This. Gave. Me. Fits...
Ugh.
Not my comfort zone...can ya tell?
"Wait, you said seven figures?" Emma questioned. "Really?"
"Yeah, well, we know where you get your expensive tastes from and it isn't from your mother." Brock grinned.
"So, like, a million dollars?" She guessed.
"Millions. Plural." Eric corrected. "Multiple. Your daddy ain't cheap kiddo."
"Okay, yeah...but...wow." She paused. "He was okay, so...your cancelled flight, your aborted flight, your delayed return via ship was...for nothing?"
"Can't take chances with him."
"Can't guess either."
"We had no way of knowing."
"Better with a doctor and available medication than winging it on a military transport."
Emma tilted her head up. "Dad?"
"He's work." Jason admitted. "But his skill, his talent? His loyalty? Not letting that go."
"Doesn't handle loss well." Sonny commented. "Takes a bit to pull it together."
"But he does." Ray countered, Sonny nodded in agreement.
"He's quick, he's smart and there ain't a person here whose life he hasn't somehow saved at one time or another." Jason finished. "Yeah, he's worth the headache."
"Hey how's that beer?" Lisa called out, decided it was time for a change in subject. "What'cha think Emma?"
"Don't really see your attraction to it." The teenager admitted with a nose wrinkle. "Kinda...blah."
"What?"
"Here now!"
"Blasphemy!"
"Jason, Alana play you false?"
"It's cheap."
"There's bottled, canned, draft, brewed..."
"It's frothy and frosty and foamy."
"I'd rather have ,erhm, try a wine cooler." Emma covered hastily. "Or one of those hard lemonade's..."
Horrified, six grown men and one woman yelped. "NO!"
Clay continued to sleep.
***Clay has a wine cooler***
Jason was dirty, sweaty, tired, hungry, pissed off and all-round beat. He didn't have time for this shit. He wanted this beaming asshole gone. This robe-wearing, sandal-footed, camel jockey needed to get out of his face. He wanted to go to bed and this dude was preventing him from doing so, so yeah, right now, he was the enemy and Jason saw fit to treat him as such.
He'd just come off an overnight shift watching a warehouse for suspicious activity and movement - news flash, there hadn't been any - and was ready to take a shower, because all the sand in every crease of skin made him itch, when an MP had come to notify him he had a visitor.
"Chief Hayes? Sir."
"What? Go away."
"You have a visitor Sir."
"I have a what?" said Jason stupidly. "Yeah, no I don't."
He didn't get visitors. Bravo didn't get visitors. The base didn't get visitors. Not over here. And though their quarters and barracks were secluded from the rest of the base, they were approachable at meals or in the activity areas - so no, no visitors.
"At the front gate, Sir."
Front gate, his ass.
Apparently the arrival of a white limousine bearing some kind of state or diplomatic flag or tag or sticker, and accompanied by an entourage riding camels gained its occupant immediate admittance to the visitor's center on the base.
Who the fuck even knew the base had a visitor center!? Not Jason.
"Allow me to introduce myself." The man dressed in robes and a head covering - silk robes - bowed. "I am Sheikh Ramzi Bin Atef..."
"Yeah, yeah, Chef Boy Rice-a-Roni." Jason said impatiently, shifted his weight from foot to foot. "Sultan or prince of Bon appetite, right? Whatever. I get it. State your business and be on your way."
"I wish to negotiate a transaction between you and meself." The sheikh droned on, not at all put off by Jason's rudeness. "...I am here..." blah, blah, blah. "...the person I should conduct my business with, yes?" He waited expectedly for a reply. He spoke good English but all Jason heard was a foreign language because not one god-damn word coming out of this biblical relic's mouth made any fucking sense. "...good, good, now then..." yadda, yadda, yadda. "...is your price?" And he beamed happily at Jason.
Jason simply could not wrap his head around who this idiot was and what he wanted. Oh, he heard him, (his voice, the words) he just couldn't hear him (understand what the fuck he was saying, what the words meant).
"I'm sorry, say that again. You want to what?"
Jason felt like he needed to knock his head repeatedly against the heel of his hand, slap the sand right out of his ears, 'cause...
"As I was saying, I wish to negotiate. On my honor, he will live a life of leisure..."
"Who will?"
