Wednesday, August 22, 2012

Lost and Found 11


Chapter 11

The feast preparations were coming along about as well as Tilden had expected, lots of small setbacks but so far no major disasters. Of course the turkey had only been in the oven a few minutes, not long enough to burn or catch fire. At least Tilden had known how to clean and truss the bird. After living in Russia, where you bought chickens with the head and feet still attached, the turkey had been a cinch. Now making the gravy was going to be a different matter. After reading the instructions in the cookbook, Tilden had turned that project over to Brad. Hopefully years of practice in the chemistry lab would allow him to quickly master the art of lump free gravy. 
Mike and Raul had taken over the task of preparing the bread. Mike seemed comfortable with the oldest brat in the bunch, and Raul had worked in a bakery. They were making several different types of muffins that all took the same basic batter. Mike explained that Trent had taught him that trick.
Luke and Xavier were peeling vast heaps of potatoes in preparation for boiling and mashing. Tilden knew that potato peeling was probably everybody’s least favorite job, but after last night Luke was unlikely to complain, and Tilden hoped the mindless repetition would soothe Xavier. The two brats weren’t talking much, but Xavier’s shoulders looked less stiff than they had earlier. Tilden had set them up at the counter, where they could both stand, avoiding the discomfort of sitting and the embarrassment of squirming for both of them. 
Brad had taken charge of the vegetables and taken Cotton, Jordan, and Peyton with him. All three had groused that they would be perfectly happy to have no vegetables, but Brad seemed to have the situation in hand. The remaining brats were the dessert crew. Tilden kept an ear out for trouble with them as he cut and plated the butter. He’d put himself in charge of arranging and decorating the table. He’d already separated the dessert group once into cake baking and pie baking when they’d started spatting over the benefits of a butter crust versus a shortening crust. As least Tilden had lucked out and had experienced pie bakers even if they were tired and short tempered. Tilden’s teaching experience had taught him to recognize group dynamics, and he congratulated himself on the quiet industriousness of the kitchen.
“You jackass! You just ruined the pie.” Paul pushed Colby hard into the counter.
“Ow, you little fucker!” Colby shoved back, sending a cascade of flour onto the floor.
“Come here, both of you. Now.” Tilden pointed to a spot on the floor in front of his feet. So much for quiet and industrious work. It was nice while it lasted.
The young men shuffled toward him. At least they both had the good grace to look embarrassed. The other brats were peeking over their shoulders, eager to see what was going to happen.
“Mike, you’ve made pie with Mace before. Can you see if you can fix whatever disaster has supposedly befallen the crust?”
“I’m not an expert, but Mace always says add more flour and refrigerate if the dough is too soft and sticky.”
“Well, give it a try. I know nothing about pie. You two gentlemen can come with me into the dining room, and we’ll have a chat away from all these prying eyes and ears.”
They came easily enough; they both seemed glad to be offered the chance for some privacy. Tilden tried to reassure Colby, who appeared the more nervous, by placing a hand on his shoulder and guiding him out of the kitchen.
“Sit down, boys,” Tilden said, pulling out two chairs. He remained standing, leaning against the table, trying to use his height to intimidate. Tilden didn’t want to go beyond a light lecture and maybe some time in the corner to settle these boys’ tempers. He hoped by projecting both authoritative and reassuring body language he could solve this spat with a minimum of fuss. He’d seen Milton do it more than a few times with nothing but an eyebrow.
“So what happened, boys?”
They both started talking at once, Paul gesticulating wildly and shaking his floppy brown hair out of his eyes. Colby raised his voice and started trying to shout over Paul.
“One at a time, please. Paul, you go first.”
“He ruined my crust on purpose.”
“I didn’t,” Colby shot back. “It was too dry and crumbly.”
Tilden raised and sharpened his voice. “I thought I said one at a time. Colby, stand up and turn around.”
“This isn’t fair.” Colby stared at Tilden, his green eyes wide; the freckles cascading over his nose made him look like a mischievous cartoon character.
“Stand up. Turn around.” Tilden shifted his weight towards Colby. He hoped he wouldn’t have to drag him out of the chair. It was a battle he didn’t want to fight with a stranger irrespective of brat or submissive status. To Tilden’s relief, Colby capitulated, stood, and turned around. “All right, Paul, go on with your story.”
Paul eyed Tilden as if trying to judge his mood. “Colby poured too much water into my pie crust and ruined it.”
“And that justified pushing him into the counter? Fighting in the kitchen is dangerous.”
“He did it on purpose. He wanted to ruin it.”
Colby twisted around to see his accuser. “I didn’t, you asshole. It was an accident.”
Tilden stood up, caught Colby’s shoulder, and landed three sharp swats on the jean clad rump. “I will give you a chance to tell your side of the story. Hands on top of your head.”
“Ralph isn’t this mean.”
Tilden could hear the slight whine in Colby’s voice and hoped he wouldn’t soon be dealing with tears of frustration. The young man sounded tired and at his breaking point. “I’m not Ralph, just think of me as the big, mean uncle you have to visit once a year and be on your best behavior because the uncle is a grouch.” Tilden squeezed Colby’s shoulder before sitting down and turning back towards Paul, who was staring wide-eyed at Tilden as if Tilden had grown three heads. Tilden thought he heard a mumbled expletive, and Paul’s eyes dropped to the table. “I only bite on the third Monday of the month, so I think you’re safe today.” Tilden smiled, willing the smile to go to his eyes. “Now, why don’t you tell me again what happened?”
“I was making the crust for the pumpkin pie,” Paul started slowly, “and it was a little too dry. When you make pie crust, you add water a small amount at a time from a tablespoon until the dough reaches the right consistency. That fool added it from the measuring cup and drowned the crust.”
Tilden interrupted before Paul could start to rant. “Do you really think it was on purpose, or do you think it was an accident? Think before you answer.”
Paul ran his hand down the seam of the tablecloth. “I...I think it was an accident.”
“Then you shouldn’t have pushed Colby?”
“No.”
“OK. Stand up and turn around, so I can talk to Colby.” Paul rose quickly and with great relief to his feet. “Colby, come sit down, so we can talk,” Tilden said soothingly.
Colby sat down, twisting his chair so he was cocked away from Tilden. His eyes darted to Tilden’s face, into the corner of the room, and over Paul’s back.
“Do you agree with what Paul said?” Tilden asked.
“Yeah, it was an accident.”
“Why did you push him back?”
“He pushed me first.”
“I’m aware of that, but wouldn’t you agree with me that the kitchen is a dangerous place for a wrestling match—sharp objects, hot stoves, boiling water?”
“I guess.”
“You guess?” Tilden said, raising his eyebrows.
“OK. I know. What are you going to do with us?” Colby asked the belligerence suddenly out of his voice. Instead he sounded like one of the freshman students pleading for an extension on a paper.
“I’m going to put you both in a corner for a few minutes to think about what we talked about, and then you’re going to talk to your partners tonight about the little altercation in the kitchen.” Tilden rose from the chair, snagged Colby’s wrist, and pulled him up. Tilden wrapped his other arm over Paul’s shoulders. “Let me get you settled in a corner.”
Tilden guided the two young men into the corridor that ran between the kitchen and the dining room. He placed Paul at one end and Colby at the other. Tilden would be able to see them from the kitchen, but they were out of the direct sight line and wouldn’t feel the pressure of the other brats breathing down their necks.
In the kitchen, Mike was looking forlornly at the piecrust. “I don’t think I can salvage this. It’s slimy.”
“Throw it out and start again,” Tilden said.
“I don’t know how to make piecrust.”
“How about a graham cracker crust?” Luke said.
“For pumpkin pie? Yuck.”
“I was just trying to be helpful.” Luke spat back.
Rebyata,” Tilden warned. Both Luke and Mike turned back to what they were doing. Mike pulled a cookbook down and flipped through the pages, spotting them with flour and muttering to himself. Tilden suppressed a sigh. This was going to get more difficult as the day wore on. Trent and Mace claimed that cooking was relaxing, but judging from the sniping and stiff demeanor, his helpers seemed to find it the opposite.
Tilden moved close to Mike and rubbed his partnerts neck. “We can always have ice cream for dessert. It doesn’t require any cooking.”
“That’s a cop out,” Mike muttered. “How fucking hard can piecrust be? Mace makes a dozen a day.”
“I think maybe you should take a walk, calm down.” Tilden squeezed the back of Mike’s neck. “Call Mace,” he whispered in Russian.
Mike turned around and gave Tilden a sly look. “I’m going to go outside for a minute before I get in more trouble with you. Can Luke come with me?”
“Sure, go play in the snow for a few minutes. I’ll hold the fort here.” Tilden tried to look burdened by the idea, but he suspected he failed. He’d never been a good actor.
“You’re not a brat. You’re not allowed to pout,” Mike said, laughing as he slipped out of Tilden’s grip.
“Go before I find more slave labor for you to do,” Tilden encouraged.
“Can you manage the potatoes by yourself?” Luke asked Xavier.
Xavier nodded, but his grip tightened on the knife and his eyes roved around the room before dropping back to the potatoes.
“I’ll help you with the potatoes. Piecrust is totally out of my league, but I think I can manage a knife.”
As Tilden approached, Xavier skittered aside and bumped the bowl of water and potato pieces. The bowl crashed to the floor, shattering on the tile. Potato pieces flew across the floor like a thousand hockey pucks freed on an ice rink. Tilden started to make reassuring noises as he stepped through the soggy mess. Xavier stood frozen, staring at the potatoes before a frightening keening sound escaped from his mouth, and he turned to flee. Years of living with Milton’s partner had sharpened Tilden’s reflex, and he snared Xavier’s arm as he passed by.
