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Bobby shook his head and gave him a look that he hoped revealed everything was okay. It must have worked because Rig stopped and just stared at them as Mason continued to scream, taking in great gasps of breath only to let out another howl of misery. Each ragged sound became harsher and harsher until no sound at all came from Mason’s wide-open mouth, a silent scream that hurt Bobby even more than the screeching had hurt his ears.

He looked to Rig, silently pleading for help, but Rig was staring at Mason with the same helplessness on his face that Bobby felt in the pit of his gut.

And then the sobbing began, twisting and tormenting Bobby’s heart even further.

Rig finally moved, dropped to his knees next to them, blocking the flow of water that had been directed toward Mason’s face. He slowly reached out and touched Mason’s stomach, gently stroking the damp skin, and began quietly murmuring words of comfort.

“It’s okay, Mason. We’re here, just let it out,” Rig encouraged. “We’ve got you.”

Mason seemed to calm slightly with Rig’s touch and their low, soft voices, or perhaps the misery simply exhausted his body and he couldn’t keep fighting it any longer. Bobby didn’t know how long the three of them stayed beneath the cool spray of water, but it didn’t matter. He’d stay there as long as Mason needed him to.

Mason lurched forward, his body heaving. “Sick,” he warned, giving Rig just enough time to move out of the way before Mason’s gut finally gave up the poison.

Retch after miserable retch, Mason purged the alcohol from his system in painful bursts. Bobby eased them down to the tile floor, clamping down on his natural reaction to the sounds and the stench of the sour vomit that rose up around them. His gut rolled with nausea, but he swallowed, forced the bile back down, and held the man, stroking his stomach, whispering calm nonsense words of praise through each convulsing spasm, until Mason’s stomach was empty. Still, Bobby held him long after the dry heaves subsided and the man passed out in his arms.

Chapter 6

I
T
FELT
wrong to be going through a man’s life one piece of paper, one photograph at a time. He felt as if he were a creeper, some kind of stalker who was going through each event of a stranger’s life to get to the core of who the man was. Yet the feeling didn’t stop Rig from continuing to read every scrap of paper or examine piece by piece every article in the boxes that had been set next to the door.

Rig pulled out another photo and studied it intently. It was a picture of a smiling, much younger Mason, standing between two larger men he’d ascertained were Mason’s Doms, Gregory and Charles. He ran the tip of his finger over Mason’s smiling face, and Rig’s chest tightened at seeing the happiness that had once shown so brightly from the young man. He stole a glance to where the man was now sleeping, wrapped up protectively in Bobby’s arms, and the ache increased. Mason’s face was slack in slumber, but the telltale signs of his agony were still etched in the lines around his eyes and dark brow. Even in sleep there was a deep sadness that emitted from the young man.

Rig could sympathize with him. He and Bobby had lost their sub to a horrible accident many years prior, and the agony he’d felt from losing someone he loved had been nearly unbearable at the time. The pain on hearing the news had crushed down on him until he thought he’d die from it. The memory still etched deeply across his heart; the scar upon it was forever a reminder of what he and Bobby had lost. The only thing that had kept him going, kept him waking up each morning and trying to keep a brave face on when all he had wanted to do was stay in bed and hide away from the world, was his even greater need to comfort Bobby.

Rig set the photo aside and sat back against the wall, bent his legs, and rested his chin on his knee as he stared at the two men sleeping on the couch. Christ, he didn’t even want to imagine what it would have been like without Bobby. From what he could tell by scanning through the trinkets and collections of this poor broken boy, he’d been abandoned by his family at a young age, too afraid to make friends, and then to have had the two people he loved most, depended on, ripped from his life to be left completely alone?

Life was a cruel bitch.

Rig sat for a few moments longer, his head swimming with all the information he’d learned, trying to figure out what he was supposed to do next. He’d been up all night, and the need for sleep began to settle down over him, causing his thoughts to jumble. As easy as it would be to tip his head back, close his eyes, and sleep, he couldn’t. Yet, if he sat here any longer, that’s what exactly what would happen. He needed a plan, some clue what to do next. Rig rubbed at his tired eyes and shook his head, but the heaviness in his lids didn’t abate. Coffee, that’s what he needed, lots and lots of very strong, very hot coffee.

With a low groan, Rig pushed himself to his feet. He checked his watch; it was still too early to make a grocery run, and Mason’s cabinets and refrigerator were empty. He grabbed a pen and paper from the small table next to the recliner and scribbled out a quick note to let Bobby know he’d run to their place to grab some supplies and he’d be right back. He folded the note and set it on the coffee table next to the couch.

Rig hesitated with his hand on the doorknob, not wanting to leave Bobby alone at a strange home, yet the kid was going to need something to eat. It hadn’t appeared as if he’d been doing much of it as of late. He was too skinny, his color wrong, and before they took him to the hospital, they needed to get him awake and fed.

Rig turned the knob and stepped out onto the porch, quietly closing the door behind him. Hopefully they wouldn’t wake until he returned.

T
HE
stranger who had startled him the other day while he picked oranges—Bobby, he’d heard the other man call him—had tried to quietly slip from the couch without waking him. Mason had already been awake, trying to devise his own plan on how to do the same thing. After Bobby had moved into the kitchen with the other one called Rig, Mason had stayed quiet, hoping like hell they would leave.

No such luck.

The enticing aroma of coffee had called to him, but he’d managed to tune it out and kept his eyes tightly closed. He’d even been able to overlook the growling and grumbling of his belly as the smell of bacon frying swirled with and increased the tempting scent of coffee. What Mason could no longer ignore was the pain in his bladder, not unless he wanted to end up pissing on the couch.

