Lost and Found 7

Chapter 7

Mike padded across the kitchen in his bare feet, his short brown hair disheveled from sleep. He was dressed only in pajama bottoms and one of Tilden’s Russian club T-shirts. Trent and Mace were as usual cooking, and the kitchen smelled of oranges and cranberries. Mace was peering into the oven, his worn jeans resting low on his hips accentuating his narrow bowlegged frame. Trent was behind him, scrutinizing whatever was making that wonderful aroma from the oven.

“Morning,” Mike said, reaching in the refrigerator for a glass of juice.

“Morning,” Trent replied, giving Mike’s outfit a long look. “If you’re going to stay out here, get a robe and some slippers, just looking at you is making me cold.”

“I’m fine.” Mike pulled out a kitchen chair and sat down, tucking his feet underneath the chair.

“Go on; get some clothes on. I’m not going to have Tilden breathing down my neck because I let you catch cold.”

Mike looked up at Trent, who had stepped closer and was starting to loom over him like a top who wanted his way. It was Milton who could truly do the looming with his broad frame and dark piercing eyes. Trent wasn’t scary in faded jeans, a flannel shirt with its sleeves rolled up and yesterday’s stubble still on his chin. 

“You get a cold from germs, not bare feet. I’m not cold,” Mike said.

“Humor me, kiddo, because you’re making me cold.”

“I’m fine.” Mike took a sip of orange juice.

“Do you want to fight me over this, make me get all toppy?” Trent asked, definitely now in a top’s looming posture, standing with one hand on the table, staring hard at Mike. Trent’s tone had softened even as his stare had hardened. Mace must have recognized something in the shift because he’d suddenly become busy in the pantry.

“I’m not cold,” Mike repeated. He could hear the petulance in his own voice, but he couldn’t seem to stop himself.

Trent reached down and picked up the glass of juice, moving it to the counter behind him. “Look, kiddo, are you sure you want to go here? You can still get up, go to your bedroom, put a robe on, and I’ll pretend this conversation never took place.” Trent’s voice dropped even softer to a level where Mike had to strain to hear it. “I know you goaded Milton into spanking you. I’d rather not play surrogate top to someone else’s boy, but if you need to blow off steam and don’t want to do it with Tilden because his folks are here, I can oblige.”

“I wouldn’t push it, cowboy,” Mace said as he reappeared from the pantry loaded down with nuts and dried fruits. “I would’ve already been over his knee.”

“So what do you say?” Trent said, reaching over and ruffling Mike’s short hair. “Do we end this here, or do I have to do something more drastic?”

“All right. I’ll put on some more clothes,” Mike said with less than good grace. He’d been playing a game of chicken, and he’d blinked first. 

“Thank you.” Trent bent over and kissed Mike on the forehead.

Mike stomped out of the kitchen, not sure whether he was pleased that Trent hadn’t swatted him or if he would have preferred a quick trip over Trent’s knee. What was he playing at? He didn’t like to get spanked, and Trent was the easiest going of the bunch, or at least the top who didn’t interfere with his housemates. Mike wasn’t sure how easygoing Trent was with Mace since Mace always seemed to mind his manners. Maybe he held Mace under a spell or a secret reign of terror.

In the bedroom, Tilden and Luke were still entwined in each other, Luke’s head resting on Tilden’s chest, Luke’s arm around Tilden as if he were a teddy bear. Tilden had shifted closer to Luke after Mike had left the bed, and he didn’t have to share his affections between two partners. They’d kicked the top quilt onto the floor. Mike picked it up and spread it over his two partners, smiling to himself at his own domesticity. Tilden stirred but didn’t awake. Mike opened the top drawer, pulled on one of Tilden’s sweatshirts, and shoved his feet into a pair of sneakers without tying the laces. It wasn’t Trent’s prescribed robe and slippers, but he could no longer fuss that Mike was cold.

As Mike returned to the kitchen, Trent was shutting the kitchen door. Joshua Martin, Jeremiah Tyler, and Steve Meyer stood in the kitchen. Mr. Martin was pushing Steve in front of him, one arm wrapped around the young man’s shoulders. “Hi, Mr. Martin, Dean Tyler, Steve.”

“If we’re going to barge in your house and beg breakfast for a stray at eight o’clock on Sunday morning, I think you can start calling us by our first names,” Martin said before turning toward Trent and Mace. “It’s good to see you two again. I need to stop by your bookshop more often, but I’ve been spending too much time in Boston. Jeremiah says you’ve not been getting into trouble, or else all the tops here are better at keeping secrets from me than they used to be.” Martin gave Mace a hard look, before he broke into a small smile.

“I’m no trouble at all, just a sweet cowboy messing with musty books and burnt pies.” Mace grinned.

“Boy,” Joshua shot back. “I remember you in your younger days.”

“Don’t remind me,” Mace said with a rueful grin.

Mike watched the two men. From the easy banter, it was clear they were more than casual acquaintances. Steve looked at Mike, perplexed, trying to decipher the relationship between all these men. Mike shrugged and mouthed, “I don’t know.”

“Trent, can you guys keep an eye on Steve for a while this morning? My brother and his wife are in Boston for a convention. I promised to meet them for breakfast,” Joshua said.

“They still have trouble with Josh and my relationship. We have to keep the dominant and submissive part under deep cover. If we showed up with Steve in tow, well, I don’t want to think of an explanation for that,” Jeremiah said with his usual wide grin.

“Plus Jer, Wayne, and Liza will spend the entire time talking about physics. I think Steve has as much interest in quarks as I do, but Wayne’s my brother. I have to pretend I’m interested.”

