the task of preparing the bread. Mike seemed comfortable with the oldest brat in the bunch, and Raul had worked in a bakery. They were making several different types of muffins that all took the same basic batter. Mike explained that Trent had taught him that trick.
Luke and Xavier were peeling vast heaps of potatoes in preparation for boiling and mashing. Tilden knew that potato peeling was probably everybody’s least favorite job, but after last night Luke was unlikely to complain, and Tilden hoped the mindless repetition would soothe Xavier. The two brats weren’t talking much, but Xavier’s shoulders looked less stiff than they had earlier. Tilden had set them up at the counter, where they could both stand, avoiding the discomfort of sitting and the embarrassment of squirming for both of them.
Brad had taken charge of the vegetables and taken Cotton, Jordan, and Peyton with him. All three had groused that they would be perfectly happy to have no vegetables, but Brad seemed to have the situation in hand. The remaining brats were the dessert crew. Tilden kept an ear out for trouble with them as he cut and plated the butter. He’d put himself in charge of arranging and decorating the table. He’d already separated the dessert group once into cake baking and pie baking when they’d started spatting over the benefits of a butter crust versus a shortening crust. As least Tilden had lucked out and had experienced pie bakers even if they were tired and short tempered. Tilden’s teaching experience had taught him to recognize group dynamics, and he congratulated himself on the quiet industriousness of the kitchen.
“You jackass! You just ruined the pie.” Paul pushed Colby hard into the counter.
“Ow, you little fucker!” Colby shoved back, sending a cascade of flour onto the floor.
“Come here, both of you. Now.” Tilden pointed to a spot on the floor in front of his feet. So much for quiet and industrious work. It was nice while it lasted.
The young men shuffled toward him. At least they both had the good grace to look embarrassed. The other brats were peeking over their shoulders, eager to see what was going to happen.
“Mike, you’ve made pie with Mace before. Can you see if you can fix whatever disaster has supposedly befallen the crust?”
“I’m not an expert, but Mace always says add more flour and refrigerate if the dough is too soft and sticky.”
“Well, give it a try. I know nothing about pie. You two gentlemen can come with me into the dining room, and we’ll have a chat away from all these prying eyes and ears.”
They came easily enough; they both seemed glad to be offered the chance for some privacy. Tilden tried to reassure Colby, who appeared the more nervous, by placing a hand on his shoulder and guiding him out of the kitchen.
“Sit down, boys,” Tilden said, pulling out two chairs. He remained standing, leaning against the table, trying to use his height to intimidate. Tilden didn’t want to go beyond a light lecture and maybe some time in the corner to settle these boys’ tempers. He hoped by projecting both authoritative and reassuring body language he could solve this spat with a minimum of fuss. He’d seen Milton do it more than a few times with nothing but an eyebrow.
“So what happened, boys?”
They both started talking at once, Paul gesticulating wildly and shaking his floppy brown hair out of his eyes. Colby raised his voice and started trying to shout over Paul.
“One at a time, please. Paul, you go first.”
“He ruined my crust on purpose.”
“I didn’t,” Colby shot back. “It was too dry and crumbly.”
Tilden raised and sharpened his voice. “I thought I said one at a time. Colby, stand up and turn around.”
“This isn’t fair.” Colby stared at Tilden, his green eyes wide; the freckles cascading over his nose made him look like a mischievous cartoon character.
“Stand up. Turn around.” Tilden shifted his weight towards Colby. He hoped he wouldn’t have to drag him out of the chair. It was a battle he didn’t want to fight with a stranger irrespective of brat or submissive status. To Tilden’s relief, Colby capitulated, stood, and turned around. “All right, Paul, go on with your story.”
Paul eyed Tilden as if trying to judge his mood. “Colby poured too much water into my pie crust and ruined it.”
“And that justified pushing him into the counter? Fighting in the kitchen is dangerous.”
“He did it on purpose. He wanted to ruin it.”
Colby twisted around to see his accuser. “I didn’t, you asshole. It was an accident.”
Tilden stood up, caught Colby’s shoulder, and landed three sharp swats on the jean clad rump. “I will give you a chance to tell your side of the story. Hands on top of your head.”
“Ralph isn’t this mean.”
Tilden could hear the slight whine in Colby’s voice and hoped he wouldn’t soon be dealing with tears of frustration. The young man sounded tired and at his breaking point. “I’m not Ralph, just think of me as the big, mean uncle you have to visit once a year and be on your best behavior because the uncle is a grouch.” Tilden squeezed Colby’s shoulder before sitting down and turning back towards Paul, who was staring wide-eyed at Tilden as if Tilden had grown three heads. Tilden thought he heard a mumbled expletive, and Paul’s eyes dropped to the table. “I only bite on the third Monday of the month, so I think you’re safe today.” Tilden smiled, willing the smile to go to his eyes. “Now, why don’t you tell me again what happened?”
