The Flesh Cartel #6: Brotherhood

three large, aggressive steps into the room, grabbed Dougie by the shoulder and yanked him right out of Mat’s lap and onto the floor. Dougie yelped, going limp like an animal playing dead. Thus discarded, the man ignored him for a second, instead staring at Mat’s cock hanging out his open fly, and his face turned so red Mat seriously hoped he might bust something. “Mathias Robert Carmichael,” he growled, low and dangerous and how the fuck did he know Mat’s middle name? Oh God, he knew everything, they all knew everything, the chip, his file, the background check.
“I—” Mat stuttered, but then forced himself to say it. “Dad, I—”
Yes. Call him that. Keep him distracted. Keep him away from Dougie.
The “D” word pleased the sick fuck. The fake anger faded for a second, overshadowed by eyes falling closed, a flush across his brow, a tentative lick of his lips.
That’s right. Eyes on me, you sick creep.
He went to stand, making a show of trying to tuck himself away, which seemed like the most sensible thing to do, if this were real. “Dad, I can explain—”
The man slapped him hard enough to knock him back to the bed. “No, no. Allow me. I know what this is. I’ve read about it. Experimenting together, is that it? You two jerk off together a lot? I didn’t know I’d raised a couple of little perverts.”
His eyes were wandering to Dougie again. Dougie, lying on the floor in his underwear, visibly shaking. The perfect fucking victim.
“You have anything to say, Douglas? Was this your big brother’s idea?”
“Yes!” Mat shouted, but the man only turned his attention to him long enough to hit him again, splitting his bottom lip with the wedding band on his finger, before turning back to Dougie.
He squatted down beside Dougie, touched his shoulder. “Tell your dad the truth, and I’ll buy you an ice cream. We’ll forget all about it.”
Dougie lifted his head, looking to Mat. He didn’t know what to say. Oh God, he didn’t understand what was going on. Had Nikolai told him anything?
“Tell him, Dougie,” Mat said. “Tell our dad it’s all my fault.” The emphasis did the trick. Dougie’s eyes widened in understanding. The tears were already starting again.
He’s not okay at all he’s not okay he’s not okay. He’s as fragile as wet fucking tissue paper and I know him, I know he’s not like that, what has Nikolai done to him, what did he do?
The man’s grip on Dougie’s shoulder tightened, tightened, until the skin went white and Dougie cried out. “I asked you a question, son. I expect an honest answer. Unless you’re too ashamed, is that it? Maybe it wasn’t your brother’s idea. Maybe it was yours and he’s just trying to protect you.”
“No!” Mat cried at the same time Dougie cried, “Yes! Okay? Yes! I’m sorry, Dad, I was just curious, I . . . please don’t split us up, Dad. Please don’t make us take separate rooms, we won’t do it again, I swear!”
Please don’t separate us.
You clever bastard. Even scared out of his mind, halfhysterical, thrown in blindfolded to the most fucked-up end of the pool, Dougie’s mind was still sharp enough to play along. Pride swelled through the fear. He loved Dougie so fucking much it hurt.
The man shifted his grip, grabbed Dougie by the arm so hard he’d no doubt leave finger-shaped bruises, dragged him to his feet and tossed him over the bottom bunk, ass up, feet on the floor. Mat he grabbed by the ear and hauled to the ground. “You know what I think? I think you two need a little lesson.” He smacked Dougie hard on the ass, barked, “Stay,” and began unbuckling his belt.
No. No, this isn’t how it’s supposed to go. No, stop this. But he knew how helpless he was, knew how helpless he had to be. His promise to Nikolai. The consequences—for them both— if he disobeyed. He couldn’t afford to intervene, could only try to distract.
“You’re right, Dad,” he said. “But Dougie’s the one lying to protect me. I made him touch me. I’m the little pervert. Punish me.” He sat up, crawled the yard to the man’s feet, hugged his legs and leaned his head against his thigh. “I . . . I think I might be gay, Dad. I don’t want to be gay. Help me not to be. Please?”
He’d asked his real father that. Remembered sitting at the kitchen table and crying it out. So afraid that everyone would hate him, that no one would want to wrestle with him again, that the guys at the gym wouldn’t shower with him,