Tag Team (9 page)

“What about later, tomorrow, or the day after that?” Rig asked. “What about when you are alone again and….” Rig began shaking his head vigorously. “I’m sorry, Mason, but my conscience just won’t allow me to leave you alone. I’m sure the mental health agency has a number we can call, somewhere we can take you so you can talk to someone.”

Mason threw up his hands in defeat and stomped over to the couch and threw himself on it. He ran his hands over his face and tired eyes again. He hadn’t been awake long, but the alcohol-induced sleep hadn’t been what he’d call restful and not nearly long enough to recharge his battery. “I’m not going to check into some seventy-two-hour therapatizing program when I don’t need it.”

Rig opened his mouth to say something, but Mason held up a hand and Rig snapped his mouth closed. “Yes, yes, yes. I get it. I did something really fucking stupid last night,” he admitted. “But I wasn’t a complete idiot. I didn’t go through with it. I changed my mind.” He looked at them pleadingly as they joined him; Rig took the recliner across from him, sitting on the edge, forearms on his knee, hands clasped, and Bobby sat stiffly at the other end of the couch.

Obviously they had no intentions of leaving and giving Mason some peace. “What can I do to convince you that doesn’t involve a trip to the psych ward?” he implored.

“Why are you so against talking to someone?” Bobby asked. “There is nothing wrong in asking someone for help, and there is no shame in talking to a psychiatrist.”

Mason squeezed his eyes shut and pinched the bridge of his nose as the throb in his head flared painfully. “I don’t have anything against psychiatrists, I’ve seen enough of them—”

“You’ve tried this before?” Rig asked in horror.

“No!” Mason said adamantly. “I’ve never been depressed. I’ve always been a pretty happy-go-lucky guy for the most part, but you know what? Having your fucking whole life ripped away from you in the blink of an eye, having to fight people you don’t even fucking know to make sure the last wishes of someone you love are granted and lose, and having your other lover’s ashes sitting on your fucking kitchen table, that does shit to a man,” Mason shouted angrily.

The anger propelled him up and off the couch. He needed to move, he was shaking so hard, pulse speeding. Mason paced, his infuriation evident in each heavy footfall as he stomped in the small space of his living room, arms flailing around wildly as he continued to voice his fury. “I fucked up! I made a goddamn mistake, but given the circumstance I think I was entitled to a meltdown. I had my pity party, I deserved it and I took it too fucking far but I didn’t do it, I wouldn’t do it! I won’t do it!” he screamed.

M
ASON
continued to stomp and scream and rage. Rig moved from a relaxed stance to instant rigid tension as Mason screamed. Rig’s fingers curled against the leather of the recliner, his knuckles white with the effort to keep himself in the chair. The deep scowl on the man’s face told Bobby his partner was having as difficult of a time as he was to sit quietly and not wrap Mason up in a hug or say something that would make this whole situation better. But, there were no words that would help and nothing they could do that would make it so. They sat there watching him silently, helplessly, until Mason ran out of steam and fell back onto the couch, breathing harshly, and hung his head.

Rig stood and Bobby looked up at him questioningly, but he just shook his head and headed to the kitchen without a word. After another long moment of watching Mason struggle to compose himself, Bobby couldn’t stand it, and he moved closer to the man. He wanted desperately to hold Mason, give him a strong shoulder to lean on, but Bobby clenched his hand into a fist to stop from reaching out and touching him. Instead he sat close, quietly letting Mason know he wasn’t alone.

“I really am okay,” Mason murmured hoarsely. “I know it didn’t sound like it just now, but I honestly am.” He fidgeted with the hem of his shorts, picking at a loose thread. “I’m just full of surprises today,” he said with a sad-sounding chuckle.

“What do you mean?”

Rig came back in before Mason could answer and handed him a glass of water. Mason looked up at him with a slight smile and accepted the glass, thanking him. Rig sat back down in the recliner again; he was still tense, and Bobby could see the muscles bulging in his neck, but he no longer had that wild, hopeless look in his eyes. Mason took a few sips of water before setting it on the coffee table and turning slightly to face Bobby.