“Don’t hurt me.” The cry was plaintive, muffled by the tears that were already coursing down Xavier’s face.
Tilden did the only thing he could; he wrapped his arms around the shaking boy. Xavier felt like a small, frightened boy—more frightened and far younger than his own partners. Tilden steered Xavier from the kitchen, supporting most of the boy’s weight in his arms. Mike and Luke were both looking at Tilden, concern etched on their faces. Tilden tried to indicate with a brisk nod of his head that they should go for a walk. Mike seemed to understand the message because he grabbed Luke’s arm and towed him out of the kitchen.
In the hall both Paul and Colby had moved from their corners and were watching the proceedings with interest. “Go ask Brad what to do and behave.” Tilden’s voice was sharp enough that both boys scrambled to get out of his sight. Tilden briefly thought it was cruel abandoning Brad to a pack of unsettled brats, but the choked sobs emanating from the bundle in his arms needed him right now. His partners would be safe outside playing in the snow. If Mike reached Mace and Trent, they knew Tilden’s partners well enough to talk them through any anxiety about what happened, plus Tilden had seen his partners in the snow. He expected they’d come in wet and exhilarated after a brisk snow fight.
The great room was empty, but a fire blazed in the massive stone hearth. Tilden snagged a checkered wool throw rug from the back of a sofa and sat in the massive armchair closest to the fire, pulling Xavier down into his lap.
“I’ve got you. You’re safe with me.”
Xavier sat frozen in Tilden’s lap, his back and shoulders stiff with fear. His breath came in ragged gasps as he tried to choke back the tears.
“Easy, no one’s going to hurt you.” Tilden traced his fingers down Xavier’s back. Xavier flinched away from Tilden’s touch. “Are you sore?” There was no answer, but Tilden thought he saw the slight young man try not to flinch the next time Tilden’s hand ran down his back. “Can I have a look?”
Xavier nodded hesitantly, his deep brown eyes filled with tears. A stray tear dripped down his cafe au lait colored cheeks.
Tilden lifted the pullover and tugged the tails of the shirt from Xavier’s pants. He drew in a sharp breath. “Bozhe moy!”  A series of welts and multicolored bruises covered Xavier’s entire back. “Who did this?”
“My top. It’s his right.”
“No, it’s not,” Tilden said, not hiding the anger in his voice.
“Please don’t hit me,” Xavier pleaded. “I know I’m a clumsy, useless idiot, but I’m too sore.”
“Shh, I won’t hurt you.” Tilden tried to will his voice to a calm, relaxed state. He was angry at the abusive bastard that had tortured this boy, but Xavier in his state was terrified of anger from any direction. “I won’t let anyone hurt you again.” Tilden didn’t know how he was going keep such a rash promise. He stroked Xavier’s tight, coiled curls. He’d find a way, Tilden thought grimly.
“It’s the top’s right to punish. I’m bad.”
Tilden swallowed hard. He wanted to scream that the brutal marks on Xavier’s back were abuse, not legitimate punishment. “Honey, a power exchange is about many things, not about mere pain and not about abuse. Everything must be agreed upon by both parties. I can’t imagine you agreed to let your partner hurt you like that.”
“He’s the top. I must obey. I don’t learn, so he punishes me harder. I want to be good. I try to be good.”
“You’re a good boy. I’ve got you now.”
“I’m not good. I deserve to be punished. Are you going to tell Anthony?”
“You’re a good boy,” Tilden repeated, stroking Xavier’s head, trying to get the distraught young man to relax against his chest. “I’ve got you. You’re safe with me.”
“Anthony...Anthony will never allow it. He says...” Xavier rubbed his eyes. “He says I belong to him and that will never change. I can never run and hide from him.”  Xavier sobbed harshly, no longer trying to hold back the tears.
Tilden held the boy tightly against his chest and waited, hoping that his fury would subside and Xavier would calm enough to be able to hear Tilden’s words. At the moment all Tilden wanted to do was take the belt or whatever Anthony had beat Xavier with and return the favor. Tilden sighed. That might feel good in the short term, but it would do nothing to solve the problem. He had to get Xavier out of the clutches of that evil man.
“You’re a good boy. I’ve got you. Shh. You’re going to make yourself sick.” Tilden repeated the reassurances. The tears didn’t seem to be easing. In desperation, Tilden hardened his tone. “Stop. Deep breaths, now. I’ve got you.” He heard Xavier choke back a sob and take a long shuddering breath. “That’s right.” Tilden tried to fill his voice with warmth to make it obvious he was praising. “Good boy. No one will hurt you. Come on. Let’s get you upstairs where you can stretch out and rest.”
Xavier was only a wisp of a young man, and Tilden had no trouble lifting the boy into his arms and climbing the stairs. From the pile of wet clothes scattered across the room, Luke and Mike had returned from their outdoor adventure. Poor Brad he was now dealing with an entire passel of agitated young men by himself. Tilden briefly wondered if vet school would have equipped Brad for the challenge. It couldn’t be worse than herding cats. Tilden remembered trying to deal with his parents’ cat at the vet; he’d sooner manage an entire regiment single handily than put a cat in a cardboard box in his car again.
Tilden sat Xavier on the edge of the bed, where the boy stayed frozen while Tilden rummaged through Luke’s suitcase for a pair of soft sweatpants and a T-shirt. Xavier was limp as Tilden changed his clothes and tucked him into the bed. “You rest. I’ll take care of everything else.” He bent down and kissed Xavier chastely on the cheek. 
The words were whispered almost too softly for Tilden to hear, “I want to stay with you.”
“I’ve got you now. I’m not going anywhere. You’re not going back with Anthony.”
“You can’t stop him. He’s too powerful.”
“Sleep. I’ll handle it.” Tilden smoothed the blankets and kissed the damp cheek again. Tilden pulled a book off the nightstand and read until Xavier’s eyes closed and his breathing evened out. 
Tilden softly closed the door, turned the key for the bolt, and leaned heavily against the wall of the corridor. The other guest rooms were shut, and in the calm hallway Tilden let the anguish he felt wash over him. It had been easy to promise Xavier that he could protect him, but could he really do it? He didn’t know Xavier’s or Anthony’s last name. In fact he didn’t know anything about Xavier except for what the bruises and welts streaking across his young body told Tilden. The boy was so fragile and vulnerable. Maybe there was a relative he could call. 
A man with a badge around his neck and partially untucked shirt tails approached Tilden. “Fiona is looking for you downstairs.”
“She can look,” Tilden snapped. “I need to talk to someone higher up—someone with more clout and more sense than Fiona.”
“Look man, take it up with her. I’m not a big hotshot on this program.”
“Arrange it immediately,” Tilden practically snarled.
“You really don’t like cooking,” the man said with an impish grin.
Tilden reached out and grabbed the necklace ID, flipping it over to read the name. “John, I’m not playing here. I’m not talking about cooking, or a bad mood created because I can’t fry an egg. This is about systematic abuse of a participant of this television show. Now either take me to see the most important person on the set, or I will call the police, the FBI, and any other law enforcement agency I can think of. I believe the show business axiom that no publicity is bad publicity doesn’t apply here. I think your television network would not wish to be connected with an abuse scandal.”
The man looked around the corridor as if someone would appear to make the decision. Tilden stepped closer to John, ignoring the ethical implications of threatening this man with his top skills. John paled and swallowed. “Follow me, sir.”
Tilden followed John down the main stairs and then down the back stairs into a room that was usually a game room but was now crammed with television monitors and other equipment. Several people sat hunched over monitors, earphones pulled over their heads. A large central monitor showed the kitchen. Much to Tilden’s surprise it was empty except for Luke who was tugging at the turkey leg. It looked like he was trying to see if it would move. Tilden assumed he was checking for doneness; he’d seen his mother do the same thing.
“Where is everybody?” Tilden asked.
“Outside,” Fiona said, glaring at Tilden. “This episode is supposed to be about your cooking, and you’re not participating.”
“I would suggest you order takeout Chinese or pizza. Cooking is the least of my priorities right now.” Fiona opened her mouth to protest, but Tilden continued without pausing. “One of the participants on this show has been abused, probably since the first day of the partnership, and the producers of this show have either been grossly negligent or willfully ignoring the signs of abuse. Do beatings make good television?” 
An older man had stepped behind Fiona during Tilden’s tirade. “Professor Blake, I’m Matthew Bishop. I’m in charge of casting for this program, and let me assure you we were in no way aware of this alleged problem that you’re describing. We will investigate it immediately.”
“I think welts and bruises from the shoulders to the thighs hardly need investigating.”
“You yourself physically punish your partners. You’ve freely admitted it.”
“A spanking administered with the full consent of my partner is hardly a brutal beating. You’re in charge of casting for this show; you should know the difference. If you don’t, this program is inherently dangerous, and you’re criminally responsible.”
“Let’s not throw accusations around until I know a few more details.” Matthew made calming motions with his hands. “Who are you talking about?”
“Xavier and his partner Anthony.”
 Matthew snapped his fingers and an assistant handed him a tablet computer. His fingers danced across the screen. Tilden could make out the large print names on the screen but no details.
“Xavier Dubois is a first generation American. His mother is originally from the Côte d’Ivoire. She married a French aide worker and immigrated to Paris. Xavier’s father abandoned the family when Xavier was three. His mother died last year, and he came to America, looking for a fresh start. It appears he has no other relatives in this country. He was paired with Anthony Turner, a successful investment banker currently residing in New York. We’ve certainly had no indication of a problem, and Anthony has provided financial stability to Xavier’s life.”
“And you thought it was a good idea to cast a young man with no community or family support in this type of program. You were asking for this kind of thing.” Tilden said, not trying to contain his anger.