“I’m more than capable of having breakfast on my own in the cafeteria,” Steve protested.

Mike thought Steve would have fled if Martin hadn’t had a firm grim on his arm.

“We had this discussion already this morning. Do I need to repeat it?” Joshua said in the same tone that had frozen Mike when he’d found himself trapped in that glacial glare. Steve looked uncomfortable as if he couldn’t decide if he wanted to flee the state or collapse into Joshua’s arms. Trent made the decision for Steve, grabbing the young man’s wrist and pulling him so he was tucked under his arm.

“No matter what nasty rumors Luke and Mike are spreading around campus, we don’t bite, kiddo. As you’re the guest here, do you want something special for breakfast?”

Steve looked at Trent before dropping his head and letting his long bangs hide his eyes. “I’m not hungry.”

Trent made a noise with his tongue, something between a clucking sound used with a horse and a sharp tsk.

“Don’t even think about skipping meals,” Mace said in his easy drawl, which Mike was beginning to recognize became more pronounced when Mace was trying to soothe someone. He wondered if it was the same voice he’d used with the bronco before the gate swung open. Mace didn’t talk much about his rodeo days, but he always wore that big silver belt buckle, and there were a few pictures hanging in their apartment.

“We’ve got him,” Trent reassured Joshua. “We might not have the decades of experience you have with strays, but I think we can manage. Go enjoy your brother and his quarks and particle colliders.”

“Thank you,” Joshua said dryly before bending over and kissing Steve firmly on the forehead, which made Steve flush the color of a red tomato. “Be good, kid. Talk to the other guys here. They can answer a lot of your questions. It’s not as frightening as you imagine.” Joshua smiled, and Mike was struck by how soft and warm his expression was. He’d thought of Joshua as a strict, somewhat frightening older uncle, but here he looked more like a kindly grandfather.

Jeremiah, who had snuck a piece of the freshly baked cranberry bread, stepped forward from where he’d been lounging against the counter to kiss Steve on the cheek, making Steve blush even more and leaving crumbs on the young man’s face. “I expect a good report. You don’t want to embarrass the Martin-Tyler household. It’s not like I’ve ever done anything foolish.”

 “Come,” Joshua said, pulling Jeremiah from the kitchen. “They have a lot of mouths to feed, and you’re eating their breakfast.”

“He’s no fun.” Jeremiah gave Mike a wink as he grabbed a second slice of the sweet bread on the way out. Steve stood frozen in the middle of the kitchen, still blushing and staring at the floor.

“Hey, kiddo,” Trent said, pulling Steve down on his lap. “Deep, slow breaths. We’ve got you.”

Mike hadn’t realized he was staring until Mace bumped him with an elbow. “Go wake Tilden and get Milton; he’s usually in his study on Sunday morning so he can let Sheldon sleep. Trent’s going to need some reinforcements. Wayward boys aren’t his specialty, and Steve looks on edge. I’ll stay here and make reassuring noises at the stove. Oh, and tie your shoes before you break your neck.”

“Sorry,” Mike said, giving Mace an embarrassed grin before reaching down and tying his laces. Mike had been bratting with Trent this morning, but now that seemed unimportant. Steve hadn’t been a close friend, more of a companionable dorm mate to party with and sometimes a pain in the ass, but he was hurting. Trent had buried Steve’s face in his shirt, and he was whispering in Steve’s ear. Mike remembered his first morning in this house after that disastrous frat party, Milton’s hand on Mike’s shoulder and the quiet looks of support from everyone else. Tilden had even come after Mike before he was his top. Mike’s parents had always acted as if he were a burden and passed him hurriedly to the next person like an unwanted token in a game. Here these men went out of their way to care, to help, to be open, Mike realized as he ran up the stairs to get Milton. They were teaching him the same philosophy.

Mike tapped on Milton’s study door before pushing it open a crack. “Trent needs you downstairs.” 

Milton didn’t say anything; he pushed his papers aside and headed toward the door before Mike had finished the sentence. He squeezed Mike’s shoulder as he passed, his eyebrows raised. 

“It’s Steve.”

“It’ll be OK. We’ve done this before. Trust us.” A final pat on the shoulder, and Milton was already halfway down the stairs.

He did trust Milton, Mike thought, surprised. This whole family with their strange, intermeshed life had wormed its way into his subconscious. But he was a part of the immediate family; he belonged to Tilden. What would it feel like to be an unattached submissive? He shivered, thinking of sitting in the kitchen, all three tops studying him as Tilden had laid out his choices. 

Tilden was awake but still in bed when Mike walked back into the bedroom. “Trent wants you in the kitchen.”

“You looked flushed. Is everything OK?” Like Milton, Tilden had thrown off the bed covers and stood up immediately when Mike had announced that Trent wanted Tilden. He hadn’t questioned or argued.

“It’s Steve. I was just thinking...”

“That he could be you,” Tilden said, finishing Mike’s sentence. “You’re mine, and don’t you forget it.” Tilden kissed Mike hard, his tongue probing against Mike’s teeth, his hand tight around Mike’s neck. The kiss demanded Mike’s attention and Mike’s surrender. Tilden pulled back and landed a light swat on Mike’s hip. “I didn’t think you liked wearing my clothes.”

“I was giving Trent a hard time.”

“Did he take care of it?”

Mike nodded, feeling his cheeks redden. He didn’t have Luke’s fair coloring, but Tilden could make him blush.