“I don’t normally talk to strangers very well, and I try to avoid getting that worked up since it usually sends me into a panic attack.”

“Is that what you saw the psychiatrist for? The panic attacks?” Bobby asked gently.

Mason nodded. “They started when I was a kid and they got really bad after I left home, could barely make it through the day without at least one to some degree. They weren’t always like full-blown attacks; some I could manage on my own. Anyway, I went to therapy for years even after I met Gregory and Charles, but it didn’t really help; the psychiatrist always seemed to be more interested in other things,” he said sheepishly.

Bobby cocked his head in confusion. “What do you mean
other
things?”

“Well, when I was young, my mom and the doctors she sent me to were more concerned about the fact that I didn’t seem to like girls and was a little too
feminine
”—Mason made quotation marks with his fingers—“for a boy. I spent many, many hours sitting in a chair as the therapist tried to cure me of my gay disease.” Mason rolled his eyes before continuing. “Gregory and Charles talked me into going back to therapy and it did help for a while, but eventually it got to the point where each week we spent more time talking about why I let men hit me and liked being on my knees, instead of the panic attacks.”

“And you quit going before they helped with the attacks?” Rig asked dubiously.

Mason made a clucking sound with his tongue and shrugged. “Gregory and Charles helped me more than any shrink. They grounded me, and as long as I didn’t get in stressful situations or go out in a big crowd, I was fine. They learned how to talk me down from one and made sure I was never left alone. Hell, I hadn’t had a full-blown attack in ages. My first one was at the grave—”

Mason snapped his mouth shut and closed his eyes as if he were trying not to think about that day. When he opened them again, there was so much misery; Bobby knew Mason hadn’t been able to push away the images, and Bobby’s heart broke all over again for the man. Mason made an effort to give Bobby a smile, but he couldn’t keep the sadness out of it.

Anger so bright and so intense flared up in Bobby, the heat of it robbed him of voice and breath. He was lucky he was sitting, or the force of it would have knocked him on his ass. He wanted to tell Mason his Doms had done him wrong. They’d done a great injustice to their submissive whom they had sworn to care for and protect. When they accepted Mason’s gift of submission and they placed their collar around his neck, it was a promise that Mason could trust they would see to all his needs, and they fucking failed him.

Rig was back to clenching the arms of the chair, leaning forward and staring at Mason with wide blazing eyes. He’d heard it too; the flush in his cheeks and the clenched jaw were obvious signs Rig was struggling to keep his comments to himself. Rig, just like Bobby, knew it would not do anyone any good to speak ill of the dead and would only serve to hurt Mason further. But for fuck sakes, what had these men been thinking, hiding Mason away? Instead of just protecting him, they should have been helping him grow and overcome the obstacles holding him back. One therapist may not be able to help, but dammit, you don’t just give up. You find another who will listen, who does understand your life—
or lifestyle.
The thought popped into his head, and a plan formed.

“Mason, have you ever talked to a therapist that understood your lifestyle?” Bobby asked suddenly and placed a hand on Mason’s shoulder.

Mason frowned slightly and shook his head. “I don’t think so. That’s not something you ask them when checking credentials.”

“You know we can’t just walk away and leave you alone unless we are 100 percent sure you’re going to be okay.”

“But—”

“I have a dear friend who is a psychiatrist and just happens to be a Dom. Your choice, you talk to him or we call the police and have you committed for seventy-two hours.”

Mason narrowed his eyes at Bobby. “You wouldn’t dare,” he hissed.

Rig pulled the note he’d stashed in his pocket out and waved it at Mason. “Oh yes we would.”

“That’s blackmail,” Mason complained.

“I’m okay with that,” Bobby said unapologetically.