Matthew made a soothing noise in his throat. The same young man that had woken Tilden this morning burst into the room, shedding snow onto the floor. “What’s going on?” Matthew asked, giving the boy a sharp glance.
“Some people showed up on skis.”
“Tell them it’s a private party,” Matthew said impatiently.
“It’s too late for that. They pushed right by security.”
“What?” Matthew and Fiona said together.
“Yes, they handed me this.” The young man handed a card to Matthew.
“The Green Mountain Boys,” Matthew read. “What the hell?”
“The cavalry’s here,” Tilden said.
“What?” Matthew spluttered. “Do you know these people?”
“I know of them,” Tilden answered cautiously.
“They’re committing criminal trespass. Call the police.”
“Are you sure you want to do that?” A soft voice with a trace of an accent said from the doorway. The accent wasn’t English, Australian, or South African—more of a combination with a heavy dose of American thrown in. A tall man with sparse gray hair cut in a short precise style stood in the doorway. He was wearing an old-fashioned pair of ski knickers and a a dark green sweater with white snowflakes.
“Gordon,” Tilden breathed.
“Milton thought you might need some backup.”
“How’d he know?” Tilden said.
“Your lads are very resourceful. It’s seems they went outside and used a cell phone. I assumed you had something to do with it.” Gordon leaned against the doorframe and crossed his arms. He looked as intimidating as Tilden remembered him.
“The cell phone, yes—calling Milton, no.”
“From what I heard, I think it’s a good idea they did.”
“You’re supposed to have no contact with family or friends during your stay here unless it’s a emergency. That’s in the contract,” Matthew protested.
“I think abuse is an emergency,” Gordon said. Even though his tone was soft and reasonable, a silent threat hung in the air. “I haven’t heard the whole story. Tilden, would you be so kind as to fill me in?”
Tilden watched Gordon. He didn’t trust him, but here he was probably an ally.
“I know we didn’t have the best start, or as you Americans like to say, I blew it,” Gordon said smoothly. “But I am an enemy of your enemy here, therefore I am a friend, and I have experience in this area.”
Tilden nodded and shrugged. While Tilden would prefer not to admit it, Gordon was his ally, and Milton swore he was good with submissives. Tilden ignored the strong urges of his protective instinct and succinctly informed Gordon about Xavier.
“Did you say Anthony Turner?” Gordon asked when Tilden mentioned the top’s name.
“Yes.”
“We warned him off several times.” Gordon turned the full power of his stare toward Fiona and Matthew. “Numerous times the Green Mountain Boys have offered to lend their assistance to the network, and every time we have been rebuffed, often may I add quite rudely. We are aware of the gentleman in question and could have prevented this abuse.”
“Alleged abuse,” Matthew retorted. “I only have Tilden’s word that a problem occurred.”
“Tilden is an experienced top who I do not believe falls victim to the sensationalism that appears on your national television networks. If he reports abuse, I can assure you it’s correct. We are also familiar with Mr. Turner; he has quite a reputation with those in the know.”
“You can’t just barge in here and accuse us of covering up abuse and misconduct,” Fiona blustered. “I should call the police and have you arrested for trespassing.”
“Feel free to call the local police. However let me remind you I regularly lunch with Mr. Davis, the head of news programming for the Prime Star network. I think you might want to call your programming director before you act rashly. An investigative coup against a competing network would be quite a prize.” Gordon reached into his pants pocket, pulled a cell phone out, and began to dial.
“I think we can ignore the irregularities of your arrival this time,” Matthew said. “I believe our next course of action should be for you to speak to the young man in question.”
Gordon clicked his phone shut. “Please lead the way.” Gordon must have noticed Tilden’s concerned glance toward the kitchen. “Your boys are fine. I brought several people with me, and they’re helping in the kitchen. Your Mike is a bit of a spitfire.”
Tilden nodded and gave Gordon a slight smile.
Gordon reached out and laid a hand on Tilden’s shoulder for a brief second. “Hopefully we’ll talk later, but let’s straighten out the situation with Xavier first.
Xavier lifted his head from the pillow when they stepped into the room. He’d pulled the covers up to his chin, and he stared at the people crowding into the room. Gordon, with easy efficiency, took one glance at Xavier and herded everyone from the room except Tilden and himself.
“It’s OK,” Tilden said, seating himself on the edge of the bed and resting his hand on Xavier’s shoulder. “This is Gordon Lewis. He’s a friend, and he’ll help you.”
Gordon didn’t say anything, but his eyes communicated his gratitude at the introduction. He walked over and perched on the bed next to Tilden. “I understand you’ve had a rough time. Will you let me take a look?”
Xavier looked at Tilden, his eyes filling with tears. Tilden wiped a stray tear from the boy’s cheek. “It’ll be OK,” Tilden said softly.
Xavier nodded and buried his face in the pillows. Gordon gently placed his hand on the boy’s neck. “I’m going to lift your shirt now and pull your pants down.” Xavier stiffened, but he didn’t resist. Gordon studied the welts on the back, tracing a finger down a fresh mark. “You were hit last night. Why?”
“I forgot to pack his red tie.” 
Tilden wanted to shout that forgotten ties were not a cause for violence, but Gordon warned him with a look to remain quiet.
Gordon pulled Xavier’s T-shirt back down. “I would like to have a chat with you. I know you have no reason to trust me. I’m a dominant, and you’ve been hurt by a person who calls himself a dominant. I don’t expect you to trust me, but I will protect you. Anthony Turner will never touch you again.”
“How can you promise that?” Xavier cried, wincing as he sat up in bed. “He’ll find me. I have nowhere to go.”
“You have plenty of places to go,” Gordon said calmly.
“No, I don’t. I don’t have family or money. My family in Africa can’t afford another mouth to feed, and I don’t have any family in France. Getting beat is better than being homeless.”
“That’s not a choice you have to make. Now look at me and listen.” Gordon said, a slight hint of firmness to his voice. “Being hysterical will not help the situation. I have several options, which I will outline for you, but you need to listen.”
“Yes, sir, I’m sorry, sir.”
“There’s my good boy,” Gordon said, giving Xavier a gentle smile. Xavier relaxed with the praise. “May I touch you?” Gordon asked and got a small nod in return. Gordon pulled Xavier up into his lap and settled the boy against his chest. “You’re safe with me.” They sat for several minutes neither speaking until Gordon broke the silence. “I’m sure Tilden’s partners are missing him. Will you be all right if he goes downstairs? Then we can talk as long as you want.”
“I think so,” Xavier mumbled.
“Go. Trust me.” Gordon mouthed at Tilden over Xavier’s head. Tilden gave Gordon a searching look and reluctantly rose from the bed. 


The kitchen was alive with activity. Several men, whom Tilden had never seen before, were working at the long counters. One was giving Brad and earful about the proper use of a knife, and Brad, catching sight of Tilden, rolled his eyes and shrugged. Mike and Luke were making individual pies, decorating each with crust cut in the shape of Christmas trees and stars under the direction of a man in a white chef’s coat. Two near giants were standing inside the door, occasionally giving soft words of encouragement or gentle chastisements to the throng of industrious young men but mostly scanning the hallway as if expecting unwanted visitors. Both men’s ski sweaters barely contained their thick necks and massive chests. Only Milton and Gordon could come up with a plethora of professional chefs and sympathetic body guards in the wilds of Vermont in less than two hours, Tilden thought with a wry smile.
Both Mike and Luke spotted Tilden and abandoned their baking. Tilden wrapped his arms around his brats, enjoying the warmth and security of his two partners. “So you set the Green Mountain Boys on me,” Tilden teased softly.
“I told Milton. I didn’t know he’d call them. You’re not mad are you? That’s the Gordon from the story with the caning, isn’t it?” Mike said, his eyes expressing his anxiety.
“I’m not mad,” Tilden reassured. “I’m proud I have such resourceful partners.”
“Is Xavier all right?” Luke asked softly, worming his way under Tilden’s arm.
“He will be.”
“His partner hurt him?” Mike said it more as a statement than a question.
“Yes, we’ll talk about it later.” Tilden patted Mike on the rump. “I think you two have baking to attend to.”
“Da, uvazhaemii professor,” Luke teased.
“Well respected professor. I like that. Now off to work.” Luke skipped over to the pies, dragging Mike with him. “Is there anything you want me to do?” Tilden asked the crowd in general.
“I’ve been told you’re a menace in the kitchen,” the man in the chef’s hat said. “Can you manage to chop parsley?”
“I think I can manage that.” 
The chef handed Tilden an enormous pile of parsley. “Mince—that means finely chop.”
Several of the men cooking laughed at the chef’s comment.
“Does he treat you this way?” Tilden said, pretending to be affronted. 
“No, you’re the only one who has set a kitchen on fire,” the chef said.
“Will I ever live that down, and how did you find out?”
“That type of news gets around.” The man in the chef’s jacket gave Tilden a small smile with a raised eyebrow. “You know how that is? We gossip. Oh, and I’m Armand by the way. My partner’s Kit. He’s the muscle hunk with the black hair; the other one’s Everett, and helping me in the kitchen are Sidney and Wayne. Sidney waved a salt shaker at Tilden. Wayne seemed more reserved and nodded his head, his brown curls scattering across his forehead. “We’ve got it covered. Chop the parsley and leave the rest to us.”
Tilden nodded. They did seem to be comfortably in charge. He wasn’t sure who were the submissives and who were the dominants, but Tilden had no desire to find out. He started to chop the parsley.
“Not like that.” Armand’s hand closed around Tilden’s wrist. “You’re going to cut your fingers off. Plus I want minced parsley, not parsley trees.” Armand rolled his eyes. “I don’t know how a guy can live as long as you have and not even know how to use a knife. We’re not talking brain surgery.”
