Chapter 4
Tilden took a long, slow swig of tea, wanting nothing more than to drop his head down on the table and go back to sleep. They’d been up way too late last night for his old bones. For his young partners also as evidenced by their continued sleep through the buzz of the alarm clock. The party had broken up after one, and might have gone on all night if the tops hadn’t started resolutely collecting everyone. Everybody had been having a great time, dancing to the antique phonograph records, which were ostensibly for sale, but Tilden thought were actually Mace’s secret passion. Tilden smiled at the vision of Gordon and Landon doing the jitterbug between the bookshelves. Those two knew how to dance and had dragged Tilden’s young partners off to teach them with a disparaging remark about young people’s dancing looking like they were escaping from angry fire ants. Josh had even corralled Steve into the arms of a pretty young top, and Tilden had seen the two of them twirling across the dance floor.
Tilden stirred a spoonful of jam into the plain yoghurt and bit into the dark rye bread. Mace and Trent must have tried to get a few extra moments of shuteye because they’d left a pile of cold food on the counter and a curt note about about the joys of a continental breakfast and fire prevention. Milton and Sheldon had already left for the day. The only remnants of their early morning departure were the crusts of Sheldon’s peanut butter and jelly sandwich. A tired Sheldon was a proverbial high wire balancing act, and Tilden wondered how many swats it taken to get Sheldon in full bratting mode on the train for work this morning. In fact Tilden was surprised Milton hadn’t kept Sheldon home. The last time that boy went to work tired he’d thrown a paperweight at one of the producers.
“Good morning,” Gordon said, walking into the kitchen. “Where are your better halves this morning?”
“Sleeping.”
“Don’t they have class this morning?”
“Only Russian, and it’s a drill and kill day. They can miss it.”
“You spoil them.” Gordon poured himself a cup of tea. “Do you have milk for this, or do you insist on drinking it with that ghastly jam?”
“There’s milk in the fridge.”
Gordon found the milk before returning to the table to sit next to Tilden. “Your boys need clear, hard boundaries. You should wake them.”
“They have A’s in Russian. They’ll be fine.”
“And you’re muddying the waters about what you expect. Go wake them.”
Tilden gripped his glass tighter and stared at Gordon. “You’re a guest in our home. Who gave you the right to order me around?”
“I’m an experienced dominant, and you wouldn’t be shouting at me if you didn’t know I was right.” Gordon sat back and took a long sip of tea. “Your boys need a tight rein, especially Mike. He bullied Luke into that little stunt last night. How do you plan to handle it?”
Tilden ignored Gordon and stirred his yoghurt.
“It’s rude not to answer a direct question.”
“I’m not one of your boys. Don’t you try to top me.” Tilden slapped his spoon down on his plate and sent a flying missile of yoghurt onto Gordon’s shirt.
“That was rather brat like.” Gordon smiled and dabbed at the mess with a paper towel.
Tilden could feel his face flame, and he hurriedly moved toward the sink for a damp towel. “I’m sorry.”
“Stop hovering over me with that dishcloth. I’ll change my shirt. I’ve had worse thrown at me. Milton as a boy dumped an entire breakfast plate over my head more than once. I could rile him just like that.” Gordon snapped his fingers, a fond twinkle in his eyes. “That boy was worth the trouble, but my dry cleaning bill was ferocious. I should have known to wear a raincoat when breakfasting with his best friend.”
Tilden snorted. “You’re good, aren’t you?”
“Yes, I like to think so, even though you’d never know it with our relationship.” Gordon silenced Tilden with a gesture when he tried to interrupt. “You’re the best friend of a man whom I mentored and deeply admire and respect. I’d like to be able to be in the same room with you without feeling the need for barbed wire and a no man’s land.”
Tilden swirled the tea in his cup, embarrassed and unsure. “Sorry.”
“For what?”
“For covering you in yoghurt.”
“Is that all?” Gordon never lifted his eyes from Tilden’s face.
“What do you want me to say?” Tilden started to get up.
“Sit. We are in the middle of a conversation. You are the rudest boy I know.”
“I’m not your boy,” Tilden spat but didn’t get up. Somehow Gordon had him trapped in his seat. Milton could do that. It was something he did with his eyes, his tone of voice. He must have learned it from Gordon, Tilden thought desperately as he tried to keep his mind occupied and away from Gordon’s questions.
“No, you’re not, but you’re a friend of my boy and therefore my responsibility.”
“I am not and never have been your responsibility.” Tilden heard his voice rise and realized he was shouting again despite his best efforts to be calm.
“I thought you wanted your boys to sleep in today.”
Tilden flushed and played with his cuff buttons.
“You should wear your cufflinks. They look good on you.” Gordon laid his hand on Tilden’s shoulder and rubbed. “Don’t flinch away. I won’t hurt you. Good boy,” he whispered as Tilden sat frozen under his hands. “I know you like to be touched. I see you with Milton and your partners. Trust me. You trusted me with Xavier. Try to trust me with yourself.”
