Lost and Found 1

Lost and Found

Chapter 1

The Olde Curiosity Shop was busy today. It was late for such a busy season in West Banner, Massachusetts, the end of fall and the transition to the winter with bare trees and gray skies usually meant the end of business. Maybe it was the the reality show, Meet Your Mate. Mace Dewey still could hardly believe his staid and proper housemates had become involved in what could only be described as tacky and invasive to the extreme. It had put West Banner on the map, and probably more that a few of the customers were here hoping to catch a glimpse of the now famous Tilden Blake and his two partners.

Mace dashed between tables, wiping up crumbs and collecting glasses as fast as he could. He still limped from an accident on the rodeo circuit many years before, and his ankle ached. The New England rain and dampness did nothing for screws and metal bits that held his left ankle together. This was not a good day to be short three people. Trent, his business partner and husband, had gone to an auction to bid on rare books, first addition mysteries and westerns that fit their theme well, one student staffer was out sick, and the other had pleaded confusion about the due date for a paper and had taken a personal day. This left Mace with only the elderly Bethany manning the cash register and assisting people in the books. She was a dear, blue-haired lady but a road block at the cash register, tediously licking her fingers and counting each bill as she doled them back to the customers. Mace could see the natives getting restless, but what could he do? Bethany wasn’t strong enough to heft the heavy trays full of dirty plates and glasses, and she made coffee at glacial speed. The icecaps would be melted before she got the first latte on the counter.

A young man, whom Mace didn’t recognize, tapped the tabletop impatiently while he picked at the menu cover with his other hand. Mace hurried toward him, figuring he was running late for a class. As Mace approached the table, he realized the guy was trembling all over. His pale blond, nearly white hair was plastered to his scalp with water and his wet, porcelain colored skin appeared even paler framed by dripping black jeans and a black turtleneck sweater. Mace saw no sign of a coat. “I can serve you on the hearth. It’s warmer there.” 

“Thanks,” the guy said, looking around with nervous jerky movements until he spotted the fireplace tucked between two rows of books and crowded with worn armchairs and strewn-about newspapers. “I forgot my coat,” the stranger said unnecessarily as he stood wiping his palms repeatedly on his drenched jeans.

“You’ll be much warmer by the fireplace. Today’s special is the shepherd's pie. It should warm you up.”

The stranger jerked his head up and down as if he were too distracted by the cold to form a coherent reply. Mace decided the motion meant he wanted the blue plate special. Mace added a pot of coffee without asking as his customer huddled by the fire, his arms embracing his knees, looking lost to the world.

In the bustle of the lunchtime crowd, Mace soon forgot his eccentric customer until he heard a shout from Bethany at the cash register. “Young man, stop this instant, or I’ll have the police here.”

Mace tossed two sandwiches and chips at the table by the window and hurried to see the cause of the commotion. Peter Smith, the pharmacist from around the corner who ate lunch at the Olde Curiosity Shop every day, had grabbed the pale-haired man by the arm and was grimly marching him towards the rear of the shop.

“What’s going on here?” Mace asked, imaging police reports for assault and battery as Peter dragged the reluctant customer toward Mace.

“This little thief tried to run out without paying.” Peter shook the guy as he said each word.

“Easy, Pete,” Mace drawled, “Let’s not dislocate his shoulder. What’s your name, son?” Trent usually took care of this kind of thing, but Mace had seen him do it enough times that he thought he had the schtick down and pummeling the would be thief or hogtying him was not is the script.

“Alfred Conrad Harrison.”

“Um—Alfred,” Mace started before he was interrupted.

“Everyone calls me Cotton on account of my hair.”

“OK, Cotton, do you have any ID on you?

“No, I left it at home. Please, don’t call the police.” Cotton squirmed uncomfortably in Peter’s grip and at least to Mace looked on the brink of tears.

“Just settle there, cowboy; nobody said anything about the police just yet.”

“The police are too good for him; this little thief should have his butt tanned,” Peter muttered, digging his fingers into Cotton’s arm.

“Peter, I want to thank you for catching him, but I think I’ve got it from here,” Mace said.  

Peter looked none to happy about releasing the would be criminal. “Are you sure? These college kids’ thieving has really gotten out of hand.”

Mace nodded. “Lunch is on us today for your fine apprehension of this dangerous criminal,” he said with a small grin. 

The offer of free lunch mollified Peter, and with a final shove he released Cotton before giving Mace a brisk nod and heading back toward the street, muttering about today’s wild youth.

“Cotton, are Peter and Bethany right that you were walking out of here without paying?”