“I was making the crust for the pumpkin pie,” Paul started slowly, “and it was a little too dry. When you make pie crust, you add water a small amount at a time from a tablespoon until the dough reaches the right consistency. That fool added it from the measuring cup and drowned the crust.”
Tilden interrupted before Paul could start to rant. “Do you really think it was on purpose, or do you think it was an accident? Think before you answer.”
Paul ran his hand down the seam of the tablecloth. “I...I think it was an accident.”
“Then you shouldn’t have pushed Colby?”
“No.”
“OK. Stand up and turn around, so I can talk to Colby.” Paul rose quickly and with great relief to his feet. “Colby, come sit down, so we can talk,” Tilden said soothingly.
Colby sat down, twisting his chair so he was cocked away from Tilden. His eyes darted to Tilden’s face, into the corner of the room, and over Paul’s back.
“Do you agree with what Paul said?” Tilden asked.
“Yeah, it was an accident.”
“Why did you push him back?”
“He pushed me first.”
“I’m aware of that, but wouldn’t you agree with me that the kitchen is a dangerous place for a wrestling match—sharp objects, hot stoves, boiling water?”
“I guess.”
“You guess?” Tilden said, raising his eyebrows.
“OK. I know. What are you going to do with us?” Colby asked the belligerence suddenly out of his voice. Instead he sounded like one of the freshman students pleading for an extension on a paper.
“I’m going to put you both in a corner for a few minutes to think about what we talked about, and then you’re going to talk to your partners tonight about the little altercation in the kitchen.” Tilden rose from the chair, snagged Colby’s wrist, and pulled him up. Tilden wrapped his other arm over Paul’s shoulders. “Let me get you settled in a corner.”
Tilden guided the two young men into the corridor that ran between the kitchen and the dining room. He placed Paul at one end and Colby at the other. Tilden would be able to see them from the kitchen, but they were out of the direct sight line and wouldn’t feel the pressure of the other brats breathing down their necks.
In the kitchen, Mike was looking forlornly at the piecrust. “I don’t think I can salvage this. It’s slimy.”
“Throw it out and start again,” Tilden said.
“I don’t know how to make piecrust.”
“How about a graham cracker crust?” Luke said.
“For pumpkin pie? Yuck.”
“I was just trying to be helpful.” Luke spat back.
“Rebyata,” Tilden warned. Both Luke and Mike turned back to what they were doing. Mike pulled a cookbook down and flipped through the pages, spotting them with flour and muttering to himself. Tilden suppressed a sigh. This was going to get more difficult as the day wore on. Trent and Mace claimed that cooking was relaxing, but judging from the sniping and stiff demeanor, his helpers seemed to find it the opposite.
Tilden moved close to Mike and rubbed his partnerts neck. “We can always have ice cream for dessert. It doesn’t require any cooking.”
“That’s a cop out,” Mike muttered. “How fucking hard can piecrust be? Mace makes a dozen a day.”
“I think maybe you should take a walk, calm down.” Tilden squeezed the back of Mike’s neck. “Call Mace,” he whispered in Russian.
Mike turned around and gave Tilden a sly look. “I’m going to go outside for a minute before I get in more trouble with you. Can Luke come with me?”
“Sure, go play in the snow for a few minutes. I’ll hold the fort here.” Tilden tried to look burdened by the idea, but he suspected he failed. He’d never been a good actor.
“You’re not a brat. You’re not allowed to pout,” Mike said, laughing as he slipped out of Tilden’s grip.
“Go before I find more slave labor for you to do,” Tilden encouraged.
“Can you manage the potatoes by yourself?” Luke asked Xavier.
Xavier nodded, but his grip tightened on the knife and his eyes roved around the room before dropping back to the potatoes.
“I’ll help you with the potatoes. Piecrust is totally out of my league, but I think I can manage a knife.”
As Tilden approached, Xavier skittered aside and bumped the bowl of water and potato pieces. The bowl crashed to the floor, shattering on the tile. Potato pieces flew across the floor like a thousand hockey pucks freed on an ice rink. Tilden started to make reassuring noises as he stepped through the soggy mess. Xavier stood frozen, staring at the potatoes before a frightening keening sound escaped from his mouth, and he turned to flee. Years of living with Milton’s partner had sharpened Tilden’s reflex, and he snared Xavier’s arm as he passed by.
“Don’t hurt me.” The cry was plaintive, muffled by the tears that were already coursing down Xavier’s face.
Tilden did the only thing he could; he wrapped his arms around the shaking boy. Xavier felt like a small, frightened boy—more frightened and far younger than his own partners. Tilden steered Xavier from the kitchen, supporting most of the boy’s weight in his arms. Mike and Luke were both looking at Tilden, concern etched on their faces. Tilden tried to indicate with a brisk nod of his head that they should go for a walk. Mike seemed to understand the message because he grabbed Luke’s arm and towed him out of the kitchen.