Tilden started to mumbled something about not cooking when Mike interrupted, “Trent will only let him in the kitchen to make tea. He’s a menace. He burnt the boxed macaroni and cheese once. I didn’t think that was possible.”
“Mishenka,” Tilden rolled the name off his tongue, pretending to be offended. “I should make you eat bread and water for a week for that comment.”
“You’re not that mean,” Mike said, flashing his top a teasing grin. “It would be better than your cooking anyway.”
Tilden tossed a dish towel at Mike. Kit caught the towel in mid flight. The look he gave Tilden expressed his displeasure at flying objects in the kitchen. Tilden gave him an apologetic half smile and tried to focus on the chopping and mincing lesson. Several of the guys snickered, having noticed the silent exchange.
“You’re hopeless,” Armand said, looking in dismay at the parsley pieces that ranged in size from one millimeter to several centimeters. “Go conjugate verbs or whatever you do. I don’t have any easier jobs in the kitchen.”
“I can set the table. I do know where to put the dessert forks and the salad forks.”
Armand nodded. “Get out of here.”
Tilden squeezed the back of Luke’s neck as he headed toward the dining room. Luke turned and gave Tilden a beseeching look, his blue eyes wide and round. “I think this is a two man job.” Tilden dropped his hand around Luke’s waist and guided him into the dining room.
It was about an hour before Tilden saw Gordon on the stairs, his arm wrapped around Xavier’s shoulders. “Do you have anything that needs doing? Our boy here was getting tired of loafing.”
“You’ll have to ask Armand. I’ve been banished from the kitchen,” Tilden said with a smile directed at Xavier.
“The kitchen’s his domain,” Gordon said dryly. “He’s very possessive of his space, even though I think he’s justified in your case.”
Tilden looked away. Gordon sounded like he was teasing, but Tilden wouldn’t let his reserve down with him. 
“When is everyone else due back?” Gordon asked.
“Thirty minutes, according to Fiona.”
Xavier leaned closer to Gordon, and the older top tightened his arm. “You’re safe with me, my lad. He won’t bother you. Why don’t you go help everybody for a minute. I’m sure they missed you.” Gordon unwrapped his arm and gave Xavier a soft push. The boy looked back but did step away. Gordon nodded toward the kitchen, his expression strict.
Gordon waited until Xavier had disappeared before turning to Tilden. “I know you don’t trust me, but I will protect that boy. I have the ability to keep him safe. You don’t have the power or connections I have.”
Tilden stiffened his back. “Don’t patronize me. I’m not the naive boy you caned fifteen years ago.”
“No, you’re not. Hopefully you’re a mature dominant who makes careful and weighted decisions.” Gordon held his hand up when Tilden started to interrupt. “I’m aware I made neither a careful nor weighted decision those many years ago. I assumed you were like Milton. I was wrong. I cannot change that, but right now we need to focus on that young man. He trusts you as much as he trusts anyone, and it will be easier if you support my decisions. I will take him to the lodge and give him a job. He can stay with us as long as he likes.”
“Will you discipline him?”
“That’s between the two of us, but to set your mind at ease, I would require detailed negotiations before I would consider it. That boy needs to understand his rights. Now do you have any more concerns that I can address in private?”
Tilden shrugged. There were thousand of things he’d like to say, but none seemed appropriate at this moment. He didn’t like Gordon, but Gordon was right. They needed to present a unified front.
“I know you don’t like me and don’t trust me,” Gordon said softly. “Try to find the courage in your heart to give me a second chance. I was as wrong as a top can be. We all make mistakes. It is how you handle your mistakes that determines your mettle as a dominant. I freely admit I was wrong, and I hope we can work together and put it behind us. But now we need to take care of Xavier.”
Tilden nodded. “How are you going to keep Anthony away from him?
Gordon shot Tilden a predatory smile. “I know the two senior partners at his firm. I will inform them of their golden boy’s dirty little secret if needed. I play for keeps.”
“I hope you can make good on your promises,” Tilden said.
“I will.” Gordon captured Tilden in his gaze and stared until Tilden dropped his eyes. “Try to trust me.”


The turkey came out of the oven golden brown with crisp, crackled skin. Tilden heard the faint sound of cars pulling into the drive and the front door opening. Gordon and Kit headed purposefully toward the front hall, and Everett looped an arm around Xavier’s waist and pulled him close.
Tilden wasn’t privy to the the exact arrangements, but he’d seen one of Gordon’s many minions bring Anthony’s bags downstairs, and unless he was way off base, Gordon and his well muscled friends were going to make some not very veiled threats and show Mr. Turner to the door.
The TV people were scrambling around setting up for the dinner. They seemed to have stayed out of the whole mess with Xavier—maybe abuse was even too much for the network to stomach. Tilden suspected it had more to do with Gordon knowing the right people. He hadn’t been shy about informing the officious Fiona that he played golf weekly with several big honchos in a competing network who would love to spread vicious truths.
Gordon swept back into the kitchen with a trace of a smug smile playing on his lips. Xavier ran to him and buried himself in the older top’s arms. Tilden watched. Gordon had to be doing something right. Xavier trusted him, and Milton had trusted him enough to ask for help. Tilden, still unable to set his mind at ease, recited a short Lermontov poem to himself. The poems he’d learned early in his career in Russian were always calming. He’d have to face his problem with Gordon.
The dinner went well. Most of the tops were subdued as the rumors quickly spread about the presence of the extra kitchen help and the disappearance of Anthony Turner. Luke and Mike ate as if they hadn’t seen food for a week, and Gordon with a combination of coaxing and light scolding even settled Xavier in front of a substantial plate. Dessert had been served, and it had been announced that the team of Brad and Tilden had won the cooking prize with an unorthodox, but acceptable strategy. The remaining dinners would be catered for the rest of the weekend. Everyone cheered at this news.
Gordon stood and tapped his spoon against his water glass. The alcohol that had flowed so freely before had vanished. Tilden suspected this was also Gordon’s doing. “Gentlemen,” he said twice before a hush fell over the men. “I’m Gordon Lewis of the Green Mountain Boys.” A ripple passed through the crowd at the mention of that fabled name. “From your response, I can see that some of you have heard of our organization. We are a real organization, headquartered in Vermont but with small chapters all over the globe. We are not an urban legend as some of you may have been led to believe. I assure you that we are here to provide assistance to any of you: submissives, dominants, or both together. New relationships are always fraught with difficulties, but new relationships of the type we practice have additional hurdles to overcome, especially when they were created within the artificial confines of a television studio. A disaster was averted today because you were fortunate to have amongst you a top with both experience and training. He is a close friends of a top whom I personally trained, and he recognized and intervened in an inappropriate relationship immediately. His partners were both resourceful and intelligent and placed the first call for help. They have a relationship that all of us can both envy and learn from. Gordon reached over and shook Tilden’s hand, pulling him to his feet. 
“Thank you,” Tilden murmured, feeling himself blush. 
“It is I who should thank you. You didn’t look the other way or pretend you didn’t see. You did the right thing, the honorable thing, and the difficult thing. May all of us dominants remember our duty to all humanity.” Gordon leaned forward and for Tilden’s ears only whispered, “I promise to protect Xavier, or you have my permission to come after me.” Gordon flashed Tilden a quick smile, a smile that had probably had both boys and girls swooning when he younger and was still charming and commanding at the same time. “To your success, gentlemen.” Gordon lifted his water glass before sinking back into the chair.
Armand stood and passed three business cards to every man seated at the table. The first card had a toll free number for the Green Mountain Boys and a number for the lodge in Vermont. The second card was Gordon and his partner’s card with numbers listed around the world and a note scrawled in tiny handwriting, “Call anytime.” The third card was printed on both sides crammed full of names and phone numbers. 
Luke flipped the card over. “Joshua and Milton’s numbers are on this. Who is Andrew Brown?”
“That’s Milton’s grandfather,” Tilden said, scanning the card. “These are the numbers of Green Mountain members located all over the country.”
“Yes,” Armand said, “call any of us anytime. It’s doesn’t have to be because you’re having a problem. It can be merely because you want to talk. I’m happy to discuss baseball at two in the morning if that’s what you need. My partner may not be too keen on my all night chats, but I can make him understand.” Armand flashed Kit a charming grin. Kit growled something unintelligible under his breath. “You can see my hours are a constant bane for my long suffering partner.”
“Brat, don’t bait me in public unless you want turned over my knee in public,” Kit bantered back.
Their teasing broke the formal atmosphere and everyone went back to the coffee and the remnants of the sweets. Some of the chatter was a little too loud and the laughs strained and high pitched, but in general the men tried to act like they were at a normal dinner party. Gordon and his gang, as Tilden thought of them, deftly made their escape while people were having their second helping of pie. Xavier slipped over to say good-bye to Tilden, flanked by the two muscled giants and watched closely by Gordon.
“Thanks,” Xavier whispered.
“You’re very welcome.” Tilden kissed the boy’s cheek. “Be good.”
Gordon caught Xavier in his arms as the boy scrambled back from shyness. “He’ll be good; he’s a good boy.” Gordon didn’t say any more, but Tilden could read in his eyes a promise to watch and guard over the boy. No one else noticed the exchange, and Tilden suspected few even noticed the Green Mountain Boys leaving.They vanished as silently and quickly as they appeared. It was almost like the whole thing had been no more real than a fairy tale.
Two boys, both waiting for him with shining eyes and voices sweeter than the nightingales of poetry. This was Tilden’s fairy tale, a dream that had somehow become a reality better than any fantasy. He caught his boys’ eyes and smiled. They had found each other and every minute minute was a reminder of the bindings of affection and love between them. It was a fairy tale with a far less chaste ending than the tales of his childhood.