“Yes, sir. Are you going to call the cops now?” A tear trickled down Cotton’s cheek, and he swiped at it with his soggy sleeve. “I’m sorry. I’ve never stolen anything before. I was just so cold and hungry."

“If you’d told me you’d forgotten your wallet, I would've let you pay tomorrow.” Mace said, his hands on his hips, trying to keep a stern expression. Trent would’ve already had the police here, but Mace was starting to feel sorry for this kid, and he did seem to be a kid. Probably no older than Luke or Mike, the young men on Meet Your Mate and Mace’s new housemates.

“I live in Providence. It’s not like I’ll be back tomorrow.”

Mace looked at the growing crowd of customers at the counter, some starting to stir impatiently at the lack of service. A few were directing pointed glares his way, and the gentleman he’d promised pie to was waving his chit back and forth in the air. “Have you ever worked in a restaurant or a coffee shop?”

“I worked as a barista for six months.”

“Good, get behind the counter, and we’ll call it even.”

“You mean like washing dishes for a free meal?”

“Exactly. Now get going, cowboy, before I have a riot on my hands.”

“Eh...,” Cotton hesitated, “I don’t know how to thank you. I could’ve have ended up in jail.” Cotton again looked like he was on the verge of tears.

“I think jail might be a little melodramatic,” Mace said with an easy grin. “Now, go get the coffee served, or I’ll be on your ass. You’re still soaked. Get started, and I’ll see if I can come up with some dry clothes.”

Cotton gave Mace a timid smile and scrambled to get behind the counter. Mace watched him from the corner of his eye as he rounded up a pair of jeans and a spare sweatshirt from the stock he kept at the store for an unexpected spill. Cotton handled the espresso machine like a pro and even managed to chat with the customers as he passed out coffee and sweets. 

The lunchtime rush had settled into a trickle of customers for pie and coffee. Cotton scrubbed the counter, keeping a wary eye on Mace.

“Easy, cowboy, I think I’ve gotten my blood from you.”

“Yes, sir,” Cotton replied, never taking his eyes off the now imaginary crumbs on the counter.

“Mace is fine. You’re making me feel like an old guy or a top.”

Cotton looked up, unable to hide the distress in his pale blue eyes. He continued to move the cloth over the counter in an absent sort of way as if he’d forgotten what he was doing. Cotton sniffed and blinked before dropping his head back to the counter.

Mace walked over to the coffee pot, poured two cups, stirred in milk and sugar, and plated a large slab of apple pie, scraping the last few apples from the now empty pie tin. He pushed both over to a quiet corner of the soda fountain. “Cotton, come sit down and have some dessert.” That kid looked like he was falling apart. He had his back to Mace now, but Mace had seen him wipe his face with his sleeve several times, he had to be crying. “Come on, kiddo. I’m required by law to give my workers breaks.” Mace took a long sip of the hot, sweet coffee. This was Trent’s forte, not his. Actually it was Milton who’d he seen handle unfamiliar and frightened young men with ease and comfort. Milton might masquerade as a mild mannered history professor at Banner College, but he was a dominant and a damn good one. He was one of those rare men who could flex his muscle in play, but also genuinely cared and wasn’t afraid to use his top skills to push young men onto the path of righteousness. Trent was more of an undercover top, passing through society as a vanilla guy unless he had to. It was probably all those years writing for those hunting and fishing magazines while he courted Mace. The Western Shooter wasn’t exactly known for its enlightened thought.

Cotton shuffled over to the stool next to Mace, his eyes still anywhere but on the coffee shop owner. “I can’t pay for the pie.”

“We close at four today. So after three anything left is fair game for the help.” Mace didn’t bother to add that the rest of the staff knew that apple was Trent’s favorite and that they would have jealously guard the last piece for their boss. “How old are you kid?” Mace asked softly.

“Nineteen.”

“You get into it with your parents?”

“Not this time.”

“Your girlfriend?” Mace asked with a hint of a smile. If his gaydar wasn’t broken, he’d bet  Cotton was gay and a submissive to boot. But no use scaring him by tipping his hand too soon.

“Boyfriend.” Cotton forked a piece of pie into his mouth, and then the dam broke loose, a flood of words and tears. “I let the birds loose. He keeps telling me not to mess with the birds if he’s not with me. He’s going to kill me.” 

“I doubt if it’s a capital offense.”

“It’s not funny. The palms are worth ten thousand dollars.”  Cotton wiped his eyes with a crumpled napkin. “Why am I telling you this?” 

“Sorry, I shouldn’t have made fun of you.” Mace said, handing Cotton a stack of paper napkins. If he’d been Milton, he would’ve had a crisp, white handkerchief embroidered with his initials to hand the tearful boy. “So what are palms?” Mace asked when the crying had calmed.