In the hall both Paul and Colby had moved from their corners and were watching the proceedings with interest. “Go ask Brad what to do and behave.” Tilden’s voice was sharp enough that both boys scrambled to get out of his sight. Tilden briefly thought it was cruel abandoning Brad to a pack of unsettled brats, but the choked sobs emanating from the bundle in his arms needed him right now. His partners would be safe outside playing in the snow. If Mike reached Mace and Trent, they knew Tilden’s partners well enough to talk them through any anxiety about what happened, plus Tilden had seen his partners in the snow. He expected they’d come in wet and exhilarated after a brisk snow fight.
The great room was empty, but a fire blazed in the massive stone hearth. Tilden snagged a checkered wool throw rug from the back of a sofa and sat in the massive armchair closest to the fire, pulling Xavier down into his lap.
“I’ve got you. You’re safe with me.”
Xavier sat frozen in Tilden’s lap, his back and shoulders stiff with fear. His breath came in ragged gasps as he tried to choke back the tears.
“Easy, no one’s going to hurt you.” Tilden traced his fingers down Xavier’s back. Xavier flinched away from Tilden’s touch. “Are you sore?” There was no answer, but Tilden thought he saw the slight young man try not to flinch the next time Tilden’s hand ran down his back. “Can I have a look?”
Xavier nodded hesitantly, his deep brown eyes filled with tears. A stray tear dripped down his cafe au lait colored cheeks.
Tilden lifted the pullover and tugged the tails of the shirt from Xavier’s pants. He drew in a sharp breath. “Bozhe moy!” A series of welts and multicolored bruises covered Xavier’s entire back. “Who did this?”
“My top. It’s his right.”
“No, it’s not,” Tilden said, not hiding the anger in his voice.
“Please don’t hit me,” Xavier pleaded. “I know I’m a clumsy, useless idiot, but I’m too sore.”
“Shh, I won’t hurt you.” Tilden tried to will his voice to a calm, relaxed state. He was angry at the abusive bastard that had tortured this boy, but Xavier in his state was terrified of anger from any direction. “I won’t let anyone hurt you again.” Tilden didn’t know how he was going keep such a rash promise. He stroked Xavier’s tight, coiled curls. He’d find a way, Tilden thought grimly.
“It’s the top’s right to punish. I’m bad.”
Tilden swallowed hard. He wanted to scream that the brutal marks on Xavier’s back were abuse, not legitimate punishment. “Honey, a power exchange is about many things, not about mere pain and not about abuse. Everything must be agreed upon by both parties. I can’t imagine you agreed to let your partner hurt you like that.”
“He’s the top. I must obey. I don’t learn, so he punishes me harder. I want to be good. I try to be good.”
“You’re a good boy. I’ve got you now.”
“I’m not good. I deserve to be punished. Are you going to tell Anthony?”
“You’re a good boy,” Tilden repeated, stroking Xavier’s head, trying to get the distraught young man to relax against his chest. “I’ve got you. You’re safe with me.”
“Anthony...Anthony will never allow it. He says...” Xavier rubbed his eyes. “He says I belong to him and that will never change. I can never run and hide from him.” Xavier sobbed harshly, no longer trying to hold back the tears.
Tilden held the boy tightly against his chest and waited, hoping that his fury would subside and Xavier would calm enough to be able to hear Tilden’s words. At the moment all Tilden wanted to do was take the belt or whatever Anthony had beat Xavier with and return the favor. Tilden sighed. That might feel good in the short term, but it would do nothing to solve the problem. He had to get Xavier out of the clutches of that evil man.
“You’re a good boy. I’ve got you. Shh. You’re going to make yourself sick.” Tilden repeated the reassurances. The tears didn’t seem to be easing. In desperation, Tilden hardened his tone. “Stop. Deep breaths, now. I’ve got you.” He heard Xavier choke back a sob and take a long shuddering breath. “That’s right.” Tilden tried to fill his voice with warmth to make it obvious he was praising. “Good boy. No one will hurt you. Come on. Let’s get you upstairs where you can stretch out and rest.”
Xavier was only a wisp of a young man, and Tilden had no trouble lifting the boy into his arms and climbing the stairs. From the pile of wet clothes scattered across the room, Luke and Mike had returned from their outdoor adventure. Poor Brad he was now dealing with an entire passel of agitated young men by himself. Tilden briefly wondered if vet school would have equipped Brad for the challenge. It couldn’t be worse than herding cats. Tilden remembered trying to deal with his parents’ cat at the vet; he’d sooner manage an entire regiment single handily than put a cat in a cardboard box in his car again.
Tilden sat Xavier on the edge of the bed, where the boy stayed frozen while Tilden rummaged through Luke’s suitcase for a pair of soft sweatpants and a T-shirt. Xavier was limp as Tilden changed his clothes and tucked him into the bed. “You rest. I’ll take care of everything else.” He bent down and kissed Xavier chastely on the cheek.