"...will want for nothing." The sheikh continued as if Jason hadn't interrupted. "His life will be comfortable, he will never know pain or cold or hunger, only pleasure. Everything he needs will be provided. Everything he wants, will be considered and most likely granted." He paused. "Although he will be restricted to the palace grounds, he will never live outside."
"Say what?"
"Of course, he will, at first, be confined to one room while he is trained. And since he's a, shall we say, house gift for my bevy of beauties, he will be required to..."
"He's a what?"
"He will be fed, housed, clothed, educated. A masseur, a trainer, a physician, chef will be dedicated to him."
"Come again?"
"I have nine wives, seventeen daughters and thirteen ladies in, well, can call it a harem, I suppose." The sheikh waved a bejeweled hand dismissively. "Though please, do not insult me with that yesterday definition of harem. So silly." He shook his head. "Women! They do bore easily, do they not? Do you agree? And oh me, they like to shop. How many shoes can one woman wear? I ask and yet, no one can explain." Dramatically, he put the back of his hand to his forehead. "And then...and then!...they go around barefoot all the time! Now, I say, does that make sense to you? I think not."
"What?"
"And when they buy new shoes, they need a new pocket book to match." He shook his head. "Aah, well now, I ramble. Where were we? Money is no issue, I buy them their hearts desire and they desire a blonde-haired, blue-eyed man of muscle. I would like to buy him."
"You wanna do what?"
"I will pay. My lovely's always get what they desire. They want him, so..." He spread his hands, shrugged as if to say; ah, the whims of females. What's a man to do? "I'm here to offer you a fair price."
"Buy who?"
"Name your price."
"My what?"
"I don't expect him to be cheap. I," he pointed to his chest. " Pay you," he pointed to Jason. "Well for him."
"You'll do what?"
"Very well, I'll start the bidding. Three million."
"Dollars?"
"American dollars. More then? Five million."
"How much?"
"I'm prepared to bargain with you until I get what I came here for." The sheikh said patiently. "Thirty-nine women! I tell you, one must keep them busy, occupied or you shall lose your mind. This purchase should keep them entertained for the summer."
"Ray!"
"Shall we sit down, have a drink?"
"RAY!"
"I see you're going to drive a hard bargain." He rubbed his hands together gleefully. "I do like a challenge. Seven."
"RAY!"
"Of course, I will give you a receipt. I must insist you sign a bill of sale. Would you prefer cash, check or wire transfer?"
"Would I what?"
The sheikh sighed. "My wives, my daughters, my ladies, they have everything they want...clothes, jewels, cars, yachts, planes, houses, a palace...I say to meself, what can I give them? What would they like? What can I give my lovely's that no one else has?! Ah-ha, I say, they lack a...pet." He shook his head sadly. "They are not fond of camels. Can you imagine? And those little yappy dogs?'' He rolled his eyes. "Worthless creatures. They adore their horses of course, but they are not well suited to our climate." He clapped his hands. "Nine."
"Lack a what?"
"He will be well cared for. He will eventually have unlimited access to the palace grounds; pool, tennis courts, movie theater. He will not be expected to work. His only duty will be to satisfy my lovely's. Fulfill their desires, their fantasies. If he chooses, he can breed..."
"RRAAYY!"
"He is very polite, well-mannered, respectful, speaks our language, doesn't drink your nasty American beer, enjoys the fruity taste most of my lovely's prefer. He will be easy to feed, easy to please, easy to keep." The sheikh wasn't getting that Jason was about to throw him through a wall. "My oldest wife, also my dearest, mind you, for she bore me my first son, she saw him at the restaurant. She was attracted to him right away because he wasn't drinking your horrid hops. Blah! Blah, I say! Terrible taste."
"What?"
"And he treated her very well. Not like other men treat women. And then he spoke to her in her language. Is that not a sign she is meant to have him? Do you not think so?"
"Do I think what?"
"Now, yes, yes, I admit." The sheikh shook his head. "This younger generation, nothing like in my day. They, my daughters, are quite bold and forward. Don't know where they get it from. Not me. TV, I say. Worst invention I allowed into the palace."
"Huh?"
"Or perhaps it is this on-line chat business. Why, the images they show me!" His hand covered his heart, fanned his face with the other. "They wish to try what they see. There are many men among the help or from the village willing to participate, but they lack, uh, stamina."