“Rare black cockatoos. They’re worth loads of money.”

“And you’re only supposed to handle them if your mysterious boyfriend is about?”

“Yeah, Brad, Dr. Roberts, he’s a vet, says I can only handle them when he’s around. I don’t have the experience yet.”

Mace nodded. He had a good idea where this conversation was headed, but how did he get the information without telling more about himself than he usually shared with strangers? “Cotton, were some sort of consequences promised for not properly handling the birds?”

Cotton nodded, and tears started to brim over his eyes again.

“Hey, there’s no need to cry. It can’t be that bad.”

“You don’t know.”

“I think I’ve been in the same situation more times than I care to mention.”

Cotton stared at Mace, a curious expression on his pale, tear-streaked face.  “You can’t know?”

“I think I’ve been in your situation more than once; trust me.” Mace gave Cotton a wide grin and rubbed his shoulder. “It won’t be that bad.”

Cotton sniffed and wiped his face on his sleeve.

“Use the napkins, cowboy.”

Cotton stuck his tongue out. “Top,” he muttered as if it were a mild curse.

“Cowboy, I’ve already told you once I’m not a top.”

“You’re not vanilla?”

“No, not exactly.” Mace knew he should just put this kid out of his misery and tell him, but telling a relative stranger about the intimate details of his relationship violated all his upbringing. Everybody in the house knew, but that was different.

“You’re a brat?” Cotton said shyly.

Mace shrugged and nodded. It was close enough. He didn’t truly brat; that was more Milton’s partner Sheldon, but using the term sub would probably confuse the kid more. Mace definitely didn’t do kneeling and public displays of submissiveness.

“You seem so bossy.”

“I’m not a wilting daisy. So now that you know about me. I think you owe me. What are you running from? And don’t even pretend that you’re not running—out with no coat and no wallet. I wasn’t born yesterday.”

Cotton rubbed his palm on his borrowed pants. “I don’t want a spanking,” he whined.

“None of us do. You’ll live.”

“I’ve never been spanked before.”

“The first time’s always hard.” Mace squeezed Cotton’s shoulder. “Why don’t you call Brad? I’m sure you’ll feel better after you talk to him.”

“I can’t. I can’t go through with it.” Cotton buried his face in his hands.

Mace bit back the urge to turn this kid over his knee and be done with it. It was a spanking, not a lynching, and surely not worth this much angst. “Cotton, give me the number, and I’ll call.”

“No, I can’t go back.” Cotton said between his arms.

“Stop it,” Mace said, trying to make his voice sound like Trent’s when he was one step from a spanking. “Give me the number. Walking around like a waif and stealing dinner is not an option.”

Mace heard Cotton take a sharp breath before he rattled off a phone number. “He’ll be at the office.”

Mace pulled the phone over and dialed. A receptionist answered and put him on hold before he could get a word in edgewise. He poured another cup of coffee for both of them while he listened to a recorded message on Comfortis, a new oral flea control without dangerous parasite residue on your pet’s coat. 

Finally a young woman came on the line, “How may I help you?”

“Can I speak with Dr. Roberts?”

“I’ll see. He’s with a client.”

“Don’t put me on hold again,” Mace said quickly. “I’m a friend of Cotton’s, and he’s here with me.” 

“I’ll get him,” she said quickly.

Mace heard the phone hit the counter and then the start of a recorded message on heartworm prevention.

A slightly breathless voice came on the phone as if he had just run up a flight of stairs. “This is Dr. Roberts.”

“Mace Dewey. Cotton’s right here. I’ll put him on.” Mace shoved the phone into Cotton’s hand, and curled his reluctant guest’s fingers around the receiver. “Talk to him.”

Mace shifted to the far side of the store to give Cotton some privacy. Mace assisted the few straggling customers with final book purchases and coffee to go. Trent came in carrying a box of books and looking bedraggled, his wet hair drying at crazy angles on his head.

“Who’s he?” Trent asked, gesturing toward the phone as he set the box down on the counter. “Most of the good stuff went for too much money. I’m starved; the hotdog vendor looked like I needed to call the health department on him.”

“That’s Cotton. He’s a stray brat,” Mace mouthed. “He’s talking to his partner."

“Guys,” Cotton said tentatively. “How do I tell him to get here?”

Trent made a motion for the phone, and Mace heard him rapidly detailing directions to their home. Cotton made an effort to slip back over to Mace, but Trent captured him by his belt loops. “Hang on, kid. I need you to promise that you won’t do another vanishing act.” 