The words were whispered almost too softly for Tilden to hear, “I want to stay with you.”
“I’ve got you now. I’m not going anywhere. You’re not going back with Anthony.”
“You can’t stop him. He’s too powerful.”
“Sleep. I’ll handle it.” Tilden smoothed the blankets and kissed the damp cheek again. Tilden pulled a book off the nightstand and read until Xavier’s eyes closed and his breathing evened out.
Tilden softly closed the door, turned the key for the bolt, and leaned heavily against the wall of the corridor. The other guest rooms were shut, and in the calm hallway Tilden let the anguish he felt wash over him. It had been easy to promise Xavier that he could protect him, but could he really do it? He didn’t know Xavier’s or Anthony’s last name. In fact he didn’t know anything about Xavier except for what the bruises and welts streaking across his young body told Tilden. The boy was so fragile and vulnerable. Maybe there was a relative he could call.
A man with a badge around his neck and partially untucked shirt tails approached Tilden. “Fiona is looking for you downstairs.”
“She can look,” Tilden snapped. “I need to talk to someone higher up—someone with more clout and more sense than Fiona.”
“Look man, take it up with her. I’m not a big hotshot on this program.”
“Arrange it immediately,” Tilden practically snarled.
“You really don’t like cooking,” the man said with an impish grin.
Tilden reached out and grabbed the necklace ID, flipping it over to read the name. “John, I’m not playing here. I’m not talking about cooking, or a bad mood created because I can’t fry an egg. This is about systematic abuse of a participant of this television show. Now either take me to see the most important person on the set, or I will call the police, the FBI, and any other law enforcement agency I can think of. I believe the show business axiom that no publicity is bad publicity doesn’t apply here. I think your television network would not wish to be connected with an abuse scandal.”
The man looked around the corridor as if someone would appear to make the decision. Tilden stepped closer to John, ignoring the ethical implications of threatening this man with his top skills. John paled and swallowed. “Follow me, sir.”
Tilden followed John down the main stairs and then down the back stairs into a room that was usually a game room but was now crammed with television monitors and other equipment. Several people sat hunched over monitors, earphones pulled over their heads. A large central monitor showed the kitchen. Much to Tilden’s surprise it was empty except for Luke who was tugging at the turkey leg. It looked like he was trying to see if it would move. Tilden assumed he was checking for doneness; he’d seen his mother do the same thing.
“Where is everybody?” Tilden asked.
“Outside,” Fiona said, glaring at Tilden. “This episode is supposed to be about your cooking, and you’re not participating.”
“I would suggest you order takeout Chinese or pizza. Cooking is the least of my priorities right now.” Fiona opened her mouth to protest, but Tilden continued without pausing. “One of the participants on this show has been abused, probably since the first day of the partnership, and the producers of this show have either been grossly negligent or willfully ignoring the signs of abuse. Do beatings make good television?”
An older man had stepped behind Fiona during Tilden’s tirade. “Professor Blake, I’m Matthew Bishop. I’m in charge of casting for this program, and let me assure you we were in no way aware of this alleged problem that you’re describing. We will investigate it immediately.”
“I think welts and bruises from the shoulders to the thighs hardly need investigating.”
“You yourself physically punish your partners. You’ve freely admitted it.”
“A spanking administered with the full consent of my partner is hardly a brutal beating. You’re in charge of casting for this show; you should know the difference. If you don’t, this program is inherently dangerous, and you’re criminally responsible.”
“Let’s not throw accusations around until I know a few more details.” Matthew made calming motions with his hands. “Who are you talking about?”
“Xavier and his partner Anthony.”
Matthew snapped his fingers and an assistant handed him a tablet computer. His fingers danced across the screen. Tilden could make out the large print names on the screen but no details.
“Xavier Dubois is a first generation American. His mother is originally from the Côte d’Ivoire. She married a French aide worker and immigrated to Paris. Xavier’s father abandoned the family when Xavier was three. His mother died last year, and he came to America, looking for a fresh start. It appears he has no other relatives in this country. He was paired with Anthony Turner, a successful investment banker currently residing in New York. We’ve certainly had no indication of a problem, and Anthony has provided financial stability to Xavier’s life.”
“And you thought it was a good idea to cast a young man with no community or family support in this type of program. You were asking for this kind of thing.” Tilden said, not trying to contain his anger.
Matthew made a soothing noise in his throat. The same young man that had woken Tilden this morning burst into the room, shedding snow onto the floor. “What’s going on?” Matthew asked, giving the boy a sharp glance.
“Some people showed up on skis.”
“Tell them it’s a private party,” Matthew said impatiently.
“It’s too late for that. They pushed right by security.”
“What?” Matthew and Fiona said together.