Lost and Found 10


Chapter 10

The sedan car pulled up to an enormous gate set between two stone pillars. Mike thought they were in Vermont. After years of his parents dumping him all over the world, he’d become an expert at figuring out locations from the back of the car even when the driver was attempting to confuse him. The driver had driven around Burlington twice before heading back south toward Bristol and Middlebury.
The driver’s side window slid down with a hiss, and the young man dressed in a stereotypical chauffeur’s uniform complete with cap waved a card in front of a hidden sensor on the stone pillar. A massive iron gate began its slow journey, no longer blocking the narrow asphalt strip that wound between the barren trees. Before the window returned to its place, a cold blast of air swirled through the overheated car compartment. It must have been five degrees colder than in Boston. Mike reached for his coat that he’d stripped off earlier. Tilden had explained something about the increased warmth from being on the coast, but Mike was still shocked at the difference.
The car continued slowly up the path. In the dim glare of the headlights, Mike could see little until they pulled up to an enormous house ablaze with lights. Several other identical sedan cars were parked in the circular drive, with bellhops toting bags up the stairs and onto the wide porch. A uniformed bellhop opened the door and signaled to the occupants that they should exit.
“Welcome to the Inn at Bridge Falls. You’re in room three thirty-three.” He pressed an old-fashioned brass key into Tilden’s hand. “Make yourself comfortable. We’ll handle all the luggage. There’ll be a meeting in the great room in forty-five minutes. Enjoy your stay.”
Mike discreetly felt for the money belt concealed under his baggy pants. Sheldon had warned them that the producers would search their luggage for any contraband material, especially cell phones and pocket computers. Tilden had been loath to place his family entirely at the mercy of television producers enslaved to ratings and advertising dollars, and all three members of the family had hidden phones, cash, and a bankcard for emergencies.
The room was spacious with an extra large king-sized bed plus a pullout sofa. A bowl of fresh fruit sat on the table, and the mini bar was stocked with a wide variety of alcohol. 
“Look at this,” Mike said, pulling open the refrigerator, “beer, wine, and vodka. We’re all set.”
“Is there any water or soda?” Tilden asked.
“I don’t see any.” Mike said.
“That figures,” Tilden said with a grimace. “Alcohol loosens the tongue.”
“You’re not going to let us have any, are you?” Mike asked.
“What do you think, Mishenka?” Tilden reached over and lightly swatted Mike on the hip.
“No, big, bad top won’t let us near that stuff.”
“You’ve got that right.” Tilden said with a grin. “We’ll all enjoy this a lot more if we don’t create any television moments. Ti ponimaesh?
Yest’,” both brats said in unison, mocking the Russian military movie they’d seen last night.
“I like that.” Tilden smiled. “Yes, sir and no, sir, we should have no problems. I didn’t even ask you, Luka. Do you have a guilty conscious?”
“No, I was just saving you time.”
“Brat,” Tilden said with a laugh, trilling his tongue over the consonants like he was speaking Russian.


The great room was full of tops and brats when Tilden, Mike, and Luke entered. A variety of finger foods had been spread out on the table along with glasses of wine. Tilden grabbed a staff member and demanded water. The poor woman scurried off to what Mike assumed was the kitchen and came back with half a dozen water bottles still wrapped in the plastic from the store.
“It’s warm,” Luke muttered.
“Yes, but it’s not alcoholic. This isn’t negotiable, guys, so don’t even try.”
“And I thought Russians drank like fish,” Mike groused.
“There’s a time and a place, and this is not it,” Tilden said emphatically. 
Cotton had come out of the throng of fellow contestants when he spotted them and was now standing to Luke’s left. Tilden reached over, grabbed the glass of wine from Cotton, set it behind him on a low table, and replaced it with a bottle of water.
“Hey,” Cotton muttered more at Luke than at Tilden. “Does he always do that?”
“Don’t mind him,” Mike said. “He’s on an anti-alcohol campaign.”
“He’s right,” Brad said, having slipped up beside his partner. He hooked an arm around Cotton’s  waist and ruffled his fair hair. “We’ll have some of that water.”
Cotton leaned against Brad. “Bully,” he murmured with no heat in his voice.
“You like me this way.” Brad hugged his partner tighter. 
“Everything going well?” Tilden asked in the polite, open-ended way that Mike recognized as a top prying while pretending to express only polite interest. Mike had heard the same question innumerable times from all the tops.
“Better,” Brad said with a smile. “He hasn’t shown up on your doorstep again.”
“Brad,” Cotton whined.
“I’m only teasing you, babe.”
A strident female voice interrupted their chit-chat. Mike didn’t recognize her; it wasn’t the infamous Fiona. “Gentlemen, can you settle down, please. We need to get started. Please, come sit down.” She was pointing toward a row of sofas and chairs that had been arranged in front of an enormous fireplace. Several bucks endowed with impressive antlers were mounted above the mantle, along with photos of celebrities posing with fresh carcasses, completing the hunting lodge effect. 
Tilden kept a hand on both his partners as he guided them to a seat on the sectional. Brad and Cotton managed to squeeze in next to them. Mike didn’t pay much attention to the woman who droned on about the upcoming events and projects. He was more interested in observing the men in front of him. Luke had tried to fill him in on his fellow brats, but Luke freely admitted that he’d spent most of the time prior to the selection hiding in the corner and anxiously preparing questions for the prospective tops. Tilden hadn’t been much better, and he was a top, for God’s sake. He was supposed to be observing his surroundings and preparing for any eventual emergency. Instead it seemed he’d been as nervous as Luke. Tilden had been able to point out the couple in the impossibly tight pants. The top was the owner of Farolitos in Palm Springs, Miami, and New York, and the brat had been some sort of second rate nightclub singer. Mike watched the two of them as they openly flirted with each other and anyone within range. Mike thought he’d probably end up over Tilden’s knee in a heartbeat if he acted like that, let alone wore those pants. They’d surely go out with the next load to the thrift shop. Mike fingered the stud in his ear. He was the only one in the household who wore jewelry, and while none of the tops suggested he remove it, somehow, he thought, anything more flamboyant would land him in a heap of trouble.
Mike recognized the powerfully built gymnast who despite the cold was wearing a pair of wind pants and a flimsy T-shirt that did nothing to hide his well developed pecs. Mike couldn’t tell who was the gymnast’s partner as several guys circled around him, eyeing his ripped body. Next to the fire in an oversized armchair, a prosperous looking guy, his pressed khakis hitched up to show expensive Italian shoes, pulled a slight, almost boyish figure down in his lap. Mike thought he saw the boy flinch and stiffen as the man touched him. It was but a fleeting instant, but the impression seemed real. Mike turned his eyes toward Tilden, whose eyes were also on the two figures in the armchair. Tilden gave Mike a brisk nod as if to reassure and to acknowledge that he’d also seen something.
The hostess was droning on about decorating the Christmas tree and preparing holiday meals when Mike realized that Tilden had been chosen to lead the brats in the preparation of the holiday feast. It was to mimic the Thanksgiving spread as closely as possible. Mike hoped that one of the brats was a secret gourmet. Tilden might be able to manage burgers and mets on the grill, or at least if he failed, the fire would be outside—roast turkey, impossible. Tilden was allowed one companion top to assist him. The hostess was discussing the virtue of several tops with experience in the restaurant or catering business, but much to everyone’s surprise Tilden chose Brad Roberts.
“I can only manage TV dinners,” the vet said.
“Well, you’re doing better than me. I can boil water on a good day.” Then in an undertone meant only for Brad’s ears as the the others around them either chuckled or groaned at the announcement of their lack of cooking skills, “I trust you. We’ll manage the dinner somehow.” Mike heard despite the noise around him.
The hostess went on to explain the requirements of the meal and to promise either punishment or reward if the meal was a success.
“After our cooking, a bread and water regime might seem like a reward,” Brad joked.
“I bet the reward is dinner catered in from a fine restaurant for the next day,” Luke said. The hostess shot him a hostile look and Luke just grinned. “I told you so,” he said, elbowing Mike.
“The remaining tops are going on an expedition to find the perfect Christmas tree and holiday decorations to brighten the inn for the upcoming holiday season. Dinner will be a late lunch, served at two. After breakfast, the entire morning may be devoted to its preparation. Are you ready, gentlemen?”
“Of course,” Tilden said with a smile. “The master chef awaits the challenge.”
The hostess raised her eyebrows. “I’ve heard about your culinary skills. Master chef seems to be overstating it.”
“I have plenty of assistance,” Tilden said with a smile that encompassed all the brats in the room. 
Mike was struck by how easily his top was connecting with the remaining brats. He’d always thought that was more Milton’s forte to wade into the fray and sort out perfect strangers. But then again Tilden did teach, and this was exactly how he managed the classroom—a friendly smile with a hint of steel underneath. It was the friendly smile and Tilden’s eyes, the dancing violet flecks, that had kept Mike in the class after Tilden had handed out the syllabus with an obvious abundance of work. Of course, he hadn’t figured out the hidden steel until he found himself in an academic quagmire, and Tilden pulled him out of the swamp kicking and screaming. Mike smiled to himself; he wondered if any of these young men were going to find out that Tilden wasn’t the friendly pushover he was portraying. Woe to the unsuspecting. Mike doubted that Tilden would physically punish a near stranger, but he’d seen the results of Tilden dressing down a student, and it wasn’t pretty. 