Cotton nodded, his body language shouting that he wanted to get as far away from this top as possible. Wait till he meets the others, Mace thought with a grin. He'll be hiding in the attic until Brad shows up for him.

With three people, they made short work of prepping the food and the store for tomorrow. Sometime between the carrying of boxes and the chopping of vegetables, Trent had managed to get Mace and Cotton to spill the story of Cotton’s attempt to abscond with lunch and his appalling lack of outerwear. Trent just smiled his lopsided, lazy smile but didn’t scold either of them. Mace wasn’t sure if he’d get an earful in private about not following standard procedures with a theft, but he could tell from Trent’s easy touching, the hand on his shoulder and the fingers carding through his hair, that serious trouble wasn’t brewing.

They drove the short distance back to the house in comfortable silence. Cotton frequently glanced at the dashboard clock as if he hoped to speed up time to his partner’s arrival. Mace knew that if he were in Cotton’s situation he wold be longing for his partner, but also dreading the impending showdown. As they drew into the driveway, an unknown silver car with an elaborate grill was parked, nearly blocking the entrance to the drive.

“Wow a Rolls!” Cotton said. “Who drives those fancy wheels?”

Neither Mace nor Trent were interested in cars; Mace could give detailed specs on pickup trucks and argue their various merits for pulling horse trailers, but cars were cars.  A small, slight man opened the door and moved toward their vehicle. Even from the rear windows, Mace could tell he was wearing an expensive, charcoal gray suit and that he was angry. He strode toward the car, the rain splattering on his wavy, blond hair. He knocked on the window before Trent had a chance to put the vehicle in park. 

“Where’s Luke?” The man demanded, pushing his way into the vehicle as Trent opened the door.

“Who are you?” Trent asked as he exited the vehicle.

“George Griffith, Luke’s father. And who are you?” George Griffith was staring at Trent with disdain, as if he was no more than the hired help. In his world of five hundred dollar shoes and multi thousand dollar suits, Trent’s faded jeans and sweater worn threadbare at the elbows probably classed him with temporary gardeners and illegal immigrants hovering at the edge of society.

“I’m Trent Long. I live here.”

Mace climbed out of the car and stood next to his partner. From Trent’s posture and the hard set to his jaw, Mace knew he was reining in his temper. Cotton stood behind both men, trying to stay out of the line of fire. Nervous anxiety from the escalation of tension radiated on his face.

“Jesus,” Griffith swore. "What is this, some kind of gay commune?”

“Mr. Griffith, swearing will not be necessary,” Trent said in his most patient voice. A voice that Mace new meant his partner was hanging on to his temper by the barest thread. In the old days, he’d gone and re-stacked hay, chopped firewood, or vanished into the wilderness to research a new article for one of the many outdoor magazines for which he freelanced. Trent jammed his hands in his pockets, took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Mace and I rent the third floor apartment. The third young man is Mace’s friend."

Mace could see his housemates winding their way down the path from the college. They had their jacket collars turned up against the rain and were crowded under two large golf umbrellas. Mace hoped Luke would spot the vehicle and warn the others of the impending belligerence. Unfortunately the vehicle was parked at an angle that would make it hard to spot until they turned into the driveway.

Luke was the first to notice his father and instinctively stepped closer to his partner Tilden.

Griffith turned around to face his son. “Get in the car. We’re going.”

“No,” Luke said quietly. “I live here.” 

Tilden tightened his arm around Luke’s shoulder. “Mr. Griffith, Luke lives with me. He only leaves if he wants to, and I believe he has told you no.” Tilden Blake was tall and lean. Shielded under the giant golf umbrella with a briefcase in his hand, he hardly looked a figure who would pick a fight, but Mace could tell by the set of Tilden’s jaw that he would fight before he’d let Luke go. 

“Luke, get in the car. I’m taking you home. You’ve already disgraced the family enough. There’s no need to make a scene. And you.” Griffith wheeled to face Tilden, waggling his finger at Tilden and turning a brilliant shade of red. “You're like all academics. You talk a big game, but can’t function outside your perfect ivory tower world. You’re a professor, and your partner, your brat is flunking. I don’t know how you have the nerve to call yourself a top.”

“Mr. Griffith, you're making quite a spectacle for the neighbors. May I suggest we take this conversation inside,” Tilden said in a steady voice.

“No,” Griffith shouted with such force that spittle flew onto Tilden’s shirt and shoes. George Griffith physically looked similar to Luke: small boned, with blond hair, and wide blue eyes, but the resemblance stopped at the physical side. Mace had seen Luke upset, and he’d never turned into a rabid maniac. “Get in the car, boy. I won’t tell you again. It’s more than time that you learn to obey me.”