“Yes, they handed me this.” The young man handed a card to Matthew.
“The Green Mountain Boys,” Matthew read. “What the hell?”
“The cavalry’s here,” Tilden said.
“What?” Matthew spluttered. “Do you know these people?”
“I know of them,” Tilden answered cautiously.
“They’re committing criminal trespass. Call the police.”
“Are you sure you want to do that?” A soft voice with a trace of an accent said from the doorway. The accent wasn’t English, Australian, or South African—more of a combination with a heavy dose of American thrown in. A tall man with sparse gray hair cut in a short precise style stood in the doorway. He was wearing an old-fashioned pair of ski knickers and a a dark green sweater with white snowflakes.
“Gordon,” Tilden breathed.
“Milton thought you might need some backup.”
“How’d he know?” Tilden said.
“Your lads are very resourceful. It’s seems they went outside and used a cell phone. I assumed you had something to do with it.” Gordon leaned against the doorframe and crossed his arms. He looked as intimidating as Tilden remembered him.
“The cell phone, yes—calling Milton, no.”
“From what I heard, I think it’s a good idea they did.”
“You’re supposed to have no contact with family or friends during your stay here unless it’s a emergency. That’s in the contract,” Matthew protested.
“I think abuse is an emergency,” Gordon said. Even though his tone was soft and reasonable, a silent threat hung in the air. “I haven’t heard the whole story. Tilden, would you be so kind as to fill me in?”
Tilden watched Gordon. He didn’t trust him, but here he was probably an ally.
“I know we didn’t have the best start, or as you Americans like to say, I blew it,” Gordon said smoothly. “But I am an enemy of your enemy here, therefore I am a friend, and I have experience in this area.”
Tilden nodded and shrugged. While Tilden would prefer not to admit it, Gordon was his ally, and Milton swore he was good with submissives. Tilden ignored the strong urges of his protective instinct and succinctly informed Gordon about Xavier.
“Did you say Anthony Turner?” Gordon asked when Tilden mentioned the top’s name.
“Yes.”
“We warned him off several times.” Gordon turned the full power of his stare toward Fiona and Matthew. “Numerous times the Green Mountain Boys have offered to lend their assistance to the network, and every time we have been rebuffed, often may I add quite rudely. We are aware of the gentleman in question and could have prevented this abuse.”
“Alleged abuse,” Matthew retorted. “I only have Tilden’s word that a problem occurred.”
“Tilden is an experienced top who I do not believe falls victim to the sensationalism that appears on your national television networks. If he reports abuse, I can assure you it’s correct. We are also familiar with Mr. Turner; he has quite a reputation with those in the know.”
“You can’t just barge in here and accuse us of covering up abuse and misconduct,” Fiona blustered. “I should call the police and have you arrested for trespassing.”
“Feel free to call the local police. However let me remind you I regularly lunch with Mr. Davis, the head of news programming for the Prime Star network. I think you might want to call your programming director before you act rashly. An investigative coup against a competing network would be quite a prize.” Gordon reached into his pants pocket, pulled a cell phone out, and began to dial.
“I think we can ignore the irregularities of your arrival this time,” Matthew said. “I believe our next course of action should be for you to speak to the young man in question.”
Gordon clicked his phone shut. “Please lead the way.” Gordon must have noticed Tilden’s concerned glance toward the kitchen. “Your boys are fine. I brought several people with me, and they’re helping in the kitchen. Your Mike is a bit of a spitfire.”
Tilden nodded and gave Gordon a slight smile.
Gordon reached out and laid a hand on Tilden’s shoulder for a brief second. “Hopefully we’ll talk later, but let’s straighten out the situation with Xavier first.
Xavier lifted his head from the pillow when they stepped into the room. He’d pulled the covers up to his chin, and he stared at the people crowding into the room. Gordon, with easy efficiency, took one glance at Xavier and herded everyone from the room except Tilden and himself.
“It’s OK,” Tilden said, seating himself on the edge of the bed and resting his hand on Xavier’s shoulder. “This is Gordon Lewis. He’s a friend, and he’ll help you.”
Gordon didn’t say anything, but his eyes communicated his gratitude at the introduction. He walked over and perched on the bed next to Tilden. “I understand you’ve had a rough time. Will you let me take a look?”
Xavier looked at Tilden, his eyes filling with tears. Tilden wiped a stray tear from the boy’s cheek. “It’ll be OK,” Tilden said softly.
Xavier nodded and buried his face in the pillows. Gordon gently placed his hand on the boy’s neck. “I’m going to lift your shirt now and pull your pants down.” Xavier stiffened, but he didn’t resist. Gordon studied the welts on the back, tracing a finger down a fresh mark. “You were hit last night. Why?”
“I forgot to pack his red tie.”
Tilden wanted to shout that forgotten ties were not a cause for violence, but Gordon warned him with a look to remain quiet.
