Tag Team (11 page)

Mason looked up and met Max’s dark eyes briefly before lowering them to concentrate on the soda bottle again before answering. “No.”

“You said you got drunk last night, trying to build up the courage to go through with your plan. Do you drink often?”

Mason shook his head.

“Have you ever felt you needed to cut down on your drinking?”

Again Mason shook his head.

“Have people annoyed you by criticizing your drinking?”

Mason huffed out a breath and looked up. “Mr. Maxwell, no disrespect, but I am not an alcoholic. I drink maybe once or twice a year but never to get drunk. Nor am I a drug addict. I’ve never once taken an illegal drug. I’ve only taken prescription narcotics twice in my life.” He leaned forward in his seat and held up his hand and counted them off on his fingers. “Once when I broke my leg as a teenager and the second time was when I had my appendix cut out. The only thing I have ever been addicted to was the high Gregory and Charles could give me and now….” The burst of irritation seeped out of Mason as he remembered how his Doms could make him soar, so high, so fucking beautiful, and he slumped back in his chair.

Mason found it odd that Max didn’t keep notes; he kept his eyes on Mason the entire time, listening intently. Even when Mason kept his head down, he could feel them on him. It was both unnerving and refreshing. Most people didn’t listen, too busy texting, talking, or doing a hundred other things that distracted them from really hearing. Max listened.

“Sounds like you had a good relationship,” Max said, tenderness in his voice that seemed at odds with this large, imposing man.

“The best,” Mason replied without hesitation. “I’m not saying that now because they are gone. I’m saying it because it’s true. Sure, we had our little fights, more like arguments really, but we worked. The three of us just worked so well together and we were happy.”

“I can see that by the way you talk about them. That’s rare to find. You are a very lucky man to have experienced that in your life. You do realize that, don’t you?”

“Yes,” Mason murmured. Of course he knew it, and while he may have been one of those rare lucky bastards who had found true happiness, it hurt all the more knowing what he’d lost and that he’d probably never experience it again.

Max tapped a finger on the table as he stared at Mason, his expression thoughtful. “You mentioned you’d seen a therapist before? Was it ever for depression?”

“No. I would have figured Bobby and Rig would have already filled you in on my past history?”

Max’s lip quirked up into a slight grin. “They did. I just wanted to hear it from you.”

“And now you’ve heard it.” A throb began to pound in Mason’s temples and he rubbed at them, then ran his fingers through his hair and leaned on his elbows to stare at the table. “Are we done now? I’d like to take a shower and unpack my belongings.”

“All I need is for you to promise that you won’t hurt yourself for the next twenty-four hours and agree to talk to me tomorrow.”

“About what?” Mason muttered. Fuck he was tired. The kind of tired that was bone deep, the kind no amount of sleep could fix. The only way he was going to make it without his grief sending him to a padded cell was by taking it one day at a time. He didn’t want to think about tomorrow just yet. He knew what he had to do today; wasn’t that enough for now?

“You’ve been through a lot, and your emotions are still all over the place, I just want to make sure you have someone to talk to about them,” Max said, his voice low and soothing as if he were speaking with a scared and wounded animal. It was an accurate description for the way Mason was feeling.

“
W
HAT
the hell are they doing in there?” Bobby grumbled as he paced the front porch. “They’ve been in there for over an hour.”

Rig looked up from the magazine he’d been reading, a patient look on his face. “My guess would be talking.”

Bobby stuck his tongue out at the infuriating bastard and kept stomping along the wooden planks. “Aren’t you the least bit curious?”

“Sure I am, but it’s not like Max would tell us anyway. Ever heard of doctor-patient confidentiality?”

“I know,” Bobby muttered and ran his hands through his sweat-dampened hair. Damn Florida humidity. “I just want to know he’s okay, that he’s not….” Bobby came to a halt in front of Rig. “What if he decides death is the better option? What if we don’t find him in time? What if….”