“No,” Luke repeated more forcefully. 

Milton and Trent were moving to try to add their protection and authority to Tilden’s. George Griffith made a grab for his son. Tilden, his hands full of distraught partner and umbrella, was defenseless as he tried to push Luke behind him. Griffith swung a wild punch, connecting with a crunch against Tilden’s nose. Tilden staggered back and threw his hands up to protect his face. Blood was dripping down his chin and rapidly coloring his shirt collar a dark red. Griffith grabbed at his son, who jerked from his grasp, spitting like an angry tiger. Somehow in the melee Luke had grabbed the fallen umbrella and was now swinging it like a broadsword at his father.

“Keep your fucking hands off me. You can go back to your banks and fucking boardrooms. I’ll take my academic any day.” Luke’s words were becoming increasingly angry as he charged at his father, years of frustration pouring out. “I did it your way for twenty years, and it got me fucking nowhere. Tilden and the guys here have taught me more about myself in thirty days than I ever learned from you. I’m not you. I don’t give a flying fuck about your money, prestige, or power. I’d rather live in a cardboard box than in a house with you.” Luke spat the final you as if it were the worst curse word in the English language.

“You ungrateful wretch! I’ve paid for your schooling, your clothes, your mistakes, and this is how you treat me. You wouldn’t have graduated from high school if I hadn’t been your father. No more! I won’t have our good name abused any longer. You’re no son of mine!” Griffith shouted, still trying to grab Luke.

Tilden, despite dripping blood, finally managed to capture Luke; Trent and Milton bodily pushed George Griffith into his car. Milton had one hand on Griffith’s shoulder the other on the fine leather interior of the door.

“You raised that boy for twenty years, and in five minutes you destroyed whatever relationship you ever had. He is no longer your son, but Tilden and Mike’s partner and my friend; we will protect him. Now get off our property before I call the police.”

“Tell him to expect a call from my lawyer,” Griffith said as he plucked Milton’s hand from his shoulder and tried to recovery his dignity. “He has made his choice and is no longer my son, no longer heir to the family fortune. I hope you are prepared to pick up his expenses,” Griffith sneered. “He will never get another penny from me; I don’t throw good money after bad.”

 Milton slammed the door and stepped away. He watched as the car sped down the drive and turned toward the main road.  

Luke was folded into Tilden’s arms, his face buried in his partner’s chest; Tilden’s chin rested on his blond hair. Blood still dripped from Tilden’s nose and now landed in soft splats on Luke’s hair. Mike hovered next to his two partners when Tilden caught his hand and pulled him against Luke. They stood a huddle of bodies, Luke no longer visible behind the two taller men. Trent moved back to where Mace and Cotton were still standing next to the car with its doors flung open. He reached in, turned off the engine, and pulled out the keys.

“Come on guys; let’s go in before we get any wetter. Milton’s got them.” 

Mace could see Milton’s hand resting on his friend’s back as he began the slow process of shepherding the clump of men toward the house. They were walking as one mass, a tangle of legs in khakis and faded blue jeans, Milton’s big frame erect and wary, a half step behind.

“Inside guys; they need some privacy,” Trent prodded, his tone still light, but he leaned his hip into his partner as if moving an errant horse back from a stall door.

“OK. I get it.” Mace grabbed Cotton’s hand and pulled him toward the house. “And you thought a few loose birds were a problem. We have barroom brawls in the driveway."

“Mace, stop scaring our guest,” Trent said, stepping close enough that a swat was a distinct possibility. “I’ve never seen a fistfight in the driveway, and I don’t think that man will be back.” Trent bulldozed them into the kitchen and set them to work preparing dinner. “We’ll make pizza. I’m sure that will satisfy everyone.” Unspoken was that it might be the only thing that a distraught Luke would consider eating and the grating of cheese and chopping of toppings would keep unskilled young men busy and distracted in the kitchen. 

   

*****

Milton sorted clothes onto an armchair, keeping an eye on the tangle of bodies clutching each other on the bed. Tilden had grabbed a handkerchief, and the bleeding had slowed to a slow drip, but Luke was openly sobbing, and Mike was hardly in better condition, sniffling and swallowing tears. Three men thrown together by an idiotic television show and now enmeshed in a tangle of family history that might take a lifetime to solve. “Boys,” Milton said, drawing Mike back with a hand on his shoulder and tugging Luke by his wrist. “Why don’t you go upstairs and take a shower. It’s big enough for both of you together, and I’ll give Tilden a hand and get some ice on those bruises." Mike took the clothes Milton offered and headed reluctantly toward the stairs, but Luke clung to Tilden.