"RRAAYY!"
"They do like their toys. Oh, they like to tease." He tsk-tsked, clicked his tongue. "Such an infatuation with ribbons and ropes and silk strings and scarves, but I assure you, they will do him no harm. No, no. Their mothers will keep them in line. " He blushed. BLUSHED! "They are required to keep their activities and proclivities and," now he frowned, grimaced, "their unnatural desires to either their bedrooms or the playroom."
"RRAAAAAAAYY!"
"I had to have a room converted, did you know? I simply could not have these...these...things, these items strewn about the palace. And, oh me, if one takes him to their bedroom, the tantrum from the others drives a man right from his house!"
Jason fought the urge to cover his ears with his hands. This. Was. Not. Happening.
"RAY?! RAY? RRAAYY?!"
"Now, not all the daughters are so territorial." Clueless, the sheikh continued. "Some share quite well. Oh, there is the seventh daughter, she is quite the handful, but don't you worry, he will never feel the lash of a whip. No sir, that sort of violence is forbidden in all my houses." He paused, looked thoughtful. "Though, well, there is wife number five, so, if he misbehaves while she is watching him, he will very likely feel the sting of a paddle."
"AAUUGGH! RRRRAAAAYYYY!"
Ray skidded around the corner, wearing a towel, shampoo in his hair, soap in his beard. He'd been fetched from the shower by some dude who urged him to make haste to his Chief's side because that Chief was in the visitor's center, bellowing louder than a bull with a rubber band wrapped around its balls.
The base had a visitor's center?
"What? Jesus Jason, you'd better be dying..." He pulled up short, clutched his towel, stared at the sheikh. "What the?" He spun around, immediately assessed the situation, looked for a threat. "Who - what - the hell is that?" No one appeared to be armed...wait, was that a camel looking through the window?
"I am..."
"You have company." Ray turned to Jason, quirked a lip into a grin. "You're entertaining? Is there champagne?"
"Not funny Ray."
"Kinda funny."
"Kinda not." Jason was finally beginning to process the situation. The sheikh was serious. "Where's Clay?"
Because it had to be Clay. What other blonde-haired, blue-eyed man of muscle had been out of his sight?
"In his bunk."
"You sure about that?"
"Yeah, he...what?"
"Sultan Oman Baboon here wishes to pay me nine..."
"Eleven." The sheikh interjected. He didn't correct Jason on his title or name.
"...million dollars for our blonde-haired, blue-eyed man of muscle."
"Am I on camera? I'm on camera, right? I'm being filmed, aren't I?" Ray turned in a circle, waved. "Come on out guys! HaHa, good joke." He bent over, ass to the air. "Anyone wanna see a moon?" He played with his towel, flipped it suggestively.
"Ray," Jason began.
"Who is this man? I do not like him." The sheikh waved a hand and several men twice the size of Jason stepped forward, were in Ray's face. "You can go away, I don't wish to deal with..." He looked down his nose, sniffed in disdain. "With men who display their attributes in such a public display."
"Jay, this guy serious?"
"Get Blackburn."
Ray's grin faded. He closed his towel. Jason's tone...his face...his look...his set jaw, his glittering eyes...caused Ray to bolt and everyone on base was treated to the sight of a muscular, fit, naked black man running like the hounds on hell were on his heels across the base covered in drying soap suds, clutching a towel around his waist, bellowing 'ERIC' at the top of his lungs.
()()()
Clay woke with a groan...his tongue was thick, his mouth dry. He kept his eyes closed, their lids too heavy to lift, as he futilely attempted to work saliva into his mouth. Nope, throat not cooperating.
Well, alrighty then. Next.
He stirred, moved his hands, then his feet, an attempt to gain knowledge by feeling. Huh, his feet were bare, where were his boots? He lowered a hand, raised his foot, neither movement was restricted, but both were an effort that left him panting.
His hand confirmed his foot was bare. Huh. Not good, right? Couldn't be good. Was never good.
He laid still, waited. His bearings and senses and thoughts slowly filtered round and sorted themselves into the process for which they were meant.
Nose - spices, incense, perfume. So, he wasn't in the barracks.
Ears - soft music, no words, neither country nor rock, nothing he was used to, so not Bravo.