Tilden threw on a sweatshirt and pulled a pair of jeans over his pajamas before walking into the kitchen, his hand resting on Mike’s back. Trent still had Steve on his lap, but Steve was now facing the table and picking at a piece of cranberry bread. Milton was sitting at the table, sipping coffee and looking calm.

“Styopa,” Tilden said, “dobroe utro.”

“I’m not taking Russian anymore.”

“You don’t even remember the stuff from the first day. Dobroe utro,” Tilden repeated.

“Just tell him good morning,” Mike said. “He’s obstinate about Russian.”

“Dobroe utro,” Steve mumbled, mangling the stress on the second word.

Tilden winced at the pronunciation, but smiled. 

“Mace, will you set some cold breakfast foods out in the dining room, and we’ll finish the rest. I think three tops should be able to manage a few eggs and bacon.” Milton smiled, but it was obvious that he was clearing the room of the boys.

“Come on, guys. The tops want some private time. Let’s go in the living room before the rest of the crowd wakes up.” Mace reached down and caught Steve’s hand, pulling him up. “I’m not scary. Wait till you meet Sheldon.”

“Who’s Sheldon?” Steve asked, following reluctantly behind only because Mace had a firm grip on Steve’s wrist.

“Milton’s brat,” Mike said.

“And he’s a king size brat. He can get in more trouble than all the rest of us put together. Oh, and by the way I’m Mace, Trent’s partner. I don’t think we were formally introduced.”

“I’m bad with names” Steve’s said, allowing Mace to push him down on the living room couch.

“You already know Luke, Mike and Tilden—Professor Blake. That leaves only Milton, Sheldon, Trent, and me. Sheldon has flaming red hair and will answer to hey boy or hey brat, so that only leaves three of us.”

Steve nodded, still looking shell-shocked. “What happens to me now?”

“You hang with us and have some breakfast,” Mike said.

“I’ll grab us some of the cranberry bread and some juice,” Mace said, already moving toward the door. “Joshua and Milton have done this before, and I have a pretty good idea what’s up their sleeve.”

“With students?” 

Mike heard the quiver in Steve’s voice. Mike hadn’t been great friends with Steve, but he was a fellow submissive, and it was clear the kid was scared. “Hang in there. They can be creative. Milton sicced Joshua on me when I came unglued. He scared me. I still have trouble thinking of him as anything but Mr. Martin. He was very in control.” Mike saw the frightened look on Steve’s face. “Not in a bad way, more reassuring.”

“Did he..?”

“Do you mean did he spank me? No, but I don’t think he’d hesitate to if I needed it and Tilden or Milton wasn’t around.”

“What happened?”

Mike squirmed. This wasn’t a topic he liked to discuss; in fact he’d prefer to pretend it had never happened, but it was distracting Steve. “You can’t tell anyone that’s not like us.”

“I won’t.” Steve gave Mike a shy grin and then looked down at his lap. “Look, I’m sorry. I know I’ve been a shit to you since you moved in with Tilden.”

“You’ve gone along with the crowd. I’ve done it before.” Mike shrugged. “It’s easy to do, but you’re one of us now.” 

Steve looked up sharply, a sparkle in his blue eyes and a flash of a smile that quickly vanished. “You really mean that?”

“He does,” Mace said from the doorway. “And all the tops here take a responsibility for all of us, not just their own, seriously. I know Josh does.”

Mike looked at Mace. “You too?”

“Yep, I had a bit of an encounter with Milton and Mr. Martin before I settled things with Trent. And it was definitely Mr. Martin then,” Mace said with a laugh. “He put me over his desk and used a paddle on me.”

“Shit, and I spent the night in his house. I don’t want to be spanked.” Steve got up from the sofa and started to pace back in forth in front of the fireplace.

“Steady, cowboy. You’re a boy; you’re going to get spanked.”

“I don’t want to. I don’t want to do this. It’s not fair. Why can’t I be normal?” Steve’s voice rose to a high whine.

“Easy, cowboy. Unless you want a top in here.” Mace had moved to intercept Steve’s pacing. “I consider being Trent’s boy normal. It’s not like I have three eyes or something. Hell, most of the submissives I know are a lot more normal than the guys and gals I rodeoed with. Those folks were crazy.”

“Did you ride bulls?” Steve asked.

Mike was surprised when Mace gave and easy smile and thickened his western drawl. When Mike and Luke had asked Mace about his past they’d been brushed off in a friendly way. “I’m not crazy. I only rode bucking horses.  Sit down, and I’ll tell you about it.”

****

Mace grabbed the coffee off the counter along with two of today’s specials and headed toward the table with that big guy who always had his head in a book. Mace thought he was a professor, even though he looked more like a lumberjack. He’d been in a couple of times, but this was the first time Mace had seen him with a companion. Today a tall silver-haired man sat next to him and across from him a third chair sat empty as if they expected someone else. Mace hobbled toward them; his ankle was killing him. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see another couple waving a coffee cup at him. An older woman still wearing her pink raincoat called out to him.

“Young man, I ordered the chicken salad. This is ham salad.”

“Give me a minute,” Mace growled. “My hands are kind of full.” He tossed the food on the table, spilling bean soup down the big man’s shirt front and spattering his tie. “Damn. Could it get any worse today!” Mace said in exasperation before he could stop himself. He threw the tray on the table and turned to flee.

The silver-haired guy with a practiced ease caught Mace’s wrist and pulled him down into the empty chair next to him. “It’s just a little soup. I don’t think it’s worth losing your job over. And if you run out of here, I bet your boss will fire you.”

