Goldilocks: A Man, a Jersey, and a Tight End (5 page)

“You didn’t fuck up,” said Paul. “This is just Scott being Scott.”

Chapter Five

He’d been booked and printed and lying on his side on a cold wet cement floor for half an hour before Scott finally sobered up enough to realize what he’d done to himself.

Fucking hell.

There had been a time when this was a monthly occurrence. Years ago, of course. And Scott had generally been careful to deliver his loads first. He sat up with care and glared at a pair of beaten work boots attached to the legs of the man sitting on the bench near him.

“You ain’t used your call yet,” said the guy. “Better do it if you want to make bail.”

“Thanks,” said Scott, easing himself to his feet.

The big hairy guy, clutching his tiny little baseball cap, waved at him. “No problem.” He had a swelled-shut eye and an open cut on his cheek.

That was the first time it occurred to Scott to check his own face. A gingerly exploration revealed at least one bad cut and a lip that was about twice its usual size. So he’d won, right? Cheered by this, Scott called the matron and went to make his call.

* * * *

What the hell was wrong with Jim, he didn’t know. You’d think the man had never been in a fight. Scott sulked.

The bail had come, and he’d found his truck, thank Christ, safe and sound. Now he sat in the cab, nursing the lip with an ice pack from the 7-Eleven, loath to head toward home but feeling an urgency to do so.

So he’d had a little fight. It happened. Jim couldn’t possibly be pissed off about that, could he?

But by the time Scott pulled his truck up into the driveway of the bungalow three blocks up from Melrose, his body had worked itself into an electrical storm of its own. His belly was tight and anxious, with a thread of anxiety. His knuckles ached, now that he was sober, from the fight. And the muscles in his arms and neck twitched with memory and anticipation.

Though he told himself it was no big deal, Scott had been chewing over things all the way from New Mexico to Silver Lake.

Both Jim and Paul had sounded PO’d, but those two were always posturing. Maybe that sort of attitude worked on Brian, but Scott could hold his own. He wasn’t gonna go in there and start pleading.

Right?

Scott realized he’d been sitting in the cab just looking at the house long after he’d turned off the engine. His hands were sweating. He pulled them off the steering wheel and rubbed them on his pants, then forced himself to open the door and hop down.

His knees were rubbery, but that was probably the hangover combined with the fight adrenaline and then the long drive.

“Hey, I’m home!” His voice sounded okay, he decided, though he had to clear his throat a little.

There was no one in sight. Not sure what to make of that, Scott swung his duffel bag to the ground. Then came the slap of bare feet, and Brian appeared. His hair was loosely bound, and his eyes were huge.

“You jerk!” Brian said.

“Well, hello to you too, Goldilocks,” said Scott.

Now Paul and Jim entered behind Brian. They had that look they got when they were about to lay down some law or another.
Man.

“Brian, go to our room,” said Paul quietly.

Scott didn’t know what pissed him off more: Paul ordering Brian around like that or Brian just meekly going. When Scott had been living with it for a while, he got used to it. But he’d been free and on the road for weeks now, and it struck him anew how wrong that was.

“You get him to fetch sticks yet?” he said to Paul.

“Scott!” Oh, boy, now he got that worried look from Jim.

He squinted at Jim then—wondering and a little annoyed with himself because he couldn’t quite look straight at the man. He shrugged off his jacket so he’d have an excuse for that. “Happy to see you too, lover,” he said and wanted to bite his own tongue when he heard how his voice sounded. Sort of choky. Must have been the still-swollen, split lip.

Then Jim was right there behind him, hands on both shoulders. Scott willed his body to jerk out from under the touch, but his body ignored him, and instead he found himself being pulled back against Jim’s warm chest, big furry arms wrapping around him.

He grabbed Jim’s forearms to pull him off, you know? But instead found himself clinging tightly with all ten fingers. An unmanly noise escaped from between his lips.

When Jim led him into the bedroom, Paul was nowhere in sight.

* * * *

“This is stupid,” Scott spat. And was pleased he sounded as pissed off as he was. He stood in the corner of the bedroom, opposite Jim’s small forest of marijuana plants. His nose faced the corner, and his hands were clasped on his head. There really was nothing to do but glare at the boring intersection of two walls and grouse.