Hands/Feet - sheets, mattress(?), able to move freely. Not tied up or down or to anything.
Skin - cool, not sunburned, not sensitive. He wasn't in pain, he was comfortable.
Eyes - not yet working.
Memory - faulty.
Tongue - fat, thick, dry. It wanted water.
Lips - dry.
Overall, he counted himself fortunate. Though perhaps his team would have something to say about it, would think differently.
Jason - So help me Spenser, I'm really going to thrash you this time.
Sonny - God Dammit kid, the hell you do now?
Ray - Again? Really, this is getting old.
Brock - You okay?
Trent - I warned you last time, you made me come after you, you weren't going to like it, I got you back.
Eric - How much is whatever the hell happened to him this time, going to cost me?
Davis - They're old men Clay, give them a break. They can't keep up with you.
Cerberus - kisses.
Okay, then, think.
Clay relaxed into the depths of the pillows, tilted his head towards the gentle breeze that drifted across his face.
Bravo had been on shifts, observing comings and goings from a warehouse. Ray and Jason had relieved Clay and Brock. Brock had returned to base but Clay had gone out for dinner, and that's where he should still be...so, why wasn't he?
Had he gone home with some woman from the bar? Why couldn't he remember? No wait...the last thing he remembered was...um...he'd been sitting at the bar, drinking a grape flavored wine cooler...a woman had approached him to compliment his choice of beverage, and trying to be polite, he'd thanked her in her language...
He blinked and saw multiple 'I Dream of Jeanie's' in a vary of pastel colors.
Oh-oh.
He was offered something to drink. He raised his head to meet the glass, drank greedily, went back to sleep.
()()()
"With all due respect, you cannot buy an American Citizen." Eric said firmly. "It is not done."
"But my lovely's want him. I will pay you handsomely. Thirteen million American dollars."
Eric blinked. For Clay?!
"He is not ours to sell." Eric shook his head. "I'm sorry, this meeting is over. We will accompany you to your home and you will immediately release him from your, uh, you will give him back."
Jason could not stand still. He paced, shifted his weight from hip to hip, turned in a circle, paced. He dealt with risks and odds, danger and violence, decisions that were life and death, but he didn't negotiate. Oh, it'd been in his training, he knew how to do it, but he rarely had to draw upon that talent. Good thing too, 'cause it was a talent he lacked. Blackburn though, excelled at it.
"NO!" Eric barked.
Okay, maybe not so much.
Eric, filled in by Ray what little he'd known, had arrived alone. Ray had returned to barracks, convinced Clay was sleeping in his bunk. He'd intended to drag Clay out of bed and produce him to Jason, prove once and for all this sheikh business was bullshit, because when Ray had looked into the room, he swore he'd seen both Brock and Clay, asleep in the top bunks.
He hadn't.
He'd seen only Brock and no amount of pillow flinging, blanket pulling, mattress throwing tantrums produced Clay.
So, no, he didn't get to prove anything to Jason.
He'd been getting dressed, filling Brock in, kicking himself for letting Clay out of his sight, when Sonny and Trent had walked in. They'd relieved Ray and Jason but surveillance on the warehouse had ended when the target they were after had been apprehended. Support had remained and now, here the four of them stood behind Jason and watched their Commander control the situation.
"My lovely's will not part with him willingly." The sheikh warned somberly.
"They will have no choice." Eric stated. "You cannot keep him captive or imprisoned or in, uh, your custody."
Ray sputtered, "Is he serious?" He looked around, stomach in a knot. "He's serious. Tell me this is a joke."
"What man over here lets his 'bevy of beauties' walk all over him?" Brock muttered. "Like this?"
"Fifteen million." The sheikh was beginning to believe these men were serious and he would not be obtaining the hunky blue-eyed man his lovely's wanted. "You drive a hard bargain sir. I only wish to make my lovely's happy."
"You can't have him." Eric repeated. "No amount of money's gonna make me let you keep him."
"I got two fists and a wicked right jab to counter that offer." Sonny spat.
"Here now! There is no call for the threat of violence." The sheikh drew himself up, wrapped his robes securely around him. "This is a peaceful negotiation. I have threatened harm to no one."