Mike remembered the Russian major whom Tilden had verbally flattened. He thought the student was a junior or a senior who’d stopped by to see Tilden in his office. The student had ducked his head in the door, stammering and staring at his feet. Much to Mike’s surprise, Tilden had kicked both Luke and him out. They usually stayed in the office while Tilden tutored students or helped unsnarl a thorny problem in Russian grammar. The student had come out of the office about twenty minutes later, leaned against the wall, and drawn in a lung full of air as if he’d been holding his breath the entire time he was in the office.
“You two live with him?” he said as a half question. “More power to you. I thought he was going to have my head on a platter. I guess it’s still on my neck.” The student made a show of feeling his neck. “Oh and I’m Pyotr, a poor bastard who’s majoring in Russian.”
“So why’s he upset with you?” Mike asked.
“You don’t beat around the bush, do you?”
“It comes with the territory,” Mike said with a shrug.
“I handed in a not so hot paper, ghastly really. Tikhon Ivanovich, Professor Blake described it as less than my best work by far, and that was charitable. He was decidedly not impressed that I drank too much at a friend’s wedding. Something about organization and priorities. I don’t know. He was talking too fast in Russian for me to get all of it, and I didn’t think asking for the translation was a smart move.”
“Petya, don’t you have work to do?” Tilden said from the doorway.
“Yes, I was just leaving.”
“You were commiserating with my partners that I’m an overbearing ogre. Now go.”
Pyotr fled, but not before his face turned a flaming red.
If Tilden had that effect on students, Mike could imagine the reaction of the brats. They, along with the TV people, were in for a shock. The hostess thought Tilden was going to be a pushover and chaos would reign tomorrow, making for excellent TV. Mike could almost see her salivating over the prospect.
After a few more instructions, mostly for a future TV audience, the meeting broke up. Tilden circled among his fellow contestants, making light chit-chat before heading upstairs with an excuse that he had a stack of papers to grade. Mike, Luke, and Cotton grabbed a table and lounged in front of the flickering firelight. Two brats, beer bottles in hand, pulled up chairs and joined them.
“So you’re the threesome?” the shorter of the two with a fuzz of a goatee on his chin asked.
“That’s us,” Mike said, pointing at Luke. I’m Mike. That’s Luke, and across the table is Cotton.”
“I’m Jordan,” the young man with the goatee said. “My buddy’s Peyton. “Have a drink, man.”
“No thanks,” Luke said.
“I saw your top disappear upstairs. He looked like he was calling it a night. What’s one beer?” Peyton asked.
“Pass it over,” Mike said. “It’s not like we’ve got any homework to do. They got all big and looming and made us do it Wednesday night. Can you believe it? A vacation and we had to do five hours of homework Wednesday and another few hours Thursday morning.”
“They’re obsessed with school,” Luke said, reaching for a beer and taking a big swallow.  “God, I haven’t had a beer in ages. I forgot how good it tastes.”
“Yeah, I know.” Mike wiped the back of his mouth with his hand. 
“Cotton, you want one?” Peyton said, passing him a bottle.
“No thanks. Brad’s still circling around somewhere. I’m treading carefully right now. Brad’s way too chummy with your tops and their methods,” Cotton said with a wry grin. “I think they let the genie out of the lamp.” Cotton rubbed his butt. 
Luke raised an eyebrow as if he wanted to ask if Cotton had been spanked again.
“Oh, yeah, twice,” Cotton said. “You’d think I’d learn.”
“Never,” Mike said with a laugh. “You should talk to Sheldon, the champion spankee.”
“Who’s Sheldon?” Jordan asked.
“A housemate,” Mike said.
“King of brats,” Luke added.
“You weren’t putting me on when you said Milton spanked him at least once a week?” Cotton asked.
Luke shook his head. “I don’t think he’s even made it through a whole week.”
“Shit. You’re kidding me,” Jordan said, finishing one beer bottle and opening the next. I don’t think my partner has the balls to spank me. He tried the corner thing once, but I thought the whole business was laughable. He just lectures. It’s like listening to my mom. ‘Your behavior is regrettable.’” Jordan laughed.
Mike laughed. “Who’s your top? He sounds easy.”
“He’s a wimp. Maynard’s over there with the wine glass, talking to two other tops. He’s probably talking about the merits of the paintings or the furniture quality. All he ever does is drag me to gallery openings and talk about art. God, this will be the longest six months of my life.”
Luke looked up from his beer. “Why do you stay with him?”
“It’s free room and board, and maybe I’ll get famous being on TV. Some guys have jumped from reality TV to mainstream acting careers.” Jordan shrugged. “It could be worse. He’s got plenty of dough and a nice house, even if it is crammed full of his precious antiques.”
“You’re with that teacher guy aren’t you?” Peyton asked with a slight slur in his voice.
Mike had started his second beer, but from the sound of Peyton he’d been drinking since they’d arrived. Mike studied his fellow brat. Peyton looked about Luke’s height, with black hair cut into a short, spiked look. He was wearing jeans that were threadbare over his ass with a tight shirt; not much was left to the imagination.
“You like what you see,” Peyton said and licked his lips before running his hand down his own chest. “I’m sure we could have some fun. It’s not like I’m getting much.”
“Nah.” Mike shook his head. “I’m taken.”
“Good brat.” Peyton smiled at Mike. His perfectly white teeth flashed in a shiny row. “You believe in this top and brat shit. Henry tried to spank me once, and I told him where he could go. A hot little spanking before bed is cool, but dudes, this discipline shit is for the birds. My partner would have to be a lot hotter than Henry before I’d let him tell me what to do.” 
Mike fingered his beer bottle. Tilden was hot in a nerdy sort of way, and he certainly did tell Mike what to do, and alcohol wasn’t on the agenda. He looked over at Luke, who had peeled the wrapper off his bottle and was shredding it into thin confetti like strips. Luke’s cheeks pinked under Mike’s gaze. Mike knew without Luke saying anything that they were both thinking the same thing. If Tilden found out, they were both in trouble. 
“What are you two staring at?” Jordan said. “I’m facing the stairs; I’ll warn you if I see your top.”
“It’s nothing,” Mike said, embarrassed. He didn’t want to reveal that a very real spanking probably lay in front of him.
“He doesn’t forbid drinking?” Peyton said incredulously. “What an overbearing prick!”
Neither Luke nor Mike said anything. Mike tried to laugh in an easy manner as if the whole idea of drinking being forbidden was ridiculous and reached for another beer. To his own ears, his laugh sounded false, like a bad actor in an elementary school play. They chatted for another few minutes, talking about the usual inconsequential things that filled the hours at parties. Several other brats wandered over, said a few words, and wandered off. A few tops also strolled over. None, at least in Mike’s opinion, were impressive, and no one said a word about the growing pile of beer bottles on the table.
Mike felt a strong hand on his shoulder and turned. Tilden loomed over his shoulder, his eyebrows drawn tightly together. “Upstairs now, both of you. Cotton, go find Brad. It’s getting late. And you two,” he said, addressing Jordan and Peyton, “leave your bottles here and go find your partners.”
Mike didn’t hear the rest of the conversation because he was already halfway up the stairs. He didn’t want Tilden to swat him in public, other brats or not, and Tilden’s expression looked none too promising.
The room was quiet. A light burned over the desk where a stack of papers stood partially graded. Mike could see Tilden’s fine, spidery handwriting filling the margins. Mike sighed and ran his hand through his short, brown hair. 
“I think maybe we should be in the corner,” Luke said. “Did you see Tilden’s expression?”
“Yeah, I saw.” Mike wrapped his arm around Luke’s shoulder and leaned against his smaller partner. “I hate disappointing him. I didn’t even really want a beer.” Mike hung his head, and they both walked toward the only empty corner in the room.
Mike heard the door open several minutes later. He wanted to turn, but he stayed facing the wall, his finger tracing the pattern on the intricate wallpaper. Luke’s head was down, and he was slumped against the wall. Mike heard a zipper and the sound of Tilden sinking down onto the sofa.
“Boys, come sit down.” Tilden’s voice sounded tired. Tilden sat in the middle of the sofa and indicated that Mike should sit on his left and Luke on his right. “Since you were both in the corner, it’s not like you forgot, or it was unclear. You knew drinking was forbidden,” Tilden shook his head sadly. His gaze was weary, and his eyes were troubled as he studied his two partners. 
The silence stretched through the room. Mike listened to the whisper of the air blowing through the heating ducts.
“I trusted you, both of you,” Tilden said when the silence had seemed to stretch to eternities. His voice sharpened, more the the voice that Mike was used to when they were in trouble, a hard staccato sound. “Was there anything unclear about my directive not to drink?”
“No, sir,” Luke whispered, blinking hard to try to keep the tears from escaping.
“No,” Mike mumbled. “It was wrong, stupid. I’m sorry.” Mike bit his cheek to hold back the sobs. Mike could see the paddle sitting on Tilden’s lap, looking like an innocent, cutting board. God, he hated all this analysis of his behavior.  Couldn’t Tilden just get on with it? When Tilden went into lecture mode, he never stopped. It was like he developed a second and even a third wind.
“Was it impossible to comply with my instructions?” Tilden asked.
“No, sir,” Mike said, wiping his hands on his pants.
“No, sir,” Luke echoed. His eyes were impossibly wide, and he reached up to wipe a stray tear from his cheek.
Tilden took a deep breath and stretched his shoulders back. “This relationship is about trust. I agree to help enforce rules for all three of us, and you agree to submit to my decisions. You have to take an active part in it—choose to play by the rules. I don’t see that here.” Tilden sat back on the sofa and crossed his legs. Unlike most of the conversations before a punishment, Tilden wasn’t touching his partners; he wasn’t offering physical reassurance. It was as if he were waiting for them to make the first move.