“He’s not my boss,” Mace blurted out before he realized he’d said too much. He wasn’t sure what Trent was. They’d been on and off lovers for three years. Mace would show up at a rodeo, and Trent would be there writing an article for The Shooter or Western Horseman, or if he wasn’t writing he’d supplement his income as a short order cook. Somehow those jobs were always in towns with big rodeos. In down times, they’d gone hunting and fishing together, but it had never gone further than a casual relationship until Mace had been hurt. 

Mace could remember that day like it was yesterday. He’d drawn Devil’s Mark, a big roan gelding with a roman nose and small piggy eyes. He was everyone’s least favorite draw. He’d flipped over on another cowboy a few months ago, and he had a nasty habit of biting the pickup riders’ horses. Mace settled on the saddle and wrapped the rope around his hand. He was doing both bareback and saddle bronc riding today as his kitty was running dry. He’d had to break into his emergency money, stashed in a coffee can, to buy groceries yesterday. The gate swung  open, and the horse plunged out. Mace didn’t remember the rest of the ride until he found himself in the dirt, his foot turned in a way that nature had never designed.

It was only days later in the hospital that Mace realized the seriousness of his injuries when a doctor, a social worker, and a nurse all squeezed into the tiny room and pulled the curtain between patients. Trent was there also. Trent had been with him since the accident. Mace vaguely remembered Trent holding his hand and arguing with a team of people in surgical caps and masks while Mace lay on a gurney in a haze from pain medications. Mace still didn’t know what the argument had been about, but he had the impression that Trent had won.

“Son,” the doctor began. 

Mace braced himself. He hated being called son, especially in a soft patronizing way, but he’d heard it enough times from the misguided older generation trying to soften a blow to know that he was in a pile of shit.

“Son,” the doctor repeated, taking off his glasses and wiping an imaginary spot from them with the front of his scrubs. “Your ankle was a first class mess. Nothing was holding it together but a few pieces of skin. We’ve got it together—for now—but you won’t ride again, and you’ll walk with a cane. We considered amputation, and I still think it might have been a better choice, but your friend here was adamant.” The doctor pointed at Trent.

Mace stared at the doctor. Never ride again, always walk with a limp. What would he do? Riding was all he knew. 

Trent ran his fingers through Mace’s short, straight hair, teasing them through a small knot. “You’ll walk again, partner.”

Mace turned his head toward Trent. Had Trent meant partner as more than a cowboy term of endearment? They’d know each other for a long time, but it had never been more than fun. 

“Riding’s all I know. How will I make a living? It’s not like I have insurance.”

“It’s all right, son,” the doctor said. The social worker will talk to you about your options, help you with the forms. I have other patients to see.” The doctor sidled from the room as if glad to exit the scene of the tragedy now that he’d dropped the bad news.

Someone pulled a notebook from a bedside table and started blathering about social security disability payments, home health care, and other things that Mace was only half-hearing. In his mind he kept hearing, “You’ll never ride again.”

Trent’s voice broke Mace’s stupor. “Please, I don’t think he’s in any condition to make a decision today.”

“His medical condition no longer necessitates hospitalization. The choices won’t get easier,” the social worker said.

“I’ve already made arrangements,” Trent said, his voice firm and his gray eyes locking with the hospital staffs’. “He’s going back east with me. I inherited a small bookshop and restaurant outside of Boston that needs my attention. I’m sure we can find excellent medical care in Boston.”

“Oh, I didn’t realize he had a partner. It’s not on the forms.” The social worker flipped through the papers on the clipboard in her hand.”

“We never formalized it.”

Mace started to protest that they’d never even talked about it, but Trent gave him a long, steady look and squeezed his shoulder hard.

Mace had gone with Trent. It seemed like a better option than a lonely rehabilitation ward and short tempered nurses, but now as he looked at the man’s sodden shirt and bean soup running down the floor he wasn’t so sure. They were living in two tiny rooms above the store, constantly crashing into each other and being driven insane by minor things that had seemed inconsequential in their on again off again relationship. Trent read mysteries, horrible silly English mysteries with cats; Mace preferred the TV or movies. Mace missed the early rodeo dawns, the quiet whinny of the horses as the first cowboys stirred. He missed the incredible blue sky of the West. Winters in Massachusetts were full of gunmetal gray skies and freezing precipitation. He hated the  restaurant and bookshop, snooty professors looking down their nose at him when he hobbled over to the bookcase to get a book by an author whom he’d never heard of but which the professors, by their clear disdain, seemed to think was common knowledge. The students were no better. They’d leave pennies for tips as if emptying their piggy bank on the table, and they left the table and surrounding floor strewn with cups, napkins, and discarded papers. Financially Mace felt like a leech. He was a terrible server, as the spilled soup proved, and he couldn’t cook, even though Trent begged him to do the baking. Mace’s grandmother’s pies were famous throughout her hometown. Her cherry pie always won the blue ribbon at the state fair, and her apple pie was the hit of every school and church bake sale. Mace’s crusts never lived up to the perfect flakiness of his grandmother’s pies.

“Well, I guess it’s no use complaining to him about the terrible service, is it?” The silver-haired guy smiled at Mace. 

“The dry cleaners can perform wonders. I’m sure my shirt will recover from the bean soup bath. I’m not so sure about the tie,” the big guy said. “I’m Milton Brown, and over there still dry is Joshua Martin.”

“I’m sorry about the soup,” Mace mumbled. He could feel his cheeks growing red.

“Never mind about the soup. I came for the pie. Milton here has been raving about the pie.”

“We have apple, blueberry, and banana cream today.”

Mr. Martin must have noticed Mace’s shy mumble and the rising pink on his cheeks. “So, you make the pie?”