“Stop,” Rig demanded. He went to his feet and cupped Bobby’s chin. “If Max thinks he’s a danger to himself or anyone else he’ll have him committed. You know this. You know Max will do everything in his power to help Mason, so stop worrying. Please?”

“It just breaks my heart,” Bobby sighed and laid his forehead against Rig’s shoulder, wrapping an arm around his waist.

“I know,” Rig responded lightly and ran a soothing hand down Bobby’s back. “Brings back a lot of very painful emotions, but I want you to look on the bright side of this.”

“There is a bright side to reliving a death? Watching someone struggling and rage from the same kind of pain? There is no bright side, Rig.”

“It doesn’t seem like it right now, but who better to help Mason, understand what he’s going through, than someone—you and I—who have been where he’s at, have endured and survived the pain of it?”

Rig was right—who better to understand than he and Rig—but fuck this was hard. Bobby held on to Rig for a while longer until the trembling eased a little, and then he lifted his head. “Still doesn’t seem fair,” he said sadly.

“It’s not,” Rig agreed and pushed Bobby’s bangs away from his forehead and kissed it. “But we can be there for him, just like you were there for me.”

“And you for me,” Bobby said, giving Rig a sad smile and a pat before he released Rig and returned to his pacing. Crap, he was becoming an emotional mess, and he needed to get his shit together. Rig hid it better than Bobby did, but he couldn’t hide the pain in his eyes or the sadness in his voice. They’d made it through this once; together they could do it again.

At the end of the porch he stopped and grabbed the railing, dropping his head between his arms and taking several deep calming breaths. Sweat rolled down his neck, and the slight breeze caused him to shiver even in the ungodly heat. He squeezed his eyes shut tightly and forced himself to focus on the here and now, what he needed to do to help both Rig and Mason get through this, instead of focusing on his own pain and living in the past. He sucked in one more deep breath, blew it out slowly, and opened his eyes. He could do this. Bobby pushed off the railing, and just as he turned, Max came out the front door.

“Well?” Bobby asked, rushing to Max.

“Oh, thanks for asking. I’ll have a glass of sweet tea if you’ve got it,” Max said nonchalantly.

Bobby glared at Rig when he chuckled. “Max, just tell me how he is?”

“He’s fine. I believe young Mason is getting in the shower as we speak. Now can I have that glass of tea? This heat is horrendous,” he complained and wiped the back of his hand across his brow.

Panic raced down Bobby’s spine, his gut rolling, and he barely was able to bite out, “You left him alone? In the shower?” His voice rose as he thought about all the things in the bathroom that Mason could use to hurt himself. “Pills. Oh shit. Razors?” He groaned.

Bobby shoved at Max trying to get to the door, but Max grabbed his wrist tightly. “Whoa there, and lower your voice.”

Bobby tried to tug away, but Max’s grip was unyielding. “Max, I have to get to him.”

Max spoke over him. “Do you honestly think I would allow him to be alone if I thought he’d hurt himself?”

Bobby shifted his gaze between Max and the door, adrenaline still pumping quickly through his system, sending his pulse soaring.

“C’mon, Bobby, you know me better than that,” Max added. A hint of annoyance and hurt in equal parts laced his tone.

Bobby’s shoulders slumped, and he guiltily met Max’s gaze. “Yeah, I know you better than that. I’m sorry.”

Max patted Bobby’s shoulder and released his wrist. “He’s unsure of himself, he’s heartbroken, and he’s scared, but I honestly don’t believe he’s suicidal. If he is, then that man deserves an Academy Award.”

“Then—”

“Bobby, we’ll give him a reasonable amount of time, and if he’s not out, you can storm the gates. Deal?” Max asked with a small smirk and a questioning tilt to his head.

“Fine,” Bobby grumped. Max better be right on this, or he was so going to beat the shit out of him.

“Now that that is settled, can I for the love of God get something to drink?” Max asked and dramatically grasped his throat.

“I’ll get it,” Rig offered and hefted himself back up out of the chair. “You want something too?” he asked Bobby as he pecked him on the cheek when he walked by.

