Tag Team (3 page)

“Such a good boy,” Charles praised, his large hands roaming across Mason’s chest, down to his stomach, and back up in a soothing pattern.

The burning fire in his lungs gave way to a pleasant warmth that spread through him, allowing his muscles to release their tension as he gave himself over to his Doms’ voice and touch.

“Good boy,” Gregory echoed in a calm, encouraging voice. “Open your eyes, boy.”

Mason’s eyes fluttered open, and he blew out another breath in relief when Gregory’s concerned blue eyes came into focus. He reached up and gently ran the tip of his finger along the crease between Gregory’s brows. “Thank you, sir,” he said hoarsely, his throat raw and dry. “I’m sorry I worried you again,” he whispered with regret.

Gregory wrapped his hand around Mason’s wrist, kissed his finger softly, then held Mason’s hand against his stubbled cheek. “Shh. No apologies needed.”

“What was going on in this pretty little head of yours that sparked the attack?” Charles asked, his breath warm against Mason’s ear.

Mason turned his head slightly to look up at Charles. “I’m not sure, sir,” he answered honestly. Another pang of regret flickered when he saw the mirrored look of concern. “I’m so—”

Charles quieted Mason by placing a finger over his lips. “What did Master Gregory just tell you, boy? No apologies.”

Mason looked between his two Doms, opened his mouth to apologize once again, but snapped it shut before the words could escape. Charles’s hand fell away from Mason’s mouth to resume the quieting caress along Mason’s chest and belly. With a contented sigh, his pulse now a steady rhythm and his breathing slow and even, he melted back against Charles’s large chest.

“The last thing I remember I was polishing the furniture, singing along with Eric Clapton, and the next thing I knew I was lying in your arms and Master Gregory was telling me to breathe.” Mason cocked his head again to look at Charles. “By the way, sir, this is really nice,” he said appreciatively. Not only did he not know what had triggered the attack, he also had no clue how he had come to be stretched out on the couch, resting against Charles, but he wasn’t complaining. He turned and snuggled deeper into his Dom’s comforting warmth.

Gregory pulled the cushions from the back of the couch, threw them to the floor, and pushed his way in to wrap his arms around both Mason and Charles. “Well, the good thing is, it’s over now,” Gregory said and kissed the back of Mason’s head.

This was the only good thing about one of his crazy-ass freak-outs. His Doms knew exactly what to do, cared enough about him that they stopped whatever it was they were doing and came to help him. It bothered Mason that he couldn’t be stronger, couldn’t control the attacks, which in turn forced Gregory and Charles to come to his rescue. Even with strict adherence to his medication schedule, sometimes the attacks just snuck up on him. It was over; he wasn’t going to dwell on it, not when he had his men snuggled up against him.

Mason placed a kiss on Charles’s bare chest. The soft hairs tickled his lips and made him smile, and then he turned his head and begged a kiss from Gregory, who gave it without hesitation. “Thank you. I’m much better now.”

“What song were you listening to?” Gregory asked.

“‘Tears in Heaven.’”

“Well that clears up the mystery of why,” Charles chuckled. “My poor, sweet sentimental boy,” he teased lightly and kissed Mason’s forehead.

“Stop worrying,” Gregory added and ground his groin against Mason, pulling a deep moan from him. “Nothing could ever rip us away from this sweet ass.”

Mason opened his eyes. The early morning light streaming in from the bedroom window was harsh, and he closed his eyes again. He pulled the covers up over his head, not wanting to wake. The dream had just been getting good. Gregory’s hard cock rubbed against the crease of his ass, Charles’s tongue pushed deep into his mouth, exploring, devouring him. Mason laid there for long moments trying to will himself back to sleep, to return to the arms of his lovers, but he couldn’t. A smile played across his lips.
I’ll bribe them with their favorite breakfast of pancakes and bacon
. He was sure they would show him their appreciation, and if he was lucky, he wouldn’t need to dream. The real thing was so much better than any fantasy.

Careful not to wake his Doms, Mason crawled out from under his nest of blankets and quietly made his way out of the bedroom. A quick stop by the bathroom without turning on any lights to take care of business, then he headed to the kitchen to start breakfast.