Mace nodded.

“Bring a piece of each.”

“But there are only two of you.”

“You’re the third,” the professor said.

“I’m supposed to be working.”

“Or your boss, who is not you boss, is going to be mad?” Mr. Martin asked with a raised eyebrow. “It looks like he’s got it under control, and the customers are probably happier with the food on their plates, not their laps. Now hop to it, boy. Three pieces of pie, and get rid of this debris.”

The last was said with a distinct ring of an order. It wasn’t shouted, and the two men didn’t look angry, but Mace felt that arguing wasn’t an option. He cleared the plates and wiped the table down. 

Trent grabbed Mace’s arm as he was cutting the last piece of pie. “Is everything OK at that table?”

“You mean besides spilling soup all over that professor guy.”

“Did you spill it or throw it at him?”

“Spilled it. What do you think I am? A toddler?”

“No, I think you’re someone who lost his livelihood and something you loved very much, and who is now angry at the world. I love you, Mace, but I don’t know how much more of this I can take. You’re angry at me all the time. Maybe this isn’t going to work.”

“Have you ever thought that maybe I wasn’t cut out to be a New England shopkeeper and restauranteur? I hate this.” Mace slapped the pie on the plate. “I’m a cowboy in a town where the most fucking exciting thing to do is looking at the foliage.”

“Keep your voice down,” Trent hissed.

Mace turned to see the closest patrons’ eyes on him, and the big professor from the table moving toward him.

“Oh, there’s my pie. I was beginning to wonder if you had to bake a new one.” Professor Brown deftly took the tray in one hand, and Mace’s wrist in the other. “I hope you don’t mind if I chat with your help a minute; he’s most interesting.”

“Go right ahead. I’m not getting much help out of him, anyway,” Trent said.

“Sit, brat,” the silver-haired guy growled as they approached the table.

Mace froze and looked around as if he expected someone to materialize from the woodwork.

“Yes, you’re a brat, and you know what it means, don’t you, boy? You know exactly what sort of submissive I’m talking about. I watched you walk all over your partner, and Milton’s been watching for the last month.”

“Are you spying on me?”

“I wouldn’t call it that,” Professor Brown said and took a bite of pie. “I’ve been watching the show you and your partner have been putting on. If you know what to look for, it’s obvious.”

“And what do you want with me?” Mace stabbed his pie with a fork.

“Nothing if you don’t want it, but I need another laborer for my construction crew,” Mr. Martin said in a level tone.

“If you haven’t noticed, I’m kind of gimpy.”

“That shouldn’t matter. You can still swing a hammer.”

“Trent needs my help.”

“Yes, he does,” Professor Brown said. “But right now you aren’t providing any. Don’t start protesting. I’ve been watching.”

“What business is it of yours?”

“In most circles it would be none.” Mr. Martin reached out and put his hand over Mace’s. “Stop stabbing the pie and concentrate on what I’m saying. I’m a top as is Milton. We come from a tradition of tops where we not only have a responsibility to our own boys but any boy in distress.”

“And you think I’m a boy and in distress?” Mace said sarcastically. “You’ve known me for five minutes—no, ten minutes now.

“Don’t you?” Mr. Martin asked mildly. The interactions I’ve seen you have with your partner don’t look fun, and as I already said Milton’s been watching for a while.”

“Stay out of my fucking life.” Mace shot out of the chair, but Mr. Martin still had a firm grip on his hand.

“Think about it. If you want the job, I’ll meet you out front Monday morning at five thirty.”

Mace wanted to storm back behind the counter away from those prying busybodies, but the best he could do was limp, and it wasn’t like he had the warm welcoming arms of Trent to fall into. Trent was giving him the cold shoulder.

****

“You took the job, didn’t you?” Steve’s blue eyes were bright with interest. “What did Trent think about it?”

“He asked me about my conversation with those two gentlemen, as he put it. I told him about the job offer. I kind of skated around the whole power exchange thing. I wasn’t ready to discuss that with him. He encouraged me to take the job. A change of scenery would do me good or something.”

“So what happened?” Steve asked.

“Let me guess,” Mike said. “You got spanked. Milton and Joshua told Trent, and you all lived happily ever after.”

“It wasn’t that simple. I got spanked, but it took another six months for me to talk to Trent about it, and that only happened after I started tossing plates around. Milton put his foot down.”

“You were living here before you were in an established power exchange relationship?” Mike asked.

“Yep, you know how persuasive Milton can be. He convinced Trent that 

those two tiny rooms we shared were only suitable for nineteenth century paupers.”

“You knew about Milton and Sheldon?” Mike asked.

“How could you not living here? I hid upstairs, pretending that it wasn’t happening. Milton topped me, and even Tilden did in his gentle way, but they never physically touched me. I think Milton was trying to convince Trent to do it.”

“But Joshua spanked you?” Steve asked.

“Steve, you have a one track mind,” Mace said with a smile. “Hold your horses, and I’ll tell you. It’s not as bad as you think. Joshua Martin will take good of you. I had to push him hard, and he still offered me an escape route.

****

Mace had been on his new job for a little over a week. Martin had paired him with an older guy to learn the trade, as he explained  it. Lloyd was a big guy with a spare tire and a full belly laugh. He was putting two kids through college, and he claimed it gave him insight to young guys like Mace.

Mace liked working with him. He didn’t bug Mace when Mace answered in monosyllables and grunts. He’d invited Mace to lunch a couple of times, but after Mace made several excuses Lloyd quit bothering him, but still treated Mace in an offhand, friendly way.