"Okay, again." Trent said. "One more time. You want to 'buy' Clay because your harem thinks he's pretty to look at?"
"Harem?" Sonny turned. "He has a harem? Wait."
"Oh, not yesterdays definition." Jason spoke up. His head had split in two. "Nine wives, seventeen daughters, thirteen ladies."
"A harem can't contain daughters." Sonny frowned. "That there is just sick."
"Apparently, harems have, uh, evolved." Eric said. Jason was looking ill.
"Enough." Brock stood up, Cerberus padded in.
"Now, that is a dog!" The sheikh crowed admiringly. "I will buy him."
"You will not." Brock snapped. "And no amount of money will make Clay available for purchase either. Let's go tell your harem that they can't have what they want this time."
"Very well." The sheikh knew he had lost. These men - and more kept showing up - were growing agitated and angry and it was now obvious no amount of money would entice them to part with the man currently held by his lovely's. He would graciously admit defeat, go home and have his retainers and aides hop on that internet thing and find him a blonde-haired, blue-eyed man with muscles who was willing to accept a lot of money to become a house pet for his lovely's. There had to be one somewhere.
()()()
Clay wasn't uncomfortable. He was warm and relaxed and sleepy, nestled among soft blankets, spongy cushions and flimsy pillows. Someone fed him grapes. Someone fanned him by hand with a bamboo fan. Someone rubbed his feet. Someone(s) massaged creams and oils and lotions into his shoulders, chest, stomach, arms, hands. Someone brushed his hair. Soft music played. He heard soft bells, clinks of beads and bracelets. Incense filled the air.
He was calm and serene and...tied to rings buried amid the pillows and cushions with silk scarves. When had that happened? He was beginning to think these ladies were somehow keeping him addled.
Thankfully, he wore a pair of loose pants made of light-weight material, that had he been standing and walking, would have been obscene.
He couldn't count how many women were in the room. He tried, but nope, there were too many and they kept moving and not only did they all look alike, they were all dressed alike.
The older women sat and chatted, looked adoringly at the younger girls as they played with his hair and hands and toes and rubbed and tickled and massaged.
A time or two, a hand strayed to the strings on the pants but a cluck or a jangle of bracelets from the seated ladies across the room aborted the attempt.
He was forbidden to speak, had been threatened with a gag - a silk scarf sure, but still a gag - when he ignored the warnings, so he had obeyed and stayed silent. He was in no immediate danger, so he didn't press his luck. He had time.
And apparently, not all of them realized he could understand every word they were saying. Though, with so many all talking at the same time, he had trouble following all the conversations, so he gave up.
"Can we keep him?"
"Did Papa say we could?"
"Do we get to?"
"Papa's been gone a long time."
"I'm oldest, he gets to stay with me first."
"I'm Papa's favorite, I get him first."
"I want to play with him too!"
"The ladies will have him first."
"We wives get the first opportunity to welcome him."
"Momma, can we not take him for a walk?"
Clay was afraid to succumb and go to sleep, afraid what he might find when he woke up. Now, if he shook his head, or flinched or tensed or drew away - as much as the soft restraints allowed - the girls stopped what made him uncomfortable. But damn, they were getting bolder and even the older women were eyeballing him eagerly.
Anytime now guys.
"When can we give him a bath?"
Clay swallowed. Bath?
"Can we shave him?"
Yeah, it better be his beard they were walking about!
"Do you think we could put bells on him?"
He gulped. Bells? Where? Men didn't, uh, wear bells!
"Papa's back!"
Clay was abandoned by everyone as the women either rushed from the room or crowded together at the windows. He took the opportunity to tug at the scarves binding his arms and legs to the rings. Though, there was slack, they didn't pull loose. Huh, it might not be as easy as Clay had thought it would be to get free. He didn't wish to hurt any of the women, but neither did he intend to remain here.
There was a commotion, squeals, giggles, greetings, silence. Then the sound of heavy footsteps climbing the stairwell and finally, the door opened and Blackburn and Jason entered.
Clay blinked, lips curving into a smile.
Ray, Sonny, Trent and Brock pushed in behind them and their presence dominated the room.
His head supported on soft pillows, his hands tied a comfortable distance from his ears, he decided to go with humor to hide his embarrassment.
"Hey guys." He gave a limp waggle of his fingers on his right hand. "Anyone want some grapes?"