Gordon pulled Xavier’s T-shirt back down. “I would like to have a chat with you. I know you have no reason to trust me. I’m a dominant, and you’ve been hurt by a person who calls himself a dominant. I don’t expect you to trust me, but I will protect you. Anthony Turner will never touch you again.”
“How can you promise that?” Xavier cried, wincing as he sat up in bed. “He’ll find me. I have nowhere to go.”
“You have plenty of places to go,” Gordon said calmly.
“No, I don’t. I don’t have family or money. My family in Africa can’t afford another mouth to feed, and I don’t have any family in France. Getting beat is better than being homeless.”
“That’s not a choice you have to make. Now look at me and listen.” Gordon said, a slight hint of firmness to his voice. “Being hysterical will not help the situation. I have several options, which I will outline for you, but you need to listen.”
“Yes, sir, I’m sorry, sir.”
“There’s my good boy,” Gordon said, giving Xavier a gentle smile. Xavier relaxed with the praise. “May I touch you?” Gordon asked and got a small nod in return. Gordon pulled Xavier up into his lap and settled the boy against his chest. “You’re safe with me.” They sat for several minutes neither speaking until Gordon broke the silence. “I’m sure Tilden’s partners are missing him. Will you be all right if he goes downstairs? Then we can talk as long as you want.”
“I think so,” Xavier mumbled.
“Go. Trust me.” Gordon mouthed at Tilden over Xavier’s head. Tilden gave Gordon a searching look and reluctantly rose from the bed.
The kitchen was alive with activity. Several men, whom Tilden had never seen before, were working at the long counters. One was giving Brad and earful about the proper use of a knife, and Brad, catching sight of Tilden, rolled his eyes and shrugged. Mike and Luke were making individual pies, decorating each with crust cut in the shape of Christmas trees and stars under the direction of a man in a white chef’s coat. Two near giants were standing inside the door, occasionally giving soft words of encouragement or gentle chastisements to the throng of industrious young men but mostly scanning the hallway as if expecting unwanted visitors. Both men’s ski sweaters barely contained their thick necks and massive chests. Only Milton and Gordon could come up with a plethora of professional chefs and sympathetic body guards in the wilds of Vermont in less than two hours, Tilden thought with a wry smile.
Both Mike and Luke spotted Tilden and abandoned their baking. Tilden wrapped his arms around his brats, enjoying the warmth and security of his two partners. “So you set the Green Mountain Boys on me,” Tilden teased softly.
“I told Milton. I didn’t know he’d call them. You’re not mad are you? That’s the Gordon from the story with the caning, isn’t it?” Mike said, his eyes expressing his anxiety.
“I’m not mad,” Tilden reassured. “I’m proud I have such resourceful partners.”
“Is Xavier all right?” Luke asked softly, worming his way under Tilden’s arm.
“He will be.”
“His partner hurt him?” Mike said it more as a statement than a question.
“Yes, we’ll talk about it later.” Tilden patted Mike on the rump. “I think you two have baking to attend to.”
“Da, uvazhaemii professor,” Luke teased.
“Well respected professor. I like that. Now off to work.” Luke skipped over to the pies, dragging Mike with him. “Is there anything you want me to do?” Tilden asked the crowd in general.
“I’ve been told you’re a menace in the kitchen,” the man in the chef’s hat said. “Can you manage to chop parsley?”
“I think I can manage that.”
The chef handed Tilden an enormous pile of parsley. “Mince—that means finely chop.”
Several of the men cooking laughed at the chef’s comment.
“Does he treat you this way?” Tilden said, pretending to be affronted.
“No, you’re the only one who has set a kitchen on fire,” the chef said.
“Will I ever live that down, and how did you find out?”
“That type of news gets around.” The man in the chef’s jacket gave Tilden a small smile with a raised eyebrow. “You know how that is? We gossip. Oh, and I’m Armand by the way. My partner’s Kit. He’s the muscle hunk with the black hair; the other one’s Everett, and helping me in the kitchen are Sidney and Wayne. Sidney waved a salt shaker at Tilden. Wayne seemed more reserved and nodded his head, his brown curls scattering across his forehead. “We’ve got it covered. Chop the parsley and leave the rest to us.”
Tilden nodded. They did seem to be comfortably in charge. He wasn’t sure who were the submissives and who were the dominants, but Tilden had no desire to find out. He started to chop the parsley.
“Not like that.” Armand’s hand closed around Tilden’s wrist. “You’re going to cut your fingers off. Plus I want minced parsley, not parsley trees.” Armand rolled his eyes. “I don’t know how a guy can live as long as you have and not even know how to use a knife. We’re not talking brain surgery.”
Tilden started to mumbled something about not cooking when Mike interrupted, “Trent will only let him in the kitchen to make tea. He’s a menace. He burnt the boxed macaroni and cheese once. I didn’t think that was possible.”