Today Lloyd was off at a second job site, and Mace was paired with Randy, a twenty something guy with long black curls and more eyebrow rings than Mace could easily count. Mace might have been gay, but he didn’t get jewelry on guys, and black fingernails were really too much. Randy gave Mace a sour look when Martin had assigned the two of them to demolition work on the fourth floor. As Mace was getting the tools, he saw Randy sidle up to Martin, and Mace suspected plead for a change of assignment. Mace was too far away to hear the conversation, but from the boss’s body language Mr. Martin couched his denial in the strongest terms. Martin was a no nonsense type of guy. If you did your work and didn’t complain, he was civil, almost chivalrous at times, but Mace had heard him shred a guy who came in late twice in one week. 

Mace hauled the tools to the fourth floor. They were rehabbing an old warehouse turning it into loft apartments. This floor would have large glass windows and a view over a new park when it was completed, but now it was crisscrossed with rotten floorboards, old machinery and rusty metal cabinetry that needed to be removed. Bright yellow paint had been splashed on the weakened floorboards, and one section was roped off with caution tape. They couldn’t replace the floor until all the fixtures had been removed. Martin had warned Mace to be careful the first day Mace had worked up here with Lloyd.

Mace started with the crowbar, loosening the counters from the wall. It would go faster if Randy was helping, but he must have been downstairs chatting with his friends; he was tight with the two guys who did most of the finishing work. Mace was sure Randy was complaining about being demoted to grunt work.

Randy appeared in the doorway, a sour expression on his face, twirling a crowbar in his hand. “All right, gimp, did you rat me out to the boss man about something? Is that how I got stuck doing this grunt shit?” Randy stomped across the floor and yanked at the side of the counter. 

“Careful, the floor’s weak.”

“That’s Lloyd and Martin being their usual pricks about safety. I’m surprised we ever get any fucking work done and don’t spend all day putting on safety goggles and hard hats.”

Randy fumed about something the entire time they were ripping out the counter. By the time they moved to the wall cabinets, he was ragging on Mace about everything from Mace’s hairstyle to the current state of politics. Mace bit his tongue and concentrated on using his crowbar.

“Oh, the gimp can’t talk. You must be one of Martin’s rescue projects. Did your wife beat your ass? Is that why your limping around like a fucking granny? I bet my baby brother could beat you to a pulp. I don’t know how he expects me to do demolition with you—one nail at a fucking time.”

“Maybe if you’d shut up, we’d get this job done,” Mace ground out between gritted teeth.

“Oh, wimp boy speaks. He can talk and limp at the same time. Miracles never cease.”

“A horse smashed my ankle,” Mace said, his voice dropping to a near whisper as he tried to keep his temper in check.

“What were you doing? Walking around on a pony ride?”

Mace turned away and concentrated on the cabinets. He couldn’t say anything else as he felt his anger increase to explosion level.

“I bet it was a merry-go-round. A live horse is too much for you,”  Randy leered.

Mace threw his crowbar down and lunged at Randy. “Shut the fuck up. I rode bucking horses until my ankle ended up a pile of steel and titanium.” Mace tried to tackle Randy, but on his still weak ankle his timing was off, and Randy easily dodged. Randy spun around and shoved Mace hard. Mace stumbled back, placing all his weight on his good leg directly on a section of floor marked with a splash of bright yellow paint.

The floor cracked ominously, and before Mace could shift his weight out of the circle, the floor gave way with a crash of rotting wood. Mace grabbed for a handhold, his fingers sliding across the wood. His tool belt slowed his plunge through the hole as it caught momentarily before pulling the snagged piece of wood through. Mace grabbed a finger hold on an exposed pipe on the floor and lay hanging, his feet dangling through to the floor below. 

Large industrial machines had filled the third floor, and if Mace remembered correctly, the ceiling was at least sixteen feet high, and the upper two feet were filled with a maze of copper pipes. His ankle would never survive the fall. “Can you pull me up?” Mace croaked.

Randy moved toward Mace. The floor cracked sending another shower of sawdust and rotten wood to the floor below. “I can’t get any closer.”

Mace heard pounding feet on the steel steps outside, and Linda, one of the foremen, and several guys burst in. She took in the situation in one sharp glance. “You,” she said, pointing at Chip, “go down a floor and support Mace’s feet so he doesn’t fall any farther. We’ll pull him up with a rope. There’s some rope on my truck. Move.” She shoved Randy out the door for the rope.

Mace felt Chip grab his feet, and some of the weight eased from his arms. Randy came running up the stairs, the rope wrapped around his shoulders. Martin was following close behind.

“I’m going to toss you the rope; try to wrap it around your arm so you don’t lose your grip. Chip will push from down below, and we should have you out of there in a jiffy,” Martin said in a calm voice.

Randy, Linda, and Martin all pulled on the rope, and Mace eased out of the hole. As soon as Mace cleared the bad floor, he stood up, brushing the wood and dust from his pants and shirt and feeling acutely embarrassed. It was his own stupidity and temper that had nearly gotten him hurt. Martin looked sharply at both Randy and Mace. He didn’t say anything, but placed a hand on each of their backs and pushed them in front of him down the stairs and out the building to the trailer that was the construction site office. Many of the workers had heard of the near calamity and smiled and nodded or asked Mace how he was doing. Martin hustled them forward fast enough that Mace could offer no more than a brief nod in reply.

In the trailer, he pushed them both into the battered metal folding chairs, and Martin sat on the desk, arms crossed, glaring at them. “What the hell were you two playing at?”

Mace stared at his boots. He hadn’t felt this way since he was hauled in front of the principal in middle school.