Luke leaned his head against Tilden’s chest and stopped trying to prevent the tears. Tilden’s arm went around Luke’s shoulder, pulling him close, offering comfort but not trying to quiet him.
Mike folded his hands on his lap. He wished he could ask for the comfort, surrender to Tilden the way Luke could. He pulled his knees to his chest, wrapping his arms around himself, staring off into the distance. Mike felt a heavy hand on his shoulder, and he was yanked against Tilden’s chest.
“Stop this. You don’t withdraw into a private cocoon. What went wrong?”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to,” tumbled out of Mike’s mouth.
“You didn’t mean to drink. The beer magically appeared on the table.” Tilden didn’t hide the sarcasm in his voice.
“No!” Mike wailed. “You’re not listening.”
“Talk to me, Misha. I will always listen. Right now you’re not talking to me. You’re whining and protesting because I caught you.”
“No,” Mike shouted. “That’s not it.” He jerked out from under Tilden’s arm, sprang up, and started pacing.
“Sit down, Mishenka”
“No.”
“That wasn’t a request.” The words were said mildly, but the intent was obvious. Tilden shifted Luke from his chest in preparation to get up. He reached for the paddle.
“Mike, sit down,” Luke pleaded. “Don’t take this any further.”
Mike hesitated before spitting back, “I’m not a good brat.”
“You’re not trying.” Tilden said in Mike’s ear. 
He’d moved shockingly fast. Mike thought Tilden had been sitting on the sofa, and now he had Mike firmly by the arm, facing the wall. 
The paddle swung down sharply. “You do not run away. You talk to me.” Tilden punctuated each word with a paddle stroke.
Mike gasped and squirmed. He always forgot how much this hurt. Even through his jeans, Tilden had a powerful stroke. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” Mike choked. “I didn’t mean to disobey you.”
“You didn’t mean to take a drink?” Tilden continued to spank Mike.
“No, you’re not understanding me. I knew I was drinking.” Mike let out a wail when an extra hard swat landed. “I wasn’t thinking. I know it looks like we intentionally blew you off. I’m sorry. It was stupid.” The words poured out of Mike’s mouth in a rapid jumble. “Please stop. I’m sorry.” 
Tilden spun Mike around and pressed his partner to his chest. “Mishenka, I’ve got you.”
Mike didn’t try to stop the tears as he sagged into Tilden’s chest. He let Tilden guide him back to the sofa. Mike shifted uncomfortably when his tender rump hit the serge of the couch cushion.
“Shh,” Tilden crooned. I’ve got both you.” Tilden’s hand stroked down Mike’s back. “You two need to learn to talk to me.” 
Mike shifted, and Tilden pulled him up into his lap. “I’m too tall for this.” Mike squirmed.
“Sit still. I want you here, so you’re going to sit here. It’s that simple.”
Mike leaned back against Tilden’s chest. It did feel good to sit here, his head tucked under Tilden’s chin, Luke lying against both their shoulders.
They sat silently for several minutes before Luke spoke, his voice hardly above a whisper. “Drinking was like telling you to fuck off. We didn’t mean that.”
“Language,” Tilden said with a glint of his usual humor back in his voice. He kept one arm around Luke and held Mike tight in his lap. “Tell me why I’m displeased,” he asked Mike.
“It was an intentional disobedience, a flaunting of the rules.” Mike buried his head in Tilden’s shoulder. He hadn’t intended to hurt Tilden. He just wanted to feel normal—like one of the guys.
“Why did you do it?” Tilden persisted.
“I didn’t want to feel different.”
“Cotton wasn’t drinking.”
“His top was downstairs.”
“Do I need to watch you every minute?”
“No,” both Luke and Mike chorused.
“That’s what it looks like. If I’m not present to enforce the rules, you ignore them.”
Mike hung his head. What could he say? It was exactly what they did. “How do we make this all right?” Mike asked.
“What do you want me to do?”
“You’re going to paddle us,” Luke said softly.
“Yes, that’s a given for intentional disobedience and drinking.”
“What else? Do you want to cane us?” Luke muttered into Tilden’s side.
“God, no!” Tilden took a deep breath. “Do you need me to?”
“You don’t have a cane.” Mike said. 
“Milton does.”
“It hurts,” Mike said with a shudder.
“Have you ever been caned?” Tilden asked.
“No, but I’ve read about it.”
“Do you want or need me to hurt you like that?” Tilden didn’t quite suppress a shudder of his own.
“It would hurt you more than it hurt us,” Mike said, pulling himself forward so he could study his top’s face.
“When did you get so smart? Maybe I should always spank you before we talk.”
“Please don’t,” Mike said with a twisted smile. “It hurt.”
“You need to talk to me.” Tilden said, pulling both his partners close. “This isn’t a one man show. I can’t do this by myself. This is about trust. And I’m not sure I can trust you right now.”
“Do you want to ground us?” Mike asked. 
“Luka, you’ve been quiet. What do you think?”
“You’re the top. Can’t you decide?” Luke chewed on his lip.
“Will it help you make a better decision? Punishment is not about making you miserable but teaching you something.”
Mike watched Tilden, hoping he’d make the decision, but Tilden sat and waited. Mike played with the cuffs on his sweater before answering. “I think I can speak for Luke here also. We won’t do it again, and we’d like a chance to prove it. If you ground us, we can’t prove our good faith to you.”
Tilden ran his hand down Mike’s back but didn’t say anything for several minutes. “Tak,” he said in that long drawn out way which meant he was still formulating his thoughts as he spoke. “You’re both getting paddled. That’s not negotiable. I won’t ground you, but you have early bedtime until we get home. In bed by nine.”
Mike wanted to complain about being sent to bed at an hour suitable for a fourth grader, but he kept his mouth closed. It could’ve been a lot worse. Mike’s stomach clenched as Tilden shifted him off his lap. The next time he was on Tilden’s lap it would be face down.
“Luka, let’s get this done.” Tilden patted his thighs.
Luke stood and fumbled with the button on his corduroys until Tilden unfastened it and slid his partner’s pants down. Mike watched as Tilden positioned Luke over his lap. Mike screwed his eyes shut. He couldn’t watch any more; this was worse than getting spanked himself.
The first swat landed. Mike heard the crack of a hand against bare flesh.  It seemed so loud, louder than when he was across Tilden’s knees. Jeremiah could probably explain the difference—something about sound waves, Mike thought. He wished he had earplugs. Only a few swats had fallen, and Luke was already crying. Mike curled into a ball, willing himself to think of anything else. His brain wandered into long forgotten high school physics problems—force equals mass times acceleration. What was it with these physics equations? He hadn’t liked physics in high school.
Mike jerked as if the swat had landed on his backside. The sound had changed; Tilden had switched to the paddle. He was spanking fast now, and Luke was making incoherent noises between a wail and a sob. Suddenly the paddling stopped, and the cries seemed louder without the sound of wood against flesh to mask the sobbing. Mike could hear Tilden whispering something to Luke. Words of comfort and forgiveness, Mike was sure. Tilden always forgave them no matter how stupid their behavior. 
Luke’s sobs changed to choking sounds and sniffles when Tilden stood and guided his partner to the corner. “Let me take care of Misha, druzhok.”
Tilden reseated himself on the sofa and guided Mike to his right side. Mike didn’t resist and started to push his pants down. He positioned himself over Tilden’s lap. With his height, he never fit as comfortably as Luke. He always felt unsure what to do with his hands. Should he fold his arms and bury his head in his arms on the sofa, or should he rest his weight on his fingertips and let his head hang down? His internal debate was interrupted by the first swat. Mike jerked and felt his breath hiss from his lungs. God, he was already sore. Mike didn’t try to stop the tears that came almost immediately. He jerked and plunged at each swat.
Mike couldn’t stop himself; he reached back to shield his scorched butt. Tilden caught Mike’s hand and pinned it to his back. “Hang in there, Mishenka. Breathe for me.”
Mike took several ragged gasping breaths and felt Tilden shift his weight. Shit, the paddle, Mike thought as the first blow came crashing down. Some sound came from Mike’s throat that he couldn’t name, something combining all the qualities of a screech, a groan, and a sob. Mercifully Tilden was quick. Mike quickly found himself on his knees between Tilden’s thighs sobbing incoherently. Tilden was trying to soothe him. Mike didn’t understand the words. He wasn’t sure if it was because Tilden was speaking in Russian or because Mike’s brain wasn’t working at full throttle. His nervous system seemed to be overwhelmed by the flames licking his butt, preventing all other coherent nerve impulses, including those of thought and speech.
Vsyo normal’no s’chas. Ya lyublyu tebya.”
Tilden was speaking in Russian, Mike thought as his head began to clear. He felt Tilden draw him to his feet and help him step out of the tangle of pants and shoes around his ankles. Tightly pressed against Tilden’s chest, they gathered up Luke from the corner, and they all fell into a heap on the bed.

******

Tilden woke to the sound of furious knocking and the rattle and shake of someone trying to force a door open. “I’ll be right there,” he called, hoping his partners would sleep through the racket. Last night had been rough. He’d spanked harder, and his partners had cried longer than he liked. He hoped he’d done the right thing, especially with Mike, who’d had more than half a spanking before Tilden even pulled his dark-haired partner over his knee. He wished Milton was here; he’d know the answers to these kind of questions, or if he didn’t he’d reassuringly fake it, Tilden thought with a wry grin. Maybe he could slip away to a quiet spot and call home for some advice. That seemed unlikely when the TV people were already pounding on his door at five thirty in the morning.
Tilden pulled on a robe and padded to the door. He moved the chair lodged under the handle and opened it a crack, forcing the rude knocker back rather than letting him into the room.