“Mishenka,” Tilden rolled the name off his tongue, pretending to be offended. “I should make you eat bread and water for a week for that comment.”
“You’re not that mean,” Mike said, flashing his top a teasing grin. “It would be better than your cooking anyway.”
Tilden tossed a dish towel at Mike. Kit caught the towel in mid flight. The look he gave Tilden expressed his displeasure at flying objects in the kitchen. Tilden gave him an apologetic half smile and tried to focus on the chopping and mincing lesson. Several of the guys snickered, having noticed the silent exchange.
“You’re hopeless,” Armand said, looking in dismay at the parsley pieces that ranged in size from one millimeter to several centimeters. “Go conjugate verbs or whatever you do. I don’t have any easier jobs in the kitchen.”
“I can set the table. I do know where to put the dessert forks and the salad forks.”
Armand nodded. “Get out of here.”
Tilden squeezed the back of Luke’s neck as he headed toward the dining room. Luke turned and gave Tilden a beseeching look, his blue eyes wide and round. “I think this is a two man job.” Tilden dropped his hand around Luke’s waist and guided him into the dining room.
It was about an hour before Tilden saw Gordon on the stairs, his arm wrapped around Xavier’s shoulders. “Do you have anything that needs doing? Our boy here was getting tired of loafing.”
“You’ll have to ask Armand. I’ve been banished from the kitchen,” Tilden said with a smile directed at Xavier.
“The kitchen’s his domain,” Gordon said dryly. “He’s very possessive of his space, even though I think he’s justified in your case.”
Tilden looked away. Gordon sounded like he was teasing, but Tilden wouldn’t let his reserve down with him.
“When is everyone else due back?” Gordon asked.
“Thirty minutes, according to Fiona.”
Xavier leaned closer to Gordon, and the older top tightened his arm. “You’re safe with me, my lad. He won’t bother you. Why don’t you go help everybody for a minute. I’m sure they missed you.” Gordon unwrapped his arm and gave Xavier a soft push. The boy looked back but did step away. Gordon nodded toward the kitchen, his expression strict.
Gordon waited until Xavier had disappeared before turning to Tilden. “I know you don’t trust me, but I will protect that boy. I have the ability to keep him safe. You don’t have the power or connections I have.”
Tilden stiffened his back. “Don’t patronize me. I’m not the naive boy you caned fifteen years ago.”
“No, you’re not. Hopefully you’re a mature dominant who makes careful and weighted decisions.” Gordon held his hand up when Tilden started to interrupt. “I’m aware I made neither a careful nor weighted decision those many years ago. I assumed you were like Milton. I was wrong. I cannot change that, but right now we need to focus on that young man. He trusts you as much as he trusts anyone, and it will be easier if you support my decisions. I will take him to the lodge and give him a job. He can stay with us as long as he likes.”
“Will you discipline him?”
“That’s between the two of us, but to set your mind at ease, I would require detailed negotiations before I would consider it. That boy needs to understand his rights. Now do you have any more concerns that I can address in private?”
Tilden shrugged. There were thousand of things he’d like to say, but none seemed appropriate at this moment. He didn’t like Gordon, but Gordon was right. They needed to present a unified front.
“I know you don’t like me and don’t trust me,” Gordon said softly. “Try to find the courage in your heart to give me a second chance. I was as wrong as a top can be. We all make mistakes. It is how you handle your mistakes that determines your mettle as a dominant. I freely admit I was wrong, and I hope we can work together and put it behind us. But now we need to take care of Xavier.”
Tilden nodded. “How are you going to keep Anthony away from him?
Gordon shot Tilden a predatory smile. “I know the two senior partners at his firm. I will inform them of their golden boy’s dirty little secret if needed. I play for keeps.”
“I hope you can make good on your promises,” Tilden said.
“I will.” Gordon captured Tilden in his gaze and stared until Tilden dropped his eyes. “Try to trust me.”
The turkey came out of the oven golden brown with crisp, crackled skin. Tilden heard the faint sound of cars pulling into the drive and the front door opening. Gordon and Kit headed purposefully toward the front hall, and Everett looped an arm around Xavier’s waist and pulled him close.
Tilden wasn’t privy to the the exact arrangements, but he’d seen one of Gordon’s many minions bring Anthony’s bags downstairs, and unless he was way off base, Gordon and his well muscled friends were going to make some not very veiled threats and show Mr. Turner to the door.
The TV people were scrambling around setting up for the dinner. They seemed to have stayed out of the whole mess with Xavier—maybe abuse was even too much for the network to stomach. Tilden suspected it had more to do with Gordon knowing the right people. He hadn’t been shy about informing the officious Fiona that he played golf weekly with several big honchos in a competing network who would love to spread vicious truths.