“I didn’t have a choice,” Tilden muttered as much to himself as to Gordon.
“Do you want your choice taken away? I can do that.”
“No.” Tilden jerked out from under Gordon’s hands. “You did that once.”
“I did, and I failed you.”
Tilden looked at the sadness in Gordon’s dark brown eyes. The intensity and confidence that the man usually exuded was gone; instead there was a flash of pain deep in his soul. It was that glimpse of pain that made Tilden gulp his tea, spilling some onto the table. “I hated what happened, but I’m OK with it. No scars. I just don’t like you or canes much.” Tilden tried to give Gordon a cheeky grin.
“You’re a terrible liar, and I don’t like being lied to.” Gordon had put the sharp demanding tone back in his voice, and Tilden snapped back from the sound. “I failed you the minute I touched you with the cane and didn’t take responsibility for the aftermath. I won’t do it again. Your two boys depend on me to get this right.”
“I didn’t give you a chance to talk to me. I know you tried.” Tilden rubbed his thumb over the rim of his glass, studying the intricate designs of the podstakannik. “I refused. Milton pleaded with me.”
“I should have ordered Milton to drag you back to talk to me. All I can offer are my apologies, which isn’t enough.” Tilden again saw a sharp stab of pain cross Gordon’s face before he hid it.
Tilden blew out a deep breath. The pain and the humiliation of that caning still felt fresh as if it were only yesterday, not years ago. “I think the guilt goes both ways. I hated you.”
“And now you’re forced to see me in my three dimensional form, not in the caricature of hate, and you’re confused. All that you thought you’d successfully buried has risen to the surface.”
Tilden nodded.
“The picture no longer fits. The puzzle pieces are in your hands, and you can’t make them fit together. The way you painted me in your mind to live with what I did to you doesn’t match your own observations.”
“I see you with Xavier, with Steve...” Tilden trailed off.
“And I’m not the evil cane wielding maniac.” Gordon smiled. The genuine warmth in his eyes was unmistakable. “So what do you think I am?”
Tilden studied the older man, who was eating his toast with precise relaxed bites. He wasn’t evil. No, it was more complicated than that. Tilden shrugged. “I don’t know.”
“And do you let your boys get away with answers like that?”
“No.” Tilden gave Gordon a rueful smile.
“Right. Try again.”
“You’re Gordon Lewis, a top, and head of the Green Mountain Boys.”
“That was a safe and noncommittal answer. What else?”
Tilden studied his hands, flexing his long fingers. “I think you’re a lot more like Milton than I ever gave you credit for.”
“And you like Milton even when he’s bossy?” Gordon prodded.
“Usually. I’d follow that man over a cliff, even though I’d be cursing all the way.”
“In Russian, no doubt.” Gordon laughed before turning serious. “I would too, and he wants us to fix this problem between the two of us. He practically threatened to knock our heads together.”
Tilden smiled at the image. “I thought he was your boy.”
“He is, but now only when he wants to play that role. We are peers and equals. He’ll be head of the Green Mountain Boys soon. It’s already been decided, and he’ll want you for his right hand man. He needs you over this mess I caused, I need you over it, and most of all your partners need you over it.”
“It’s getting better. I shouldn’t have hid from it.”
“No, you shouldn’t have, but more important I shouldn’t have let you. I’m the guilty party, and your pain is my punishment.”
“I forgive you for it.” Tilden swallowed the last of the tea, the sticky jam residue catching in his throat. Did he forgive Gordon? This wasn’t the Gordon he remembered from that night. This was a thoughtful and caring top trying to talk.
“The words are easy. I can’t forgive myself for what I did to your heart and soul. All I can do is live with it and try to help others.”
Tilden stood and did what he did out of instinct, not thought. He dropped his arms around Gordon’s shoulders and and rested his chin on the older man’s head. “Don’t let Milton hear you talk like that. He’s liable to take you over his knees for wallowing in guilt.”
“It doesn’t work for me,” Gordon said, his voice rippling with sadness. “I had someone once who could, but it was many years ago. The curse of getting old.”
“What about Milton’s grandfather?”
“No, it won’t work for me, and I thought we were talking about you, not me.”
“I think we were talking about both of us.”
“You’re quiet, but you’re a sly one. I understand why Milton respects and loves you.” Gordon caught Tilden’s wrist and pulled him back to the chair. “I want to see your face when I talk to you.”
“And you want to control the conversation.”
“That too, my dear boy.”
Tilden ignored the endearment, knowing that Gordon was using it to try to get the upper hand. “If I’m going to get my boys to class, I need to wake them soon.”
“I thought you were letting them sleep in.”
“No, I’m going to take your advice.”
“I guess there is a first time for everything.”