“Milton, Luke can help me clean up. Will you take care of Mike,” Tilden said in a soft voice.”

Milton looked at Tilden and Luke and nodded. He’d hoped to get the boys distracted and away from their injured partner for a minute, but Luke seemed braced to resist and Mike was starting to dig in. “Come on, Mike. Let’s get you upstairs.”

“I’m not a child. I can take myself upstairs. I don’t want to go.”

Milton gritted his teeth at the final whine, but kept his voice light. “Humor me, I’m a bossy top, and I want you upstairs.”

“Leave me alone.”

Milton swung Mike around and landed a swat on his hip, not hard, but he hoped it would encourage a more compliant attitude. Milton whispered in Mike’s ear, “Neither of your partners need to see you have a major battle with me right now; but if you push it, I will spank you and carry you upstairs. Your taller than Sheldon but not much heavier. It would be awkward, but I could manage. Please, Mike.”

Mike nodded, shaking his wet brown hair into his eyes, and let Milton bundle him upstairs and into the bathroom. “OK, you bullied me up here. Now get out. If you think I need washed, you got another think coming.”

Milton sat down on the toilet, pulled Mike between his knees, and wrapped his arms around the struggling young man. “Settle. I’m not letting you go until you settle down.”

“Fine,” Mike spat. You’re stronger. I’ll stand here.” He was quivering with anger.

“Mike, I’m not the enemy here, and I’m giving you a lot of allowance for what happened today, but this behavior will stop. I won’t warn you again.”

Mike stood between Milton’s knees, his chest heaving. “I’m still. Can I take my shower now?”

“You may.” Milton released him but continued talking. “Mike, your parents have consistently left you behind while they roam the globe. Did what Luke lost today remind you of what you never had?”

“Stick with history. You’re a lot better at that than psychology.”

“Fair enough. I never knew my mom or dad,” Milton said softly. “Luke’s dad may be incomprehensibly incompetent in that role, but he had one in his life perhaps for worse rather than for better. I think you can help him adjust. Come talk to me when you're ready.” Milton got up and shut the bathroom door behind him. He leaned against the wall and let out a sigh. Two young, volatile submissives in the middle of a brawl, an injured top, Trent with somebody in tow that he’d never seen before but had looked on the verge of throwing up, Sheldon due home shortly—tinder to the fire. He squared his shoulders and set his jaw, unconsciously mimicking the posture of his grandfather when he was at his most resolute.    

The kitchen smelled of frying onions and peppers. Trent was flipping a pizza crust in the air, expertly catching it while Mace stirred something in the frying pan. A slight boy with silver blond hair stood at the counter haphazardly chopping mushrooms and watching Trent. “Hi, I’m Milton Brown,” Milton said, reaching out to shake the boy’s hand.

“Cotton,” the boy whispered, looking at the offered hand as if it might be a poisonous snake.

“I seem to have forgotten my manners,” Trent said. “That’s Alfred Conrad Harrison, better known as Cotton; Mace invited him over to wait for his partner." Trent gave Cotton a rather pointed look, and he managed a feeble hi and shook Milton’s offered hand. “His partner lives in Providence, so depending on the traffic he should be here in about twenty minutes if he left immediately after I spoke to him on the phone.”

Milton raised an eyebrow in surprise, but remained silent when he saw Trent shake his head once.

“Mace, Cotton, why don’t you get these two pizzas topped. Don’t get too crazy with the toppings, only Tilden can stand the herring, and it makes the kitchen stink,” Trent said with an easy grin. “I’m going to help Milton get some tea and ice for Tilden.”

“Well, what’s the scoop with Cotton?” Milton said as soon as they entered the hall with the tea. “I assume he’s a submissive.”

“That’s only half of it,” Trent said with a languid grin. “He got in a panic about some birds this morning and fled from home with no wallet or jacket. Mace took him under his wing when he tried to eat and run at the store. Oh, and it gets better from here. He and his partner are on that blasted TV show also. Cotton’s never been physically disciplined, and his partner promised him a spanking.”

Milton groaned and ran his fingers through his hair. “What is this? Did we sign up to live in a soap opera that I don’t know about? Let’s see we’ve got one boy whose father went into an incoherent rage and clobbered his partner. A second partner who is justifiably unglued because he’s caught in the middle. And then just to add interest we have Mace picking up stray little subs who have major issues with their partners. Have I missed anything? Have Sheldon and Mace gotten in a fight that I don’t know about, suffered sudden amnesia, or have secret lovers in Chile?”