“The bad sections of the floor were clearly marked,” Martin growled.

Mace didn’t look up. He knew Martin’s expression was going to be cold and full of censure. He was going to get fired. The only thing he’d ever been good at was riding bucking horses, and he couldn’t do that. He was a worthless, bad tempered cripple. They ought to go shoot him like a broken-down horse.

Martin banged his fist against the desk, and both young men jumped. “I asked you a question, but neither of you seem to have the common courtesy to answer. Randy, go home. You’re suspended without pay until you find the courage to tell me what happened.”

“But—”

“No buts. Go.” Martin lowered his voice. “I know you and your wife are expecting a baby next month. I have every right to fire you over dangerous behavior. You might want to decide if your stubborn pride is worth losing your job.”

“Fuck you!” Randy spat as he hurled himself from his chair.

“I’m giving you a second chance, kid. Don’t throw it away.”

Randy didn’t answer. He stormed out of the trailer, slamming the door and causing the whole trailer to shake.

“OK, kid, look at me.” Martin’s voice was gentler than it had been with Randy, but it still hadn’t lost its ring of authority.

Mace fought to raise his eyes. He knew he was blushing, and his eyes glinted with tears, but he wasn’t a coward. He’d take his medicine like a man.

“You two were squabbling, got into some kind of pushing and shoving match, didn’t you? That’s how you ended up falling through the floor.”

Mace nodded and swallowed, his throat felt like the dust in the coral after an August drought.

“So what are we going to do about it?”

“I assume I’m fired,” Mace whispered.

“Is that what you want?”

Mace glanced up at Martin surprised by the question. “It’s not my choice.”

“It can be,” Martin said calmly. “I can treat you like an employee. In which case, you can collect your stuff and not come back, or I can treat you like the submissive you are. Spinning and bratting, but not a bad kid and not deserving such harsh treatment.”

“What happens if you treat me like a ..?” Mace picked dust from his jeans, unable to make eye contact with his boss and unable to say the word brat or submissive. He didn’t want to be fired, but he wasn’t one of those things.

“I’ll paddle you for fighting and dangerous behavior.” Martin said those astonishing words as if spanking an employee was the most ordinary thing in the world.

Mace could feel his mouth hanging open and shut it with a snap. “So I either get fired, or I let you hit me. Some choice.”

“I’d never hit you. I’ll spank you.” Martin stood up and touched Mace on the shoulder. “I think you’d feel a lot better if you choose to let me spank you, but it’s your choice.”

“Why me?” Mace managed to ask after a minute. “You didn’t suggest spanking to Randy.”

“Randy’s not a brat or a submissive. He’s just immature and insecure. You’re different, and I can help. Make your choice.”

Mace swallowed hard. His relationship with Trent was on the rocks. They were struggling for every penny they earned. He didn’t want to go home and tell him he’d been fired for behaving like an idiot. “Do it.”

“Do what?” Martin asked, not removing his hand from Mace’s shoulder.

“Paddle me. Damn it. What else do you want me to say?”

“Nothing. That’s what I needed you to say. Go lean over the desk. This time I’ll let you keep your pants on.”

This time, Mace thought as he stretched over the desk. There wasn’t going to be a next time. He wasn’t going to give this dirty old man two chances to spank his ass. Out of the corner of his eye, Mace saw Martin pull a small paddle out of the filing cabinet and lock the trailer door. Who keeps paddle in their office? flashed through Mace’s mind as Martin placed a hand on the small of Mace’s back.

Four blows fell hard and fast. “Shit,” Mace gasped under his breath. This hurt more than he expected. Martin had stopped. It couldn’t be over already.

“Do you want me to continue, or would you rather be fired?”

“I gave you fucking permission. Get on with it.” Mace gritted his teeth and braced himself, expecting more blows to fall.

“You gave me permission without knowing what it would feel like. There’s no shame in changing your mind.”

“Go on,” Mace spat out. This was ridiculous, having a conversation while laying over a desk, his chest pressed into building plans.

“Good boy.” Martin rubbed the small of Mace’s back for several seconds before he resumed the paddling.

Mace lurched at the first stroke. It seemed harder than the previous swats. He bit down on his lip and screwed his eyes shut. He could endure this; he wasn’t going to cry.  Mace didn’t know how many times Martin spanked, scorching his butt and the top of his thighs. Fuck it hurt! The sharp sting was building to intolerable levels, and Mace was now swearing out loud when he had enough breath.

Martin stopped, but the paddle was still resting on Mace’s butt as if this was a lull in the action. “Hey, kid, you can cry. I won’t think any less of you, and you’ll feel better. That’s what this exercise is about.”

What the hell is he talking about? Mace thought in confusion. He sets my ass on fire and now he’s babbling about making me feel better. The guy is off his rocker.

Martin rubbed Mace’s back. “I’ve got you. Let it go.”

Mace took a shuddering breath, but bit back the sob. A fresh round of swats landed. He jerked and would have crawled away if Martin hadn’t had him pinned to the desk. It was too much, and the tears broke through with a rush. Mace thought only a few more swats landed after he started to sob, but he couldn’t think straight with tears pouring down his face and choking his throat. At some point, Martin had flipped Mace around, and now Mace was kneeling his head buried in the lap of the guy that had just spanked him to tears. He struggled. This wasn’t right.

“Let me up.”

“Shh, I’ve got you. It’s safe here,” Martin soothed and tightened his arms. “That’s a good boy.”

Mace still tried to escape the grip. He should be angry, not sobbing his heart out on the man who hurt him.

