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Rig stood and grabbed his plate. “Well let’s go.” He took his plate to the sink and then grabbed his baseball cap.

“You sure you won’t melt in the rain?” Bobby teased and grabbed his own cap, following Rig to the door.

“It’s your sweet ass I’m worried about,” Rig told him and kissed the man before stepping out.

“Oh that’s right. I don’t have to worry about you. Bullshit splatters,” Bobby said with a smirk and stepped out of the way before Rig could slap him upside his head. Luckily for them both, the rainclouds were already blowing through and the sun was peeking out as they made their way to the path through the trees. No melting or splattering worries.

Chapter 4

A
SLIVER
of panic worked its way down Mason’s spine as he eased the blind up. His breath caught, and he held it when he spotted the stranger walking up the stairs to his bungalow.

Two days ago, the man with his salt-and-pepper curls and beard—the same man who had frightened him the day he’d been out picking oranges—had shown up with a taller man with dark hair and goatee. Mason didn’t recognize either one of them. They hadn’t shown up in a car, but had come walking from the direction of the path through the trees, so he knew they had not come to his home for anything official. He had no idea why they had come, and he didn’t want to know. He only wanted them to go away, stay away, and leave him alone.

But they kept coming back.

The day before, they had shown up both in the morning and again just before sundown. Luckily, he’d been watching for them and had seen them approach. Mason forced himself to stay completely still and took shallow breaths as he watched the stranger move closer to his home. The last thing he wanted was to pass out now from lack of oxygen; the noise of him hitting the floor would surely alert the stranger. Mason stole a quick look toward the door to make sure it was locked and he’d set the chain. Satisfied it was secure, he set his gaze back on the stranger. Why couldn’t they just leave him alone? During the last few weeks since he’d buried Charles, the only time he’d left his home was to sit on the deck or walk to the orange trees, and now even that small reprieve was stolen from him.

Mason shrunk in on himself as the man’s steps fell against the wooden porch and he knocked on the front door. It took every bit of strength he could muster not to flee to his room when the man called out, “Hello? Anyone home?”

A tingling sensation began in Mason’s fingers. His heart started to race, and he knew what was coming: another panic attack.
Please. Please not yet
, he begged silently. His chest tightened and he tried to keep his breathing even, but it was growing increasingly difficult as the sense of impending doom pressed down on him.
Please. Not yet.

The curly-haired man continued to knock and call out, and all Mason could do was stand and watch as his body trembled under the stress his mind was inflicting upon it. He hated being so fucking helpless. Hated that this man had come to his home to torment him, hated that Charles and Gregory had lied and left him alone. But above all, he hated himself the most.

He was pathetic—unable to leave his house, eat, sleep, or think clearly.

Weak—couldn’t even answer the door and make the stranger leave his property.

Useless—hadn’t been able to fulfill Charles’s last wish.

Christ, you’re better off dead.

The truth in those words settled into his gut, but it didn’t roll with nausea. Instead they eased his heart. Even as the stranger stood trying in vain to peer inside the window Mason was standing at, Mason’s breathing returned to a slow, even rhythm, and the tingling sensation in his hands faded along with all the other symptoms of fear.

The thought of his own death calmed him, chased away the panic attack, and in that moment he knew what he had to do. Knew where he had to go and who would be waiting for him. He was already dead. The only difference between him and the men he loved was Mason was breathing and his heart still beat.

But not for long.

Mason continued to stand serenely as he watched the stranger pace along the deck, knock again, and then finally head back down the stairs. Once the man disappeared into the trees, Mason stepped away from the window. He looked around his home; everything was in its place, but still he had a lot to do. He didn’t want anyone to have to clean up after him. Mason gently lifted the urn from the table and held it to his chest, gently caressing the cool metal. The tears that spilled from his eyes whenever he held Gregory’s ashes were curiously absent for the first time.

Was it simply he had no more tears left in him, or was it the revelation that caused their absence? He wasn’t sure. He only knew that for the first time since they’d handed him the urn those long four weeks ago, he didn’t feel the soul-shattering grief that normally overwhelmed him. For the first time as he held the urn, continued to stroke his fingers along the cool metal, he was at peace. He had no fear crippling him, forcing him to his knees, not a single tremor of muscles; his heart and breath were still normal, calm.

Mason brought the urn to his mouth and pressed his lips against it. “Soon,” he whispered before setting it back on the table.

The rest of the morning was spent making sure all his affairs were in order. He had no one to leave their home, vehicles, or other personal belongings to; instead, he left them to a local GLBT charity. Hopefully they would be able to sell them and provide a little support for the homeless kids who had been dumped on the streets as he once had. His family had disowned him years ago. He wasn’t sure which distressed the Southern Baptist preacher, also known as Dad, more: that Mason was queer or that he was a deviant. He supposed both were just as deplorable as the other in the old man’s eyes and that of his God-fearing wife. Didn’t matter. If Mason was bound for hell on either or both of those charges, if he really was an abomination destined to walk hell for all eternity, then he was fine by that. Because if those were the two things that qualified him for the pits and not based on whether or not he was a good man, then he’d happily go, knowing his lovers would be there waiting.