Tilden shrugged. “What else did you have to say?”
“Don’t get testy, my boy. It usually doesn’t end well.”
“Don’t top me.”
“I won’t. Milton can do it if you need it.”
“I need to wake them.”
“Sit for three minutes and listen.” Gordon smiled. “That’s a request, not an order. I’m afraid it came out like an order.”
“Pozhalusta.”
“You use the Russian when you want to be snide or hide your feelings. Don’t give me that look, my lad. It’s obvious, but that’s not what I want to talk about.” Gordon ran his hand down Tilden’s back. “You are fascinating. You must come to the lodge for a weekend, so I can get to know you better.”
“What do you want?”
“What I want and what I can have are two different things. At my age I’m not enough of an idealist to think we can be friends. The history between us is thick with strife. I hope we can learn to tolerate each other and for you to know at least in your head if not in your gut that I’m always on your side.”
Tilden turned in his chair for a better look at Gordon. Gordon was physically an unassuming man, thin gray hair receding from his forehead, dark eyes hidden behind unfashionable glasses, quiet conservative dress. This was a man who ran a financial empire. His commentary was sought for the business front pages throughout the world. If Milton’s tales were to be believed, Gordon also had a wild streak, a taste for adventure that had led him around the world. He didn’t look like any of those roles as he leaned over the table, one hand on his cup of tea. He looked a combination of sad and hopeful, not the top in control but a brat in trouble.
“You’re not a brat.”
“No, I’m not a submissive, and I do prefer the term submissive. Boys, such as Sheldon, can brat with his deliberate ploy for attention from Milton, but the relationship of a dominant and his submissive is far more nuanced than that wretched show would have people believe. It is not merely about taming wild instincts or mentoring the immature.”
“I can forgive brats,” Tilden said softly, running his hand through his hair.
“What I did was deliberate, calculated, and unquestionably wrong. It wasn’t the rash act of a spinning boy—far harder to forgive. I don’t expect you to forgive me. I hope at best we can move beyond it.”
“It’s been years. I need to wake my boys.” Tilden rose. With anyone else he’d wrap his arms around someone looking this forlorn. Tilden dropped his hand on Gordon’s shoulder and squeezed. “Thanks.”
“Do you tops ever get over yourselves?” Landon traipsed down the stairs, a blanket thrown over his shoulders. “You’re talking about the caning, right?”
“Where’s your robe?” Gordon asked.
“At home, I guess.”
“You’re impossible, boy.” Gordon kissed his partner, running his hand down and squeezing the pajama covered bottom.
“I know; that’s why you love me.”
“Upstairs and get dressed before you catch your death.”
“No one catches death from cold.” Landon tossed the blanket on the back of a chair, exposing his shaved chest. “Not bad for an old guy, huh?”
“Landon,” Gordon growled. “This is not the time or place for that.”
“It’s better than talking about ancient history. I’m not the one obsessing about three little strokes with a cane years ago. Tilden was bratting, and he’s still bratting with you. He deserved it.”
“Landon.” Gordon snapped his fingers and pointed at the floor beside his feet.
“No, I’m your sub, but I’m also your partner. I’m not vanishing onto the floor like a good little submissive.”
Tilden recoiled at the hard, flat challenge in Landon’s voice.
“Have you ever been a good little submissive? I hope you have a good reason for openly defying me, little boy.” Gordon’s voice was deceptively mild. His eyes were pinned on his partner, who was carefully staying out of reach of his top’s hands.
“I have.” Landon held Gordon’s glare. “This idiocy is going to stop. I’ve watched you two circle around each other for years.” Landon shifted his stare to Tilden, his eyes cool and demanding, an expression Tilden rarely saw on a brat’s face, especially when addressing a top. “Gordon gave you three strokes over your pants for behaving like a fool. You have a gift for languages, and plain and simple you were blowing off the work. He didn’t hurt you. He stung your butt and your pride. Maybe he circumvented the niceties of consent, but it wasn’t intentional. He thought you knew about his relationship with Milton. He thought you knew the bloody rules. Do you understand that? He’d never have touched you if he’d thought Milton had been less than candid about himself.”
“It was my responsibility to ask,” Gordon whispered.
“And you’re supposed to be perfect. Is that what your father’s beatings taught you? The scars on your back because you weren’t the perfect son.”
Gordon moved fast, snaring Landon’s arm and pulling him close. “We don’t talk about this in public.”
“What’s going on?” Luke stood in the doorway, his blond hair tousled from sleep, his eyes still only half open.
“I’m not sure.” Tilden moved to herd Luke back towards the bedroom. “You both need to get up for class. You have fifteen minutes.”
“I’m tired.”
“Don’t whine.
“It’s drill today. It’s boring, and I already know it.’
“I know, but without you I have to ask five people and pray someone knows the correct answer. Druzhok, poydyom.”
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