“I could use a stiff one,” Bobby murmured and dropped down into the chair Rig had just exited.

“I got that right here, baby,” Rig leered and grabbed his crotch and groped it obscenely.

Bobby flipped him off, and Max laughed and took the seat to Bobby’s right.

“So you think he’s really going to be okay?” Bobby asked. “I know you can’t give me the specifics, but I just need to know that he’s going to be okay. I mean, fuck, Max how the hell is this kid going to get the help he needs if he’s afraid to leave his house?”

“He’s got a hell of a road ahead of him, I’ll give you that.” Max ran a hand through his hair and then wrinkled his nose as he shook his wet hand. “While I don’t think he’s in immediate danger, you were right to be upset about his social anxiety. It was irresponsible of his Doms not to have made sure he had the proper counseling.”

Bobby nodded, the tendril of anger beginning to curl in his belly. “They were idiots! The stupid fuckers should have kept looking until they found the right therapist for him. They left that poor man alone,” he hissed, pointing angrily in the direction of where Mason would be. “This is their damn fault!”

Max tapped a finger against the arm of his chair, his expression one of placidity as Bobby continued to tremble with rage. How could he not be angry? How the hell could Max sit there so fucking calm in the face of the injustice that had been done to Mason? Bobby looked at Max with incredulity. Max was an old and dear friend, but at the moment he wanted to throttle the bastard. Bobby crossed his arms over his chest and huffed out an annoyed breath.

“Are you quite finished?” Max asked in what Bobby recognized as his professional intonation, which did little to help with Bobby’s anger, and he ignored the question.

“Look,” Max continued after a long moment when Bobby still didn’t answer. “While I may agree wholeheartedly with you, Mason is not going to appreciate your rant. If you want to help that kid, the best thing for you to do is be there when he needs a friend and listen.”

“Just pisses me off,” Bobby grumbled.

“I get that, but you going around disrespecting his dead lovers will only hurt him further. He loved them.”

“He knows that and will do the right thing,” Rig said confidently as he joined them again with a glass of tea and two bottles of water.

“Thank you,” Bobby said, accepted the water, opened it, and drank half of it.

“Bobby is just upset,” Rig continued and took the empty seat on the other side of Bobby. “It’s been a rough night and he may rant and rave to you and me, but he’d never say those things in front of Mason.”

“I know,” Max agreed. “But when ranting can you keep your voice down to a low roar?” he asked slyly.

“I’ll do my best,” Bobby said and rolled the cold bottle along his brow and then down his face to his neck. “Now that that is settled, someone want to do something about this damn heat?”

Chapter 10

M
AX
had been right—of course he was. Max was always right. After Mason’s first therapy session, Mason spent the rest of the evening putting away the belongings he’d packed into boxes. The walls of Mason’s small bungalow were now covered in brightly colored abstract paintings. Rig was surprised to discover that Mason had painted them. They were so vibrant and full of life. In fact, all the personal touches—pillows, throws, sculptures, candles and their holders—as well as all the other odds and ends around the place were bright and lively in shades of red, orange, yellow, and gold. A sharp contrast to the somber man who’d created or purchased them.

Rig ran his finger over the strange bright-red sculpture of a bent wrist, the hand palm up toward the ceiling. The high-gloss paint was smooth against the pad of his finger, and he couldn’t help but wonder what Mason had been thinking when he had bought it. Mason had said he was the decorator and had done most of the shopping online. Had he smiled when he saw it? Been excited when it finally came in the mail? Had he set it in this spot and proudly showed it off to his lovers? Rig would love to witness the sunny and happy disposition of the man who brought this room alive with color and warmth. Over the last week, Mason had shown small glimpses of the man he used to be before death fell like a dark cloak over him and his home, but they were fleeting. A slight smile, a shy look, but they were like flashes in a pan, there one second and gone the next, leaving Rig to wonder if he had really seen it or if it had been his own wishful thinking.