Once the house was spotless, Mason showered and pulled on his favorite pair of soft denim jeans with worn knees and a simple white T-shirt. He wasn’t sure why he was fussing over his attire. By this time tomorrow, they would be cut away and discarded anyway. Just as the sun set, Mason took a bottle of vodka from the shelf and went outside for the first time in three days. When he stepped out on the deck in his bare feet, he stopped waiting for the panic to start creeping into his system, but he stayed oddly calm as he stood in the dimming light of the day. No heart palpitations, no tremors, the only thing that moved him was the warm breeze coming over the ocean. Mason took it as a sign that he was doing the right thing; something was guiding him, encouraging him to stay on course with the decisions he’d made.

Mason set the bottle of prescription sleeping pills on the table, carefully unfolded the note he’d tucked in his back pocket, and set that down as well. He placed a small rock on top of it to make sure the winds didn’t steal it and then took his bottle of vodka and crawled up into the extra-wide lounger he’d shared with Gregory and Charlie an untold number of times. As he melted into the soft cushion, he could practically feel his men pull him into their warm embrace.

The first long pull from the bottle caused him to wince as the alcohol burned all the way down to his gut. He wiped the back of his hand over his mouth as he tried to control the cough the strong liquid produced. He’d never been much of a drinker, hated the taste; yet as resolved as he was in what he must do, he was still, at heart, a coward. Weak. Pathetic. Useless. He wasn’t strong enough to reach for the full pill bottle, shake out the contents, and swallow them down. But soon he would be. With the help of the liquid courage, he could do it.

A warmth spread through him as he continued to take large gulps from the bottle, the burn he’d first experienced in his throat dull, the vodka now a welcomed taste. The edges on his vision began to blur ever so slightly as he looked out toward the sound of the ocean. The heavy cloud coverage obscured the moon and stars, but he didn’t need to see the rolling waves; the sound of them calmed him just the same.

“To you,” he whispered, his words only slightly slurred as he lifted the bottle and sent up a toast to Gregory. He took a big drink and raised it again. “And you,” he said a little louder as he in turn toasted Charles and once again tipped up the bottle, drinking to his men.

“Such a good boy,” Gregory whispered lowly in his ear.

Mason jerked his head, blinking rapidly as he tried to focus, tried to find Gregory. The space next to him was empty.

“Gregory… I…. Please.” His pleas slurred as Mason tried to convey his racing thoughts. Where was he? Why couldn’t he see his lover’s face? “Please,” he begged again.

Silence.

The only sound reaching his ears was the rush of the tide, a slight breeze rustling through the trees, and crickets. A tingling sensation moved down his spine, and he shuddered as goose bumps bloomed on his flesh. Gregory was close. Mason couldn’t see him, but he could hear him, smell his scent on the breeze, feel his warmth. Mason closed his eyes and sighed contentedly when his lover’s face became clear behind his closed lids.

“Why did you leave me?” he asked with a strained voice. “I needed you and you left me.”

“I’m here now, that’s all that matters, and I’ll never leave you again.”

“I couldn’t do it, I tried but I….” Mason’s throat went dry and constricted. He forced the lump down with another long swig from the bottle. “I can’t do it without you,” he finally squeaked out, the constriction of his throat muscles still not releasing their hold.

“Shh,” Charlie murmured in Mason’s other ear.

Mason cocked his head toward Charlie’s voice, but he didn’t open his eyes. He didn’t need to. He could see him just fine. His brow was furrowed slightly, his expression gentle, just like it always was when he was concerned about Mason.

“Where have you been?” Mason asked on a broken sob and shook his head. “I’ve missed you so much.”

Shh
, Charles repeated, his breath warm against Mason’s ear.
I’m right here, boy. Just rest.

Mason felt Charles’s fingers run through his hair, tousling the too-long strands, and he melted against his lovers. Let them calm and soothe him as he continued to take long, deep pulls from the vodka.

Chapter 5

T
HE
overcast night made walking along the path difficult, even with the flashlight illuminating his way. Bobby had meant to try one more time to check on the sad little sub before it had gotten so dark, but he’d fallen asleep while reading and Rig had done the same. Well, Rig hadn’t been reading—the man rarely picked up a book; he was the type who waited till it came out on the silver screen or DVD—but he’d drifted off on the couch next to Bobby.

“This is getting a little obsessive,” Rig grumbled. “We’re supposed to be relaxing, sipping fruity drinks, and being fanned by cabana boys, not traipsing through dark woods.”

“I just need to check one more time,” he tossed over his shoulder, not slowing his steps, an unexplained urgency pushing him forward.

Bobby had woken with a start, his heart hammering in his chest and his breath coming in fast painful gasps. He had to have been having a nightmare… something had startled him, caused him to break out in a cold sweat, but he couldn’t remember it. Whatever the dream had been about, his first thought was to check on the sad boy. Maybe he was losing his mind; more than likely the Florida sun had fried what few brain cells he had left. However, he knew he wouldn’t be able to sit still or relax until he knocked on that damn bungalow door, and even then it was iffy as to whether he would ever relax until someone actually answered the fucking door and proved the kid was okay.

He stepped out of the tree line, Rig right on his heels. Bobby forced himself not to break out into a run as the unease intensified as he tromped up the wooden stairs. The night sky black, he could barely make out the outline of the house above, and no lights shone from within. He trained the beam of light on the stairs; it would do no one any good if he broke his fool neck in his haste.