“No, I think that about sums it up,” Trent said with a chuckle. At least you can keep your sense of humor about it.”

“Maybe, but if those TV people show up—I won’t promise anything.”

“Mace and I will deal with them if anything happens. I wonder if we could rope and hogtie them,” Trent said with a grin. “I’ll grab Sheldon when he comes in; you deal with Tilden and his partners. Deal?”

“Deal, but I think I got the short end of the stick.”

Trent shrugged. “You’re more experienced.”       

“Make me feel old again,” Milton said with a smile as he headed to the bedroom.

Tilden had managed to coerce Luke into the shower, and all three were sitting in the bed, hair still dripping. Tilden rubbed the towel through Luke’s blond curls, one arm draped casually over his partner’s shoulders. Mike plucked at the hem of his damp T-shirt, sitting close to both partners but not touching.

Milton set the tea down on the nightstand and passed the ice pack to Tilden. “Put that on your nose for at least fifteen minutes,” Milton said in his most toppy tone.

“Bossy, isn’t he,” Tilden said with a smile directed at Mike.

“Brats,” Milton growled, “and that includes you, my friend.” Milton gave Tilden a light swat on his thigh. “Getting in a fistfight in the driveway.”

“Bossy top,” Tilden said with a grin.

“You haven’t seen anything yet” Milton replied. “Mike, you need to change your shirt; it’s soaked. Using a towel before dressing is always helpful.”

Mike started to make a face, but Milton was too quick, hoisting him off the bed and handing him a dry shirt. 

“Try to help me here,” Milton whispered into Mike’s ear as he peeled the wet shirt off Tilden’s lanky partner. “Boys, Trent and Mace are making pizza. I’d recommend you go help them unless you like scary things on your pizza like garbanzo beans, smoked fish, tempeh, canned peas, and bean sprouts,” Milton said loudly and with forced cheer.

Mike gave Milton a sour look. “Why don’t you just say you want to talk to Tilden alone, and we aren’t invited. Before you get all dominant and swat me, I’m going. Come on Luke. We’ve been uninvited.” Mike grabbed Luke’s wrist and towed him out of the room, muttering under his breath the entire time.

Milton waited for the door to slam before he spoke to Tilden. “That boy is going to to end up over my lap if he’s not careful.”

“He’s very insecure with Luke hanging on to me like a limpet.”

“I know. That’s why I’m trying to work with him. But you know as well as I do he needs hard boundaries.”

“You know I trust you,” Tilden said. "Do what you think is best."

Milton nodded. “How’s your nose feel?”

“Sore, but I don’t think it’s broken.”

“You’re going to have a nice shiner also.”

“Poor Luke, he really didn’t need this today. Between the television show, his academic difficulties, and our volatile third partner, he’s been put through the wringer.”

“Threesomes are always difficult. Threesomes assembled at the drop of the hat with almost no knowledge of potential hazardous past baggage are beyond arduous. But all things considered they seem to be holding up.” Milton said. 

“I hope I hold up. Those boys deserve a top who can do them justice.”

“Don’t you start on the self-doubting road. We already have chaos. Now keep the ice on. I’ll go rescue Trent from the five boys he’s managing.”

“There’s only four with Sheldon.”

You probably didn’t notice in all the ruckus that Mace brought home a stray.”

“What?”

“Yes, exactly. It gets better. The boy is on the same TV show. His partner Brad Roberts should be here shortly.”

“The vet?” Tilden asked.

“I don’t know. Trent knows the details.”

“If it’s who I think it is, he seemed like a sensible guy. He’d never been in this kind of relationship before.”

“That would make sense with the information I have,” Milton said thoughtfully. “Keep the ice on for ten minutes. I’m going back out into the fray. Wish me luck.”

Tilden smiled and waved his hand in a shooing motion at his fellow top.

The kitchen was remarkably calm with five brats roaming around. Sheldon must have arrived only minutes ago as he was still in his work clothes, his tie loosened and askew. Trent had corralled Luke and Mike into preparing the salad. Luke was chopping carrots with shaking hands, occasionally blinking back tears, while Mike was tossing vegetables from the refrigerator to the counter. Trent was valiantly ignoring Mike’s bad humor, striding back and forth between his sous-chefs giving orders.

“Mike, come help me put the sheets on in the turret bedroom. Cotton and his partner might not want to drive back to Providence tonight.” Milton said.

“You just want to get me alone, so you can knock the stuffing out of me,” Mike shot back, slamming the head of lettuce down on the counter and sending two tomatoes rolling onto the floor.

