Page 43 of Born Daddy

Chapter Thirteen

“Okay, class. That’s it for today.” Rogan began the process of gathering his notes along with his planner. “As a reminder, we’ll be meeting at the downtown precinct next time.”

The small group of recent recruits from three of the city’s busiest precincts filed out of the classroom, Rogan glanced down at his cell. He typically kept it inside the messenger bag he used for work, but since meeting Tate, had taken to muting but leaving the phone out on his desk. The call notification must’ve happened within the past couple minutes.

No one would be using the room for at least another hour, so he snatched up the phone to see if Tate needed him right away. Not that he was hoping the call was from the young man. No, as he’d reminded himself all night before, then again this morning, Tate was off-limits. Friends only.

He opened the notification and his heart dropped. However, the harsh disappointment of the call not being from Tate told him how much his ‘friends only’ stance was bullshit.

Rogan dialed his voicemail to hear what Dan had to say, hoping it wasn’t something disturbing regarding the case.

Or Tate.

Rogan swallowed hard as Dan’s message played, his gut tightening. Why hadn’t Tate called to let him know he’d been brought in for questioning again? He hoped like hell Tate had contacted his attorney before going in.

He toyed with the idea of racing over to the station without responding to Dan’s request to call him back, but decided he’d be better off if he was armed with information first. That had been the cornerstone of his police work, so he couldn’t let his out of control emotions start dictating his methods.

“Oh good,” Dan’s tired voice greeted Rogan’s ears after only one ring. “I was worried you’d be stuck in classes all night and wouldn’t get this message for hours.”

Rogan worked hard to keep his own voice steady. “Uh, no. I only have a late class on Monday night. Why is Tate being questioned?”

He supposed his query had been a bit abrupt, but hiding his concern for Tate was pointless. Dan could already tell. Rogan wasn’t the only one who was skilled at reading people and situations.

“We found something in the house during one of our subsequent, more invasive searches. We’ve had it for a while. But we didn’t want to bring it up until our investigative team of experts had analyzed the thing. We brought Tate in to find out what he knows regarding this item, however, he’s been freaking out and refusing to talk to us until you get here.”

Rogan squeezed the phone in his hand, anxiety curling low in his belly. He flung his bag over one shoulder then scurried out of the room, rushing down the corridor to the parking lot.

“He’s not allowed to say anything to you without his attorney present, got it?”

Dan let out an aggravated growl. “Yeah, I’ve got it. His damn attorney is here, but the kid can’t be reasoned with. I need him to cooperate. How soon can you get here?”

Rogan yanked open the heavy exit door then jogged down the steps to the lot. “I’m getting into my truck now. I’ll be there in fifteen to twenty, depending on the traffic.”

“See you in a few then.”

Dan hung up before Rogan had the chance to respond. He flung open the driver’s side door and hurled his bag across the console before jumping in.

What the fuck was going on?

Tate tangled his fingers together then untangled them, only to start the process all over again. He’d already been to the men’s room three times in the hour and a half since he’d been at the station. How his bladder still seemed full was beyond him.

What was he doing here? They’d interviewed and re-interviewed him so many times already. When the detectives had shown up at his door right as he was about to make dinner, he’d totally freaked. His first assumption had been, this is it. They’re arresting me. When they informed him he was needed down at the station, he considered refusing. However, he hadn’t wanted to press his luck, so he’d called his attorney instead.

Now, here he was, waiting for Rogan and pissing everyone off. If he’d also pissed Rogan off by insisting that he be there, he’d be devastated. So much for his resolution not to contact Rogan before Sunday.

“Ow.”

The coppery flavor of blood hit his tongue from him accidentally chomping down on it. Tate went back to counting his breaths so he wouldn’t come completely unglued. This whole incident did shed a spotlight on what he and Master Zane had discussed that morning, however.

He needed a Daddy. The truth of that realization couldn’t be escaped. His first instinct would always be to seek out the man who fulfilled that role in his life. If Rogan couldn’t be that man, then Tate wouldn’t be crushed—he’d be gutted.

Mr. Franklin, his attorney, reentered the room with a Styrofoam cup. He’d gone down the hall to get coffee from the machine, but with a stern warning to Tate not to say one word until he returned.

He chuckled to himself, but not because anything happening was funny. As if I’d speak to those guys before Rogan got here.

Mr. Franklin scraped the metal chair across the old linoleum floor, the myriad of black scuff marks appearing as though they were an erratic pattern that had been intentionally created. The short, older man whose stomach was in a war with the button of his suitcoat, dropped onto the chair with an oomph, small splashes of coffee hitting his fingers as he did.

“Goddammit.”

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