A young man, not more than Mike or Luke’s age, stumbled back into the hallway, looking embarrassed. “I’m sorry. I’ve been ordered by the production staff to wake you.” The boy swallowed and stuffed his hands into his pockets.
“At five thirty in the morning. Was Fiona by any chance behind this?”
“Yes, Ms. Moore insisted. I’m sorry, sir.”
“You don’t have to call me sir, and I know it’s your job, and she’s your boss. Will you give me a few minutes to wake my partners at my own pace?”
“Yes, sir. You need to be at breakfast by six thirty.”
“We’ll be there,” Tilden said with an easier smile than he felt. His partners were going to be sore and tired. He would rather have let them sleep in.
“Thank you, sir, for being so kind.”
“Is waking people usually an unpleasant chore?” Tilden asked, his eyebrows rising.
“Yeah, the last reality show I worked on one of the contestants punched me and another hung me over a balcony railing. You’re really nice. I wasn’t sure after...”
“You heard last night?”
“Ah—yes, sir. Everybody said you were royally pissed that your partners were drinking, and I could hear the crying. The walls aren’t that thick.”
“I see,” Tilden said, running his fingers through his short hair. “I’m a top, not a bully. I don’t make it a habit to threaten strange young men who have the unpleasant job of waking me before the rooster crows. Now don’t you have more people to wake?”
The boy nodded, and a wistful look came over his face. “Your partners are lucky.”
“I’m not sure they’d agree with you this morning.” Tilden laughed.
“I’m sure they do. I watched their eyes on you yesterday.”
“You’re too good for my ego.” Tilden put his hand on the young man’s shoulder and pushed him down the hall. “Go on now. Get back to work before we have Fiona up here breathing fire. You’ll find someone, kid.” Tilden murmured to the boy’s departing back.
“I wish,” the boy said, looking back over his shoulder with dark, pleading eyes.
“Stop it.” Tilden sharpened his tone. He didn’t need this kid dreaming over him for the next few days.
“Sorry,” the kid muttered before fleeing down the hall but not without giving Tilden another long look, emphasizing those sweet innocent eyes.
“Brat.” Tilden laughed to himself. That kid was going to be a charming handful for someone. 
Mike and Luke had slept through the noise and were curled around each other. Tilden longed to crawl back under the blankets and cuddle with his two partners, but instead he headed to the bathroom to shower and shave. Maybe the noise of the shower would wake them up gently and in good humor.
They were still sleeping when he exited the bathroom freshly showered and shaved. Tilden pulled on a pair of jeans and a flannel shirt. The colors would better absorb any stains made while cooking or attempting to cook. He didn’t think curtains flambé was considered a delicacy.
“Luka, Mishenka, you need to get up.” Tilden drew the blankets back, shook Luke’s shoulder, and tried to untangle him from Mike.
“What time is it?” Luke murmured sleepily, trying to pull the covers back over himself.
“Six.” Tilden continued to pry Luke from the bed.
“It’s vacation. Who gets up at six on vacation?”
“Crazy people who agree to appear on reality TV. Up. Shower. Shave.” Tilden landed a light swat on Luke’s thigh.
“Tyrant.”
“Tsar Tikhon Ivanovich himself,” Tilden teased. “Shower. You’re wasting time.”
Luke headed for the bathroom, and Tilden turned his attention towards Mike, who was playing possum. “Up you go, my sleeping boy.”
Mike groaned. “I’m sore.”
“Turn over and let me have a look.” Tilden ran his hand down the smooth flesh of Mike’s rump. It was a little red, but no bruising. “I’m sure it’s still a little tender.”
“It hurts.”
Tilden kissed his partner’s shoulder and ran his finger tips along the skin interspersed with only a few dark hairs. “Mishenka, is it that bad?”
“No, but this is nice.”
“Brat.” Tilden landed a light swat, aiming off to the side to miss the sorest area. “Get up.”
“Would it hurt more if you caned us?”
“Do you have a fantasy about caning?”
“Luke does.” Tilden could tell from the sound of Mike’s voice that he was embarrassed.
“For fun or for real?”
“For fun, I think. Naughty English schoolboy type thing. I think he’s more crazy than I am.”
“Maybe,” Tilden said slowly. “This isn’t a contest about who’s the more perfect partner. You’re both perfect as far as I’m concerned. We’ll talk about this more when we’re all together and more awake. Now up.” Tilden stood up and hoisted Mike up with him. “Bathroom, brat,” he said in a lighter voice than he felt.
Once Mike was safely in the bathroom, he sat down with a sigh. His partners seemed to have survived last night more intact than he was. Mike even suggested that Luke wanted to try a little play with a nasty implement. Tilden shuddered. How did you cane someone for fun? Tilden knew Milton had been taught to play when he was younger and with the Green Mountain Boys, but it wasn’t something that any of the tops did on a regular basis. Sheldon, for wanting to be spanked at frequent intervals, had made it clear that scenes weren’t his thing, or at least that’s what Tilden thought. If Milton and Sheldon played at home, they kept it a secret. He’d never seen Milton in leather, and the image of a leather clad Milton holding a whip over his cowering partner bordered on the absurd. Tilden blinked, clearing the lion tamer image from his mind. He’d have to talk to someone about the specifics of a caning scene. He owed it to his partners to at least try. Milton would know the right people. Unfortunately it was probably Gordon and his friends. Tilden swallowed. He could do this for his partners.
Tilden smiled as his two young men came out of the bathroom, each with a towel wrapped around his waist, a light sheen of water glinting off his skin. Identical grins hovered at the corner of their mouths. 
“Somebody was having fun in the shower without me,” Tilden said with a smile.
A sheepish blush rose over both boys’ cheeks, making them truly look like boys.
“Get dressed, you scallywags.” Tilden gently swatted his brats toward their clothes. “Hurry. I don’t want to fight a losing round with our dear friend Fiona because we’re late.”
This seemed to inspire the boys, and they rushed into their clothes. “Let’s go give her hell,” Mike said with a cheeky grin.
Even though it was six twenty-nine, Tilden and his two partners were the first people down the stairs and into the dining room. The table was laid out with a smorgasbord of cold breakfast food. The TV crews were hovering around like hunters and their dogs before heading out after the poor doomed stag. 
Over the next few minutes, the remainder of the couples staggered down. Cotton came running into the dining room dragging Brad behind him and immediately dove for the jelly filled doughnuts.
“Sugar high,” Brad said with a groan.
“You already nixed alcohol; you can’t take my sugar.”
Brad kissed Cotton on the cheek. “Never, my sweet, but leave a few for everyone else.”
Tilden watched the brats grab breakfast treats. The thin young man he’d seen with the man with the wire rimmed glasses took only a small apple and eased himself down into a chair as if it hurt to move. Both Luke and Mike had avoided sitting, but their movements were fluid as they mixed with the other brats while shoveling a variety of brightly colored, sugar filled breakfast treats into their mouths. If Trent found out what they were eating today, next week’s breakfasts would be poached eggs and whole grain toast with too many seeds. The silent boy diced the apple into tiny pieces, but Tilden didn’t see a single one enter his mouth. His partner didn’t seem to notice as he’d taken a plate of scrambled eggs and was talking with the real estate broker.
“Do you know who that is?” Tilden said, casting his eyes towards the boy as he questioned Brad.
“Xavier. I don’t know his last name. I think he’s barely eighteen.”
“Something’s not right,” Tilden said.
Brad looked at Tilden questioningly. “You mean more than everything else that’s going on in this ridiculous weekend? Maybe he doesn’t like hanging out with strangers. I can sure sympathize there.”
“Maybe, but I don’t think so.” Tilden said, watching as Xavier took his minced apple and tossed it in the trash. He stood high over the trash can and let the plate fall as if he didn’t want to bend over.
“He looks sore,” Brad said, and then his eyebrows knitted together. “You think something’s not right between him and his partner?”
Tilden nodded. “Hopefully I’m wrong. Maybe he was in a car crash.”
“You’re going to ask?”
“Yes, it’s our responsibility as tops. I need to talk to him away from his top.”
“He’s an adult.” Brad said, stirring his eggs with a fork.
“Yes, but it doesn’t mean he should be abandoned. Do you stand by why someone gets mugged with the excuse that adults don’t need your help?”
“Easy.” Brad lifted his hands in a soothing gesture. “I didn’t mean it like that.”
“Sorry, I shouldn’t have jumped down your throat,” Tilden said with a small smile. “I’m a little on edge today also.”
“Last night?”
Tilden nodded. “I didn’t want to have to do that this weekend.”
Brad gave Tilden a wide smile. “Look I’m not laughing at you, but God, it’s a relief to know that even an experienced top like you has trouble with the discipline thing. I have to practically threaten myself with the paddle before I can spank Cotton, and he needs it sometimes. Milton was right when he called Cotton straightforward but needing a firm hand. I could never manage two. They’d have to commit me.”
“Thanks, buddy,” Tilden said, trying to hide a smile. “I guess I’m one step from the looney bin and a prying busybody. And by the way, I have no more actual experience with a partner than you have.”
Brad looked shocked for a second, as if he couldn’t decide if Tilden was serious, and then a wide grin spread over the vet’s face. “You must give your boys a run for their money on witty comebacks.”
“It’s a learned skill necessary to survive in our household.” 
Brad and Tilden both laughed. Tilden cast his eye toward his partners; they were talking with Cotton and seemed to be out of harm’s way. Both Xavier and his top had disappeared. Most of the other tops were lingering over their coffee. More than a few looked only half awake and as if they were nursing raging headaches.
“I think it would be a good idea to circulate around and try to get a feel for the brats before the cooking disaster,” Tilden said as he stood up from the table.