Gordon swept back into the kitchen with a trace of a smug smile playing on his lips. Xavier ran to him and buried himself in the older top’s arms. Tilden watched. Gordon had to be doing something right. Xavier trusted him, and Milton had trusted him enough to ask for help. Tilden, still unable to set his mind at ease, recited a short Lermontov poem to himself. The poems he’d learned early in his career in Russian were always calming. He’d have to face his problem with Gordon.
The dinner went well. Most of the tops were subdued as the rumors quickly spread about the presence of the extra kitchen help and the disappearance of Anthony Turner. Luke and Mike ate as if they hadn’t seen food for a week, and Gordon with a combination of coaxing and light scolding even settled Xavier in front of a substantial plate. Dessert had been served, and it had been announced that the team of Brad and Tilden had won the cooking prize with an unorthodox, but acceptable strategy. The remaining dinners would be catered for the rest of the weekend. Everyone cheered at this news.
Gordon stood and tapped his spoon against his water glass. The alcohol that had flowed so freely before had vanished. Tilden suspected this was also Gordon’s doing. “Gentlemen,” he said twice before a hush fell over the men. “I’m Gordon Lewis of the Green Mountain Boys.” A ripple passed through the crowd at the mention of that fabled name. “From your response, I can see that some of you have heard of our organization. We are a real organization, headquartered in Vermont but with small chapters all over the globe. We are not an urban legend as some of you may have been led to believe. I assure you that we are here to provide assistance to any of you: submissives, dominants, or both together. New relationships are always fraught with difficulties, but new relationships of the type we practice have additional hurdles to overcome, especially when they were created within the artificial confines of a television studio. A disaster was averted today because you were fortunate to have amongst you a top with both experience and training. He is a close friends of a top whom I personally trained, and he recognized and intervened in an inappropriate relationship immediately. His partners were both resourceful and intelligent and placed the first call for help. They have a relationship that all of us can both envy and learn from. Gordon reached over and shook Tilden’s hand, pulling him to his feet.
“Thank you,” Tilden murmured, feeling himself blush.
“It is I who should thank you. You didn’t look the other way or pretend you didn’t see. You did the right thing, the honorable thing, and the difficult thing. May all of us dominants remember our duty to all humanity.” Gordon leaned forward and for Tilden’s ears only whispered, “I promise to protect Xavier, or you have my permission to come after me.” Gordon flashed Tilden a quick smile, a smile that had probably had both boys and girls swooning when he younger and was still charming and commanding at the same time. “To your success, gentlemen.” Gordon lifted his water glass before sinking back into the chair.
Armand stood and passed three business cards to every man seated at the table. The first card had a toll free number for the Green Mountain Boys and a number for the lodge in Vermont. The second card was Gordon and his partner’s card with numbers listed around the world and a note scrawled in tiny handwriting, “Call anytime.” The third card was printed on both sides crammed full of names and phone numbers.
Luke flipped the card over. “Joshua and Milton’s numbers are on this. Who is Andrew Brown?”
“That’s Milton’s grandfather,” Tilden said, scanning the card. “These are the numbers of Green Mountain members located all over the country.”
“Yes,” Armand said, “call any of us anytime. It’s doesn’t have to be because you’re having a problem. It can be merely because you want to talk. I’m happy to discuss baseball at two in the morning if that’s what you need. My partner may not be too keen on my all night chats, but I can make him understand.” Armand flashed Kit a charming grin. Kit growled something unintelligible under his breath. “You can see my hours are a constant bane for my long suffering partner.”
“Brat, don’t bait me in public unless you want turned over my knee in public,” Kit bantered back.
Their teasing broke the formal atmosphere and everyone went back to the coffee and the remnants of the sweets. Some of the chatter was a little too loud and the laughs strained and high pitched, but in general the men tried to act like they were at a normal dinner party. Gordon and his gang, as Tilden thought of them, deftly made their escape while people were having their second helping of pie. Xavier slipped over to say good-bye to Tilden, flanked by the two muscled giants and watched closely by Gordon.
“Thanks,” Xavier whispered.
“You’re very welcome.” Tilden kissed the boy’s cheek. “Be good.”
Gordon caught Xavier in his arms as the boy scrambled back from shyness. “He’ll be good; he’s a good boy.” Gordon didn’t say any more, but Tilden could read in his eyes a promise to watch and guard over the boy. No one else noticed the exchange, and Tilden suspected few even noticed the Green Mountain Boys leaving.They vanished as silently and quickly as they appeared. It was almost like the whole thing had been no more real than a fairy tale.
Two boys, both waiting for him with shining eyes and voices sweeter than the nightingales of poetry. This was Tilden’s fairy tale, a dream that had somehow become a reality better than any fantasy. He caught his boys’ eyes and smiled. They had found each other and every minute minute was a reminder of the bindings of affection and love between them. It was a fairy tale with a far less chaste ending than the tales of his childhood.