“Take the comfort, or do you need another taste of my paddle?”

Mace stopped struggling. He didn’t know if Martin was kidding, but his butt was too sore to find out.

“Good boy.” Mace felt the hand on his neck rubbing and then a gentle, fatherly kiss on the back of his head. “You’ve lost a lot—the rodeo, the horses. You think you’ve lost everything you loved and were good at. Grieve for that, but don’t bury yourself in a pit of darkness. You’ve got Trent, and he loves you. He must, to put up with your moods right now.” Martin chuckled softly and kissed Mace’s hair again. “And you’ve got Milton and me. We’ll do everything we can to make it better, easier, but it starts with you. Accept our help. Don’t fight us.”

Mace looked up, wiping the last of the tears from his eyes. Martin was smiling at him, deep crinkles around his eyes. Mace tried to smile back, but it came out more like a grimace.

“Sore?”

“Yeah.”

“Do you feel better otherwise?”

Mace nodded and gave Martin a sheepish grin. This was crazy; he did feel better. How had Martin known about the rodeo stuff? He wasn’t thinking straight, Mace thought as he pressed his face into Martin’s shirt.

“Good man. Up you get. I’ve got to go back to work.” Martin drew Mace to his feet and enveloped him in a strong hug. He grabbed a roll of paper towels off his desk and reached into the mini fridge for a bottle of water. ”Wipe your face.”

Mace could feel himself blush to the roots of his hair when he thought of the other construction guys knowing that he’d been crying. He rubbed at his face with his dusty sleeve.

“Use the paper towels and water; it will work better.” Martin swatted Mace lightly on the outside of his thigh. “Water. Towels. No one will know.” Martin squeezed Mace’s shoulders. If anyone asks why your eyes are red, we’ll tell him that you got some dust in them. OK?”

Mace nodded and wiped his his face with a wet towel.

****

“God, I’d die if someone did that to me,” Steve broke in.

“He didn’t do it to me. I let him do it. I gave him permission to do it. There’s a big difference, cowboy,” Mace said.

“It wasn’t much of a choice—get spanked or fired. It doesn’t seem fair.” Steve was swinging his his feet against the sofa and tossing a small throw pillow up in the air and catching it.

“Steve, put the pillow down,” Mace scolded. “Throwing things in this house doesn’t go over well.”

Steve paled and hugged the pillow to his chest. “They wouldn’t spank me for it?”

“Probably not—lines or corner time,” Mace said.

“I wouldn’t count on it,” Sheldon said from the doorway. 

“I see you finally decided to grace us with your presence,” Mace said dryly.

“Yep and Luke’s up too. What’s with the tops? They’ve got themselves barricaded in the kitchen. They even chased Tilden’s parents into the dining room. And who’s this?” Sheldon asked, pointing at Steve. “He’s not moving in with us, is he? I can only mentor two babies at once. A third, and I’ll need a raise.”

“Don’t mind him,” Luke said, laughing and giving Sheldon a push into the living room. “His bark’s a lot worse than his bite, and Milton keeps him short leashed and muzzled.”

“When did sweet Luke start being such a smart ass?” Sheldon asked, giving Luke a shove.

“Stop it,” Mace growled, doing a fair imitation of a top. Do you want to scare Steve to death? Because that’s what will happen if you two start fighting.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Sheldon agreed, flopping down on the other sofa. “Seeing us all get paddled is probably a hard introduction to this lifestyle. So what have you been telling him? All good things about me, I hope.”

“Sheldon, you’re in rare form. Hasn’t Milton been spanking you enough?” Mike teased.

Sheldon rolled his eyes. “He made me go to the art museum yesterday. That was punishment enough, and my ass is never as cool as a cucumber.”

“You wouldn’t want it that way. You prefer a red, hot, and smokey,” Mace drawled.

“Said like a true saint from the boy who whips plates across the room,” Sheldon shot back.

“That was years ago, and I’ve already bared my soul enough today.”

“What did you tell them?”

“About when I worked construction with Joshua.”

“And you told me not to scare the baby,” Sheldon said with a grin.

The doorbell rang, the chimes reverberating through the house. Sheldon jumped up and looked out the window. “Shit! Milton’s going to have my ass on a plate.”

“Why?” Mace asked.

“It’s the TV people. They’re here to interview Tilden’s parents. I’ve known about it since Friday. Milton doesn’t do withholding information.

“Ah, Sheldon,” Mace drawled and ruffled his friend’s hair. “You’re in trouble, my friend.”

“Thanks for cheering me up.” Sheldon grimaced. “I guess it’s time to face the music.”

“So you knew about this,” Milton said from the doorway.

“Yeah, I’m guilty as charged.”

“Mace, take Steve to the restaurant with you. He doesn’t need to deal with these TV people. Upstairs, Sheldon. We’ll discuss it later.”

“You mean your hand will discuss it with my butt.”

“I could use something besides my hand.”

“That won’t be necessary, Sheldon said, shaking his head. “I’ll go upstairs like a good boy.”

“You a good boy?” Milton snorted, but he was smiling.

“Come on,” Mace said, catching Steve’s hand. “We’ve got Sunday tea to serve. Milton and Tilden will hold the fort here.”

Steve looked wide-eyed at Milton, but allowed Mace to pull him up and toward the doorway. Milton reached out and hooked Steve’s shoulders as he tried to slip by the imposing figure in the doorway.

“I won’t kill Sheldon. He knew what he signed up for when he didn’t tell me about my favorite TV people. Now skedaddle before they trap you here.” Milton kissed the frightened boy’s forehead and gave him a light swat on his rump.