“First, coffee,” he muttered and rubbed at his tired eyes.

Mason pulled the coffee can from the freezer and scooped the grinds into the filter. A prickling feeling started at the base of his skull, working its way down his spine as he poured water into the coffee maker. A shudder rippled through him and he scanned the area around him, but nothing seemed out of place. He shrugged and pushed the On button. The scent of freshly brewing coffee filled the small kitchen immediately, and he inhaled deeply as he rubbed at the weird sensation on his neck. He hated the taste of the stuff, found it bitter no matter how much cream and sugar he added to it, and the taste of it on his lovers’ tongues was a little eww, but he loved the rich aroma.

Before pulling out the ingredients he’d need, Mason checked the small CD player he kept in the kitchen to make sure his “happy” playlist was in it. Satisfied it was and with the volume turned to low, he switched it on to the sounds of Creedence Clearwater Revival. He hummed along as he whipped up the batter. There was only one mishap with a wayward egg that landed on the floor, but other than that, he had the batter smooth, the griddle hot, and the bacon in the oven in no time at all.

However, the uneasy feeling only intensified, Mason’s stomach cramping, as it dawned on him that he had woken on his pallet instead of in the bed with his men. What had he done the night before to displease them? He tried searching back through the night, past the wonderful dream, but his thoughts were disjointed, unclear, as if he were trying to look through murky waters to find the answers to the disquiet. Impossible task.

Mason frowned at the pancakes as he flipped them, the edges burned. Whatever he had done to cast him out of favor, his attempt at breakfast wasn’t going to win him any brownie points. He scooped the cakes from the griddle and grudgingly threw them into the garbage can, regreased the griddle, and poured new batter on it.

Focus, Mason. Take a deep breath and try again
. It didn’t matter what he had done; what mattered was that he make up for it, make it right. Gregory and Charles always forgave him as long as he tried his best. Biting his lip, he pushed all other thoughts away except the task at hand. He could do this.

This time when he flipped them, the cakes were a perfect golden brown. As he continued preparing breakfast, poured the coffee, and set the table, the dark thought kept moving toward the surface, but stayed just out of reach. When he tried, it floated out of his grasp as if it were encased in a bubble. He poked at it, his curious nature not letting it rest, but no matter how hard he poked or how deeply he tried to concentrate on finding the answer, it stayed just out of reach. If he could just pop it enough, just a little, he had a better chance of not repeating his mistake, and he needed to know. Whatever he had done had been bad enough that he was blocking it out. Guilt? Shame? Was that what had his pulse pounding and causing the ache in his chest?

Mason stared at the table for a moment longer, hoping it would come to him, but it was no use. He sighed heavily in defeat and frustration and went to wake his Doms and face his punishment.

Mason moved down the hallway, his steps sluggish and slow as if he were walking in wet concrete. A heavy cloud of dread drifted down on him as he stood outside the room he shared with Gregory and Charles. Mason looked down at his nude body, his legs trembling visibly; they were so weak he wasn’t sure how he was still standing. This made no sense. He’d never been so scared in his life. He’d always faced his punishment with his head held high, always admitted his faults, his mistakes, and did his best to learn from them with the help of his two loving Doms.

Nearly crippled with the weight of the trepidation, Mason was forced to reach out a shaking hand and support himself against the doorjamb as a wave of nausea ripped through him. He swallowed hard, the bile burning his throat and took harsh breaths through his nose. Jesus! What had he done? What offense could he have possibly committed that had him so scared? He tried once again to poke at the bubble, but it continued to elude him.

It was no use.

Mason barely made it to the bathroom before falling to his knees next to the commode and retching. Tears streamed down his eyes, tears he knew not the cause of, as his stomach spasmed. Nothing came up. And he continued to dry heave. Why wasn’t his dinner coming up? They always ate dinner at six o’clock, Gregory a stickler for routine. Had he not eaten? Had that been when he messed up?

When his stomach finally gave up and settled to a slow churn, Mason wiped a hand across his mouth and rubbed at his wet eyes.