Mason’s eyes flicked back and forth between Bobby and Rig several times. He obviously realized how serious they were, and he really didn’t have much of a choice, because after a moment he flopped back against the couch and crossed his arms over his chest. “Fine, call your friend.”

Bobby smiled triumphantly, and the smile on his partner’s face was just as broad. Now to get Max to agree to come on such a short notice, he’d be calling in all his favors on this one.

Chapter 8

R
IG
hurriedly tromped down the wooden stairs from Mason’s house. He needed a shower in the worst kind of way and a toothbrush. As soon as he stepped off the last step he jogged toward the path and through the trees. Rig wasn’t real comfortable leaving Bobby alone again, not that he worried that Mason would hurt his partner. Still, Rig had waited until the man fell asleep on the couch. After the last emotional outburst from Mason, it would be unfair to make Bobby have to deal with another one on his own. A quick call to Max, an even quicker shower, and he’d be back in no time.

As soon as he unlocked the door to their bungalow, Rig kicked his shoes off and threw the keys on the counter on the way to the bedroom. He grabbed his cell from the bedside table and dialed Max’s private number. As soon as it began to ring he started pulling clean clothes out of the dresser.

“Rig!” Max’s deep baritone voice sounded genuinely surprised. “Good to hear from you. You still in Florida or did you cut your vacation short?”

“Hey, Max. No, we’re still down here and Bobby is still bitching about the heat,” he said teasingly. He cradled the phone beneath his ear and shoulder, grabbed his shower kit from the closet, and added it to the armful of clothes.

“Poor, Bobby,” Max chuckled into the phone before his tone turned serious. “Everything okay?”

Rig rarely called Max. They were friends, good friends, but they weren’t as close as Max and Bobby were, and besides, Rig hated chatting on the phone so Max’s question wasn’t unusual. Rig dumped his clothes on the bathroom counter and headed back to the bedroom to sit on the edge of the bed. “We’ve run into a bit of a problem,” he said, running a hand through his hair.

“What happened?” Max asked in an alarmed tone. “Is Bobby okay?”

“Yeah, he’s fine, but we met a young man who’s not,” he explained.

Rig spent the next several minutes recounting how they had found Mason passed out drunk, the note, and the outbursts. Through it all Max stayed silent; the only noise coming through the phone line was the muffled noise of Max tapping his finger, a habit he had when listening. Once he had all the events laid out leading up to Rig’s call, he finally asked, “So, Bobby was hoping you would be able to talk to him. It’s either that or we’re going to have to have him involuntarily admitted. We can’t just leave him alone.”

“Has he agreed to talk to me?”

“He said he would,” Rig assured him. “He doesn’t put a lot of faith in therapists. Said they always want to talk either about the fact that he’s gay or trying to tell him he needs to stop submitting, so he’s willing to try and talk things out with you since you don’t have an issue with either of those beautiful traits.”

“Not even a little bit,” Max snorted. “I think those are fine, fine qualities to have in a man.”

“So you’ll talk to him?” Rig asked again.

“I have to make a few calls, do a bit of rearranging of my schedule, but I can fly out later this afternoon,” Max said.

“You’re coming down?” Rig asked, stunned. “We can’t ask you to do that. We thought if you could maybe talk to him over the phone.”

“You didn’t ask. I offered and I’m good,” Max chuckled. “But even I’m going to need more than a phone call to determine if this poor guy is a threat to himself.”

“But—”

“Gotta run,” Max said, cutting off any further protest from Rig. “I’ll call you as soon as I know what time my flight gets in, and Rig?”

“Yeah?”

“You two did the right thing by not leaving him alone and calling me. Talk to you soon.”

The connection went dead, and Rig stared at it, still astonished at what had just taken place. Max was willing to drop everything on a dime and fly to Florida for a stranger? Rig flipped his phone shut and set it back on the bedside table. He’d have to make sure he made the trip worth Max’s time. He doubted Max would allow him to pay for the therapy he’d be doing with Mason; hell, he probably wouldn’t even let him pay for the trip.