Scott knew the wallpaper on these two walls so well he could probably have drawn the repetitious cascading flower design from memory.

“You should have thought of that before you sassed Paul,” said Jim calmly. And whatever he was doing clinked and thumped, and Scott twitched, longing to turn around and see what Jim was up to, but knowing better than to try it.

“Somebody has to do it,” said Scott reasonably. “That man acts like he thinks he’s God or something. He’s got Brian to heel like a trained chimp.”

“That’s enough,” Jim said sharply. “I don’t want to gag you with that lip, but don’t think I can’t find a way to keep you silent, Scott, if I have to.”

Scott closed his lips together and scowled fiercely at the corner.

“And you can wipe that look off your face,” Jim added. And then he was right behind Scott, hands on both his shoulders. “Okay, honey, we’ll take care of that cut on your cheek, and then we’ll deal with the other.” He turned Scott around, and both Scott’s heels dug into the carpet instinctively, resisting Jim’s guidance enough that he got a little slap on the behind.

“What is that?” asked Scott. “What are you going to do?” His damned feet were going where they were urged, despite his protests.

Jim eased Scott up against the contraption, knelt, and fastened Scott’s ankles loosely to the bottom posts. “Give me your hands, babe.”

“No,” said Scott, watching in horror as his hands moved, as if of their own volition, into Jim’s. Jim fastened Scott’s wrists with the same loose leather bracelets. And Scott stood, breathing hard, his ankles and wrists fastened securely and comfortably to a large wooden X set up in the other corner of the bedroom.

Then Jim just
left
him there. Well, actually, only for a few minutes. But by the time he reappeared, carrying a bowl of water that smelled strongly of antibacterial soap, a soft cloth, and his medicine kit, Scott was breathing hard.

And his damned cock was straining against his jeans too. What the hell was
that
about?

“Okay, try to hold still,” said Jim, as he always did, knowing full well that Scott would jerk and flinch while Jim tried to bathe the wound.

Jim leaned casually against this medieval-looking
thing
he’d tied Scott to and studied the cut on Scott’s cheek carefully. “Doesn’t look like it needs any kind of stitches. Your lip looks worse. How are your teeth, Scott?”

“Fine,” growled Scott. “All present and accounted for. Sir.” He said the last in the least respectful tone he could muster—bordering on insolence, actually.

Smack.

Jim’s hand landed right on his behind, and there was a sting to it.

“I warned you,” he said. “How many warnings do you get?”

Scott ground his teeth and muttered and pulled uselessly at his bindings. Jim stepped away and then came back. Some kind of soft rubber thing was held up and against Scott’s face, which he tried to flinch from as best he could. But Jim held his chin and worked the thing around his head. It was all straps and buckles, and Scott kept fighting.

“How many warnings, Scott?”

And when Scott grudgingly spat out, “One,” Jim slipped the rubber thing between Scott’s teeth and tightened some strap, and then Scott was standing there with a thin rubber bit between his teeth, growling like a muzzled pit bull.

Jim stood there for a long time, stroking his back and making soothing noises. And as mad as Scott was, after a while he could feel himself starting to relax. Then Jim’s lips were on the top of his head, and a whisper was at his ear.

“Okay, babe. We’ll start out with ten minutes.”

Start out?

And then Jim was gone. At first all Scott could hear was his own loud breathing. Gradually, though, he calmed, and then he could hear the sounds in the kitchen: subdued voices, Brian’s voice raised in inquiry.

Then it was more silence.
Ten minutes
? It had to have been an hour. Scott had been sitting in the cab of a truck for weeks, so he didn’t mind standing, but his mind had been speeding on adrenaline and some other gnatlike worry for so long that it was almost painful to feel it slow down and rest. He could hear the birds outside, the house settling. He could hear the pop and sizzle of something cooking and the sink being turned on and off.

Then, after what seemed like at least a decade, Jim came back into the room.

* * * *

“Scott will be fine.” Paul scraped shaving foam from just above his own ear, and his eyes met Brian’s in their double-wide bathroom mirror.

“His face was bashed up,” Brian pointed out needlessly.

“Yes.” Paul tapped the razor against the edge of the sink and rinsed it under the spigot.

Brian toyed with his toothbrush and then straightened his soap dish. He rocked from foot to foot and was about to wander out of the bedroom when Paul got hold of him with both hands.