()()()
"Clay?" Trent sat down next to him, bumped shoulders. "Hey, not asking for details, just...and it will go no further than me, 'less...well, depends on what you answer."
Clay turned to look at him, toweling his hair dry after its third washing. It was a new towel, and still, he smelled the oils and lotions...ugh...would it ever wash out completely or would he have to shave his head?
"Any need for a STD test?" Trent asked quietly, gently. He stared ahead, unsure how at ease Clay would be to such, uh, prodding. "You need Doc? He..."
"No." Clay hid a grin. It wasn't often one saw Trent ill at ease. Blood, puke, piss, shit, missing limbs, protruding bone, hole in chest, intestines outside the body, brain fluid leaking out a nose, the medic didn't bat an eye. Sex? Well, now...
"You sure? No...little blue-eyed terrors in anyone's immediate future?"
Now Clay's eyes widened. Good God! Just how long had he been held by seventeen daughters and a harem anyway? It'd only been hours! One afternoon! Just what did his team think he was capable of accomplishing in one afternoon!?
"Trent, I'm good." Clay said quietly. Embarrassed? Sure. Humiliated? You betcha. Hide anything from the team over something like this? Not a chance. "If it would make you feel better, you can take me to see Doc when we land."
"It would." Trent was quiet.
He remembered Sonny cutting through the scarves tying Clay to the mound of pillows and cushions. They hadn't given way easily, which pissed Sonny off, which made Brock reprimand him for being rough, which caused Ray to snap at them both.
The ladies had realized they weren't going to be able to keep their gift and after tears and foot-stomping and ranting, they'd taken to throwing things at Eric who their father told them was responsible for them being unable to keep their pet.
Trent and Jason had helped Clay up, but the cushions were not steady and Clay had staggered, his knees weak. It was like they were all on a trampoline and Clay had been oily and slippery and they hadn't been able to hold onto him, so Jason had slung him over a shoulder and whatever Clay had been given to keep him compliant made hanging upside down turn his stomach.
Clay had slipped right off and over Jason's shoulder, the ladies had pounced and six men against thirty-nine women fighting over one, oiled-up slippery semi-conscious prize had been a free for all.
Finally, Eric had lost his temper and started throwing pillows back at the women. That mere action had caused a lull in the activity from all the women and he'd snagged a blanket, tossed it over Clay and Jason had been able to pick him up and keep a hold of him.
"I'm good." Clay attempted to assure Trent, but all of a sudden, for no known reason, he began to shake.
Trent stood up, moved away, returned with a blanket. Where and how he had magically produced a blanket, Clay didn't know, but he didn't shrug away from its comfort when Trent draped it around his shoulders and gave him a hug, chin on his damp, smelly head.
"You reek." Trent said after a bit. Nerves? Relief? Shock? He was confident Clay hadn't thrown a reaction to whatever they'd given him, so didn't panic over the sudden shaking.
"There ain't a place they didn't rub in oil or lotion or cream." Clay said, voice muffled. "Told Davis Dial soap isn't cutting it."
"Yeah, she's getting you some Dawn and a herbal soap. We'll get it off."
"We flying out soon?"
"Uh yeah, Ray's talking Jason down. Brock's telling Sonny all the reasons why he can't shoot a rocket launcher at the palace and Blackburn has Mandy on, uh, who this sheikh is he could offer 15 million in cash for you."
"Sorry about Sonny."
"His actions ain't on you."
"Kinda seems like it is." Clay shrugged, ran a hand through his hair, grimaced when his fingers came away greasy. "He gets on you, you make a decision about me, he doesn't like."
Trent grinned, chucked the kid under the chin. "You forget, I've known Sonny a lot longer. I've run more ops with his mouth and his moods. Wouldn't be the first time he's constipated for a week." He laughed as Clay's eyes widened. "Or has explosive shits."
"Okay, never gonna piss you off." His shoulders slumped and he sagged against Trent's chest and into the security of his hug. "Just...wanna go home."
"Hey," Trent tightened his hug. "Not letting you outta our sights 'til we land and Stella picks you up, okay?"
"Yeah, thanks."
**Sorry, not taking the time to learn the (or a) language and translate, so go with it people, just pretend the ladies were speaking their native language.