Where are they?

Mason stared down at his body. His skin was a sickly pale color, and his normally flat stomach seemed to have folded in on itself.
So thin.
He appeared to have lost weight, a lot of weight, but that made no sense. The dark bubble floated once again to the surface. Instead of trying to poke it, he did his best to peer through the swirling clouds within it. He watched in fascination as the dark clouds pulsed, began to clear, only to darken again before he found the answer.

You’ve gone mad
.

No! Mason forced himself to rise, the room swaying, and he held on to the counter momentarily until the sensation calmed. He wasn’t crazy. There was something going on inside his head he couldn’t explain, but he wasn’t without hope. He knew who could help him figure this out.

Mason moved to the sink and splashed cold water on his face, held his cold hands against his burning eyes until the pain eased slightly, and then rinsed out his mouth. Grabbing a hand towel from the counter, Mason ran the soft material over his face and neck.

His heart stopped dead in his chest when he caught a glimpse of his reflection in the mirror. A stranger looked back at him, an emaciated man with hollow, dead eyes.
What the fuck is wrong with me!
He continued to stare at the stranger in the mirror. He blinked when Mason did, trembled as Mason did, but it couldn’t—

Maybe I’m still dreaming
.

That had to be it. Obviously the wonderful dream he’d been having had morphed into a nightmare. Soon he’d wake wrapped in a jumble of arms and legs, and the three of them would have a good laugh together over breakfast. Charles always loved to interpret his dreams, came up with the most creative, silly reasons for them.

Mason threw the towel at his nightmarish self in the mirror and laughed.

Without hesitating Mason threw open the door to his bedroom, no longer concerned about the feeling of dread, and stepped inside. The blinds covered the window, but the bright sun streamed through the slits, washing the room in bright light. His blankets were still a tangled mess on the floor where he’d left them, but it was the king-size bed that seemed completely out of place. The tan bedspread was neatly in place; the white pillows rested against the headboard, neat and empty.

Mason automatically picked up his blankets from the floor and absently folded them as he continued to stare at the bed. Where were his men? He willed himself to wake up, but even as he set his blankets on the dresser, the bed remained empty. He scanned the room to see if anything else was unusual, but everything was in its place, perfectly neat. He knew he hadn’t made the bed before leaving to make breakfast; he’d left Gregory and Charles sleeping.

“Wake up,” Mason ordered himself and slapped his checks.

Still the bed remained empty.

Mason searched the room, then the guest room, the bathroom. His pulse roared in his ears as the dread returned with a vengeance, intensified.
Wake up
.

The kitchen was empty. The dining room table was set, steam still rolling up from the two coffee mugs, the chairs unoccupied, so he moved into the living room.

“Gregory!” he cried out. “Charles. Where are you?”

Silence.

Wake up, goddammit! Wake the fuck up!

He tried the front door, but it wouldn’t open. Locked. It made no sense, they wouldn’t lock the door to sit on the porch, but it was a nightmare, it didn’t have to make sense. He turned the lock and pulled open the door and ran outside. He couldn’t breathe, his heart hammered so hard it felt like it was going to pound out of his chest.

The lounge chairs were empty.

“Gregory! Charles!” he screamed. “Fucking answer me!”

Silence.

He looked to the left. Charles’s Envoy sat in the driveway. He turned to the right and cocked his head. A basket of oranges sat next to the railing. Mason narrowed his eyes and studied it. “Where the hell did that come—”

Twisted wreckage.

Mangled bodies.

Blood.

Mason’s knees buckled, and he reached out and caught himself, the pain in his hands and palms barely registering over the feeling of his heart being ripped from his chest. He wasn’t asleep; it was a nightmare, one he would never wake from.

The anguish stirred his stomach, and each painful memory from the past three weeks came rushing back as the bubble popped. All the guilt rose to the surface, the pain, all of it spilling from his eyes, blurring his vision, but the sharp edge of each image, each painful moment, dug the knife deeper, relentlessly twisted it into his heart.

Mason rolled to his side, curled into a tight ball, and sobbed.

He was never going to wake from this nightmare.