“Brian, look at me.”

Brian looked up, his brows creased in worry. “His mouth was swollen.”

“Do you trust me, Brian?”

Brian nodded immediately.

“Scott will be fine.” Brian’s eyes searched Paul’s for a minute, and then he took a deep breath and released it in a long sigh.

“You didn’t get enough sleep last night. I want you to take a nap this afternoon.”

“Yes, Sir.”

Paul folded Brian in his arms and kissed the top of his head. “Isn’t today that big football game of yours?”

Brian hopped back, his mouth wide in an O of shock. “I forgot! How could I have forgotten?” And the hushed house reverberated as he whooped. “Yeah, the Giants are gonna win. I can feel it. Where’s my jersey?” And he was off, bouncing around their bedroom like a blond-headed ping-pong ball.

“Tom Brady, my man is so gonna kick your butt!”

Paul shook his head, smiling.

* * * *

Scott heard Brian whoop, and he smiled. He and Jim were in Jim’s bedroom. Scott was down to his boxer shorts and sitting on the bed. He rubbed his wrists over and over, not because they were sore from the bindings but because he liked how the reminder of the restraints felt when he rubbed them.

Jim sat at the foot of the bed, massaging Scott’s feet. He had that quiet contemplative expression he got, and his massage was gentle and slow, but Scott still felt enormous pressure coming at him from the gentle man at his feet.

“I’m sorry,” he blurted finally. “I should have called you right away. But I was drunk.”

Jim set down one of Scott’s feet and picked up the other. “You were drunk,” he stated.

“I stopped at a bar and had a few beers.” Scott hated how his voice could go all whiny like that before he’d even noticed.

Jim nodded. Set down Scott’s foot and looked at him. “Reasonable, responsible thing to do.”

Scott ducked his chin, trying to escape that calm, steady gaze. He tried to find something to look at besides the man calmly staring him down. “I don’t know why I did it.” He could admit that.

“You don’t?”

Damn it
. Jim wasn’t cutting him any slack. Like Jim never found himself just doing something for the hell of it.

“Couldn’t get the edge off,” Scott admitted. “Thought a beer might help.”

“A beer and a fight.”

Scott scowled.
Perceptive son of a bitch
. Wasn’t marijuana supposed to make you dopey and mellow?

“Yes,” said Scott. “Beer and a fight. Sometimes a man’s just gotta…”

“No, you don’t,” said Jim.

Scott folded his arms, and his legs twitched.

Jim sighed. “Roll over, baby,” he said, standing.

Scott whined. “Jiiiiimmm.” But when Jim bent to help him, Scott rolled over and stretched his arms out, grasping the headboard with both hands.

He shook his head hard to Jim’s gentle, “Do I need to bind you?”

“Just get it over with,” said Scott, breathing hard.

Jim slid his boxers down and soothingly rubbed his butt. “You never fight unless there’s something bigger you want to avoid,” he said. “Don’t you want to tell me about it, Scott?”

“Quit playin’ shrink and just do it,” said Scott, turning his head away so Jim couldn’t see his face.

Scott had barely laid his cheek to the cool sheet when the first sharp slap came right across the muscled part of his butt. It was followed by three more hard swats. The last one made him jump.

Scott was heavily muscled, but the nerves on his rear end were as sensitive as any man’s, and Jim knew just how and where to land each spank for maximum sting and burn. Scott didn’t cry out, but his whole body jerked against the mattress, his hips trying to escape as the fire spread across his ass and upper thighs.

His mouth opened so he could draw in huge breaths, hands clenching and forearms straining, legs jumping against the mattress. Finally, Jim stopped.

Scott pressed his face to the mattress. Hands reached up and turned and gathered him, and he was folded up in a big lap, hands stroking his head and a prickly warm beard brushing against his face.

“I’m sorry.” Scott couldn’t stop himself from shaking. “I was so fucking nervous.”

“What about?”

“You. Us. It’s been over a month. I…I mean, what if you weren’t here when I got home?”

Jim stopped his rhythmic petting. “What if I wasn’t here?”

“You’ve done it before,” said Scott, his voice bitter. “Left.”

“Ah,” was all Jim said. “I thought we settled all that a long time ago.” He turned Scott’s head so that he could pet the man’s face and gaze into his eyes. “Don’t you?”