In one long stride, Milton snagged Mike and landed two hard swats on his rump. “Excuse us, gentlemen. I need to speak to this young man in private.” Milton hustled Mike up the stairs and down the long hallway to the circular guest room located in the turret. This room was hardly ever used as guests had to go through the second floor’s study, a corridor that doubled as a micro kitchen, and a half bath to reach it. Milton shut each set of doors as he pulled Mike to his destination.

“All right, young man, do you think you can stand in the corner and pull yourself together, or do I need to spank you?”

“You’re not my top,” Mike spat. 

“No, I’m not, but I live here. I think that gives me some rights and responsibilities.”

“Rights, responsibilities—” Mike didn’t get any further because Milton landed two hard swats, taking Mike’s breath away.

“I’m going to give you a choice here. You can lean over the bed or come over my lap.” Milton had wrapped his arms around Mike, pulling him tight to his chest. “You’re safe with us no matter what happens.” Milton stood quiet, his arms tight around Tilden’s young partner. “So, what will it be?” he finally asked.

“Neither’s not an option,” Mike said with an attempt at a cheeky grin.

“What do you think?”

“Over your lap,” Mike said almost inaudibly.

Milton sat down on the bed and pulled Mike over his knee. He settled Mike as carefully as possible, trying to give the boy the security Milton knew he needed. “What’s this spanking for?”

“For being as difficult as possible.”

“That about sums it up, but can you give me more specifics?”

“Disobedience, talking back,” Mike faltered. “Making everyone’s life miserable."

“Your making your own life miserable.” Milton bared Mike’s butt and landed ten swats, five on each side exactly over the top of each other. Not a long spanking, but enough to get Mike crying and clutching hard at Milton when he turned Mike upright and hopefully enough to shift Mike’s mood. This sort of spanking was tricky with his own partner; with Tilden’s partner is was a dance in a minefield. It wasn’t about sex or even entirely role play, but some nebulous ground which involved helping a submissive stay calm and focussed. Milton didn’t say anything; he just held Mike against him and tried to project the strange combination of caring and dominance that he hoped would settle Mike. 

Mike rubbed his eyes with his hands and choked back the final few sobs. “I’m sorry.”

“Everything is forgiven. But remember if Tilden, Trent and I have to put you over our laps every day to convince you that you’re safe with us, and that you won’t be passed to the next person as soon as you become inconvenient like yesterday’s trash, we will.”

Mike gulped hard at that thought and brushed his hand over his sore butt. “That won’t be necessary.”

“I hope not,” Milton said with a chuckle. Go wash your face. Cotton already thinks he landed in an insane asylum. We don’t need to scare him more.”

Mike slid off Milton’s knee and took a small step toward the bathroom. Milton could see the boy’s hesitancy. He wrapped his arm around Mike’s shoulders, guided him into the tiny half bath, and wiped Mike’s face with a wet washcloth.

“Better?”

Mike nodded but kept his hand firmly in Milton’s. They made the bed. Milton smoothed the patchwork quilt and fluffed the pillows before guiding Mike out of the bedroom.

The door chimes rang just as they were reaching the head of the stairs. Milton called down, “I’ll get it,” as he trotted down the stairs, his arm still around Mike’s shoulders. Milton opened the door to a man of average height still dressed in a white lab coat with a stethoscope around his neck and a couple of used syringes poking from his pocket. “You must be Dr. Roberts,” Milton said, shaking his hand.

“Call me Brad. I’m only Dr. Roberts at the office. Are you Trent?” 

“No, I’m Milton, and this is Mike. Trent and Mace are in the kitchen with Cotton. I think they’re putting the final touches on dinner. I assume you’ll be staying.”

“I don’t want to impose,” Brad said, fiddling with the ends of his lab coat.

“Nonsense. You haven’t met Mace or Trent. They’d be insulted if you didn’t stay. I know your partner would be upset since he got roped into helping, and I expect your hungry. It looks like you ran straight out of the office.”

“You’re right,” Brad said with a look of chagrin. “I’ve been a little distracted today.”

“That’s understandable,” Milton said smoothly, “but Cotton’s going to expect and need you to be in control. Give me your vet stuff, and I’ll put it in the closet. Then at least it won’t look like you ran out the door without any forethought.” Milton watched Brad stare at him; Milton could see the vet assessing the rapid flow of orders and deciding they had merit. Without a word, Brad handed Milton his white coat, stethoscope, and syringes.

“He’s always this bossy,” Mike said, catching Brad’s eye. “It’s worse if you live here.”

“Don’t tell tales,” Milton said with a laugh. “Go get Cotton; I’m sure he’s impatient to see his partner.”