Triton
Ted Zimmerman’s house was packed, both sides of the small street lined with trucks, SUVs, and cars.
“All these people play poker?” He rubbed his good hand down his pant leg, his gaze locked on Diesel’s face.
“Not all of them. It’s more of a chance to get out and celebrate. We meet pretty much once a month all year,” Diesel answered him after he came around the SUV and opened the door.
Triton gave a nervous giggle and promptly slipped in the mud. Diesel caught him from falling and he clung to the bigger man until they reached the front porch.
Triton’s feet dragged on the front steps. What if he said something stupid and embarrassed himself or worse, embarrassed Diesel?
He froze.
“What’s the matter?” Diesel turned and stepped closer, shielding him from the front door.
“I…”
“Breathe.” The soldier’s warm voice rushed over him, and he took in a deep breath. The anxiety and knowing he was a failure kept him from relaxing.
“I can’t go in there.” He violently shook his head.
“Okay.” Diesel’s voice was smoothing, calm, and controlled.
He glanced up quickly. There was only understanding in Diesel’s eyes. He swallowed, the disappointment cutting through him like a sharp knife. He wanted to please this man so badly.
“I can call and make our apologies. You don’t ever need to step through the door. They won’t even know you were here.”
Diesel would do that for him? Tears burned at the edges of his eyes.
Diesel would put off reconnecting with his friends for him?
Triton knew for a fact that Diesel had been waiting for this party. It showed in the way Diesel had prepared the salad and spoke of the party and his friends. The man was dressed so sexily—tight blue jeans with a buttoned down green dress shirt that matched his eyes. Triton had trimmed Diesel’s beard again for the party, and his leather jacket fit him perfectly. The ice chest filled with the specially made potato salad dangled from Diesel’s grip.
And here Diesel was ready to give it all up for him and his stupid fears.
“No,” he whispered softly, firmly. “Let’s go in.” He pushed away his fear and offered a tiny smile.
Diesel took his hand and squeezed. “I’ll be right beside you. If you’re sure.”
“I’m sure.” He nodded and held Diesel’s hand tightly as they stepped inside.
Sounds and smells assaulted him. He feared it would remind him of Clay and Auto’s parties, but this was so very different. So much nicer. The laughter was happy sounding, for one, and not filled with menace. People were mingling and smiling and dressed nicely. Instead of stale beer and bad breath, the rich smell of sauces and spice lingered on the air from the freshly baked lasagna he spotted on the table. He drew in a shaky breath as Diesel guided him toward the table and placed the potato salad next to other dishes.
“Hey!” a few of the people called out when they were spotted. He recognized Ted, Bill, Memphis, Vince, Patty, Sally, and Sissy out of the twenty some odd people there.
He lifted a hand with a brief wave, feeling overwhelmingly shy, his palms sweaty.
“Diesel.” Ted approached and shook Diesel’s hand and then smiled at him. “Triton.”
“Hi, Ted,” he said softly.
“You’re mine!” a small, dark-haired man squealed, coming across the room at him.
“Be gentle with him, baby,” Ted said to the man approaching him.
“Oh poo! I’m Miles.” With all smiles, he was introduced to Ted’s husband of eight years.
“This is Triton,” Diesel said for him, but Triton didn’t mind, it meant the big soldier hadn’t forgotten about him. He liked that.
“Hi.” He smiled and his cheeks heated.
“Come on,” Miles said before attempting to take his uninjured hand from Diesel’s large palm.
“Miles,” Ted growled.
“Sir?” Miles gazed wide-eyed.
“Ask.”
“Please?” Miles gave both him and Diesel a wide smile.
Diesel waited for him. It was his call. He squeezed the big man’s hand and then reached and took the one Miles offered.
Miles wore his blond hair spiked, tight fitting skinny jeans, a tank top covered by a black mesh shirt, and bare feet. His finger and toe nails were painted a metallic purple. Black eyeliner lined his large, gorgeous blue eyes and around his throat was a black, studded collar.
Triton felt so underdressed. He’d worn a nice, black buttoned down shirt with white pinstripes, but he’d had to have help getting it over his cast. He’d managed it with the sleeve rolled back, but some of the stitching in the material had pulled away. Blue jeans, black boots, and some gel in his hair rounded out his appearance for the evening.
“I should have dressed up,” he whispered.
“You look gorgeous, but we can fix you up a bit later if you want.” Miles pursed his lips and winked before leading him through the living room and into a kitchen filled with women and decorations along with the smell of baked cookies fresh from the oven.
“Oh! You found a friend!” One of the women squealed and gave him a wink.
Triton laughed. It felt so good to laugh. The women converged on him and touched his hair and pinched his cheeks.
“Back away, ladies! He’s on loan. I almost had to kill a Dom to get him,” Miles hooted and pushed his way through. Grabbing a box of different colored markers from a kitchen drawer, he tossed them on the counter. Miles slid up to Triton and eased his cast to the bar top.
“Which Dom?” one of the ladies asked. He was wondering the same thing.
“Mind your own business,” Miles said, selecting another color to finish off his signature right on the top of Triton’s cast.
“Oh, I’m next,” the long-haired beauty to Triton’s left said and selected a sea foam green colored pen and gave him a smile.
“So how’d you hurt-?”
“Nope, no way, Carla,” Miles objected, giving the blonde, bobbed-haired girl a stern look. “No asking personal questions. This is a party. If Triton wants to share, he can, but that’s up to him.”
“Oh, okay,” Carla said around a bite of cookie. She placed one near Triton, and he snatched it up and ate it.
“Oh man, this is so good.” He caught a piece of chocolate before it could escape and licked his fingers before finishing off the treat.
She smiled. “Cool name.”
“Thank you, it’s one of the choices my parents made that I actually like.”
The group of women smiled and laughed and introduced themselves. The long-haired dark one was Rachael Bains, sister to Sheriff Memphis Bains. Carla was Bill Parson’s wife, and the other girls were from various neighborhoods. Sally from the train station was there, and she stopped by and cupped his cheek.
“How are you doing, sweetie?”
“I’m good, Sally. Thank you so much.”
She winked and made her way to the punch bowl. “Lord help y’all if this isn’t spiked!”
“Of course, it’s spiked! Are you crazy?” Patty giggled and held up the bottle of vodka.
“Well, in that case, I’ll take a cup,” he said, and before he thought twice, Carla placed a cup in his hand.