Tag Team Read Online Free Page A

pulse roared in his ears as the dread returned with a vengeance, intensified. Wake up .
    The kitchen was empty. The dining room table was set, steam still rolling up from the two coffee mugs, the chairs unoccupied, so he moved into the living room.
    “Gregory!” he cried out. “Charles. Where are you?”
    Silence.
    Wake up, goddammit! Wake the fuck up!
    He tried the front door, but it wouldn’t open. Locked. It made no sense, they wouldn’t lock the door to sit on the porch, but it was a nightmare, it didn’t have to make sense. He turned the lock and pulled open the door and ran outside. He couldn’t breathe, his heart hammered so hard it felt like it was going to pound out of his chest.
    The lounge chairs were empty.
    “Gregory! Charles!” he screamed. “Fucking answer me!”
    Silence.
    He looked to the left. Charles’s Envoy sat in the driveway. He turned to the right and cocked his head. A basket of oranges sat next to the railing. Mason narrowed his eyes and studied it. “Where the hell did that come—”
    Twisted wreckage.
    Mangled bodies.
    Blood.
    Mason’s knees buckled, and he reached out and caught himself, the pain in his hands and palms barely registering over the feeling of his heart being ripped from his chest. He wasn’t asleep; it was a nightmare, one he would never wake from.
    The anguish stirred his stomach, and each painful memory from the past three weeks came rushing back as the bubble popped. All the guilt rose to the surface, the pain, all of it spilling from his eyes, blurring his vision, but the sharp edge of each image, each painful moment, dug the knife deeper, relentlessly twisted it into his heart.
    Mason rolled to his side, curled into a tight ball, and sobbed.
    He was never going to wake from this nightmare.

Chapter 3

     
    T HE stifling heat in the room pulled Rig from a deep sleep as sweat rolled down his temples. He grumbled and shoved off the covers. His eyes flew open when the blankets hit the floor with a loud thump, followed by a very not-Bobby-sounding yelp. Rig rolled over and peered down over the edge of the mattress. A dark-haired head popped out from under the covers, hazel eyes glaring up at Rig.
    Rig jabbed a finger at him accusingly. “Who the fuck are you?”
    “That’s your beach bunny,” Bobby said sleepily from behind him.
    Rig turned his head to see Bobby sprawled out on the other side of the bed, rubbing his morning wood with one hand, scratching his chest with the other.
    “You want to help me up?” asked a whiny voice from the floor, the tone like that of nails across a chalkboard.
    Rig cringed and buried his face in the pillow and cursed. What the hell had he done last night? He remembered him and Bobby being invited to a bonfire, the alcohol flowing, and the cute boys dancing in their speedos and shorts. Rig lifted his head and peered over the mattress again, the stranger still glaring up at him, and now with a hand held out expectantly. Rig didn’t recognize the guy, definitely not one of the cute dancing boys. Rig huffed out a disgusted breath and rolled into Bobby’s side.
    “Did I fuck that guy?” he whispered against Bobby’s ear and then wrinkled his nose as the aroma of smoke, stale alcohol, and sex filled his nostrils. “Or did you? Christ you stink.”
    “So does your breath,” Bobby growled and grunted as he shoved at Rig. “I fucked him, you bottomed him,” Bobby added.
    Rig’s head snapped up, and he stared wide-eyed at Bobby, at the same time clenching his ass—no pain—he narrowed his eyes. “The hell I did.” He never… well, rarely bottomed, and when he did, it was only for Bobby. Both of them being natural Doms and tops made it necessary to compromise from time to time; not that he didn’t enjoy being fucked once in a while, but still.
    He swatted at Bobby when the bastard started to chuckle and pushed himself back against Bobby’s side, then threw a leg over the man. Bobby hissed when Rig’s thigh landed on his