He’d fucked up badly last night. Had reached rock bottom and had seriously thought about killing himself. The pain of loss had become too great to contain any longer, the burden too heavy. But as he had sat there, trying to build up the courage to actually go through with his plan, he’d thought he’d heard his Doms talking to him, soothing him. Their reassuring words pulling him back from the edge. Even with the effects of alcohol causing his thoughts to be a bit hazy, he knew now that it had been his own projection. He wasn’t crazy. Yes, he could admit to himself that he’d been totally fucked up in the head since the accident. It had been as if he were on a path of self-destruction. A speeding car heading straight for a brick wall, and last night he’d hit it, but he was still here. He hadn’t reached for the pills. Somewhere, he’d found the strength to make it another day.

Unfortunately, the realization had come just a bit too late, and now he had strangers in his home who had been witness to his lowest point. Mason was either going to have to dig down and find a little more courage, face them, and get them out of his house so he could unpack his belongings and start making some plans for today, tomorrow, and the rest of his days after that, or stay where he was and piss himself. He could hear them talking to each other, though they spoke in hushed tones—he wasn’t able to make out what they were saying—and moving around in the kitchen. He knew they had no plans to leave no matter how long he laid there pretending to be asleep. Mason took a deep breath through his nose and let it out slowly, and then one more before he finally rolled over and opened his eyes.

Mason could still hear the men chatting in the kitchen when he sat up. They wouldn’t be able to see him from there, and if lady luck was hanging with him, he’d make it to the bathroom before he had to face either of them. The room spun the second he pulled himself to his feet. Mason’s gut rolled; he was dizzy and lightheaded, and the effects of the alcohol combined with the nervousness made him unsteady. He blinked a couple of times, trying to focus on the wall until the fuzzy feeling began to wane. His pulse pounded as a roaring rush in his ears made his temples throb. He’d never been able to handle alcohol, and the scarce amount of food he’d been consuming lately made it all the worse. Mason swallowed and winced at the raw, burning sensation in his throat. Damn, he was going to pay for this binge for days.

The room stopped spinning and Mason took an awkward step forward, leaning heavily on the arm of the couch as he tried his damnedest not to make a sound as he moved toward the hallway. He was sweating; the stench of alcohol oozing from his pores made his stomach roll again, and he wrinkled his nose in disgust.

Okay, dumbass. One foot in front of the other
, he told himself. He just needed to get to the bathroom, piss, shower, and remove the dead animal that had taken up residence on his tongue, all while not alerting the men in his home. No problem. Mason rolled his eyes at himself and walked slowly on bare feet toward his destination. He spotted the men, their backs to Mason, as they stood near the stove. Bobby he recognized immediately from the curls; the other man was taller, leaner, and if he’d seen his face the night before, he couldn’t recall it.

Watching his feet, Mason tiptoed toward the hall. He’d just made it past the entrance to the kitchen when he heard, “Hey, you’re up.”

Shit.

“I,” Mason started, but barely any sound came out through his abused throat. The booze, screaming, and sobbing had rendered his voice nearly nonexistent. He steadied himself by supporting his shaking body with one hand against the wall and took another step forward.

“Mason, you okay?” one of the men said behind him. Mason wasn’t sure which one, and he had no desire to turn around and find out.

“Yeah,” he whispered. “Just going to the john.” He took another step.

“Here, let me help you,” Bobby said with concern evident in his voice and stepped up to Mason’s side and wrapped an arm around Mason’s waist.

“I’m fine,” he drew out hoarsely, avoiding eye contact with Bobby. “I’m just going to the john,” he repeated.

The larger man didn’t release Mason as he took the last couple of steps. He hesitated at the door when it appeared Bobby intended to follow him into the bathroom. “I’ll be right out,” he told him and tried to pull away, but Bobby held tight.

“I can’t let you go in there alone,” Bobby said.

Mason finally met Bobby’s gaze. “What?” he gasped out weakly.

Bobby’s expression was tender, almost apologetic. “I just want to make sure you’re okay,” he said softly.

Mason’s shock eased somewhat. He’d been delusional to hope for a few minutes alone. Hell, he couldn’t even blame the man. Had Mason come across someone in the condition he had been the night before, with the note and pills he’d left sitting on the table, Mason wouldn’t have trusted him alone either. Sighing, he nodded in resignation. He could wait on the shower, but the teeth brushing and, more importantly, the relief of his bladder couldn’t.

His knees weak and his hands shaking, Mason quickly took care of business and then grabbed his toothbrush and toothpaste from the drawer. To Bobby’s credit, he stayed leaning against the doorjamb, didn’t say anything further, and kept his head turned to give the appearance that Mason had some privacy. However, Mason knew it was only an illusion when he opened the medicine cabinet and grabbed a bottle of aspirin.

“What are those?” Bobby said in alarm and reached out for the bottle.

Instead of arguing or being outraged at the intrusion, Mason handed it over easily, keeping his eyes lowered. He deserved the mistrust his actions had evoked in this stranger. Bobby opened the bottle and, once satisfied they were only aspirin, handed the bottle back to Mason.

“Sorry,” Bobby said with a shrug. “Breakfast is ready. Why don’t you come eat while we chat?” It came out as a question, but with the hand on Mason’s elbow, encouraging him out of the bathroom, Mason really had no choice but to follow. Clutching the bottle of aspirin in his clammy hands, Mason kept his eyes once again on his feet all the way to the kitchen. Even after taking a chair at the table, he still wasn’t ready to lift his head and meet their questioning gazes.

“Hope you like scrambled,” Rig said almost cheerfully.

Mason supposed he should be more freaked out, working his way up to a really good panic attack, that two strangers were in his house making him breakfast, but mentally he was too exhausted. Plus, he was resigned to the fact that he’d given up his privacy through his actions. “I do,” he finally said meekly.