Page 90 of Born Daddy

Chapter Twenty-Five

Tate locked the apartment door behind him, letting out a loud sigh of relief that he’d made it back from the bank without anything bizarre or scary happening. Cam had been dead for almost five months, fall was quickly approaching and there hadn’t been one peep from the detectives in ages. Maybe they’d finally reached the conclusion that he wasn’t guilty of a damn thing.

After hanging his keys on the hook by the door, he made his way to the kitchen, pulling the envelope of cash from his light jacket as he did. Despite the heat, he’d needed to hide the money somewhere, and had worried about getting on the bus with a fat wad of cash in his back pocket.

Even though Rogan had reassured Tate that the money belonged to him and wasn’t ill-gotten gains, it still bothered him. His survival no longer depended on that money. He had a place to live, food, all his needs were being met. Even when it came to things other than basic necessities, as a Daddy, Rogan had worked out a budget that included an allowance for him.

That wasn’t something Cam had ever done with him. While Tate had never worried about money, he also hadn’t handled the money personally. If he wanted a new jacket or video game or anything else—he’d ask Cam. Then, Cam would decide whether Tate could have whatever it was.

Tate scraped his teeth over his bottom lip as he flipped through the clean, crisp bills still neatly tucked away in the white envelope, the upturned flap revealing the treasure within.

Three thousand dollars.

Most of the money Cam had deposited for him was still there, but the three thousand he’d taken out that morning would be enough to buy a new laptop and a couple other more expensive items he didn’t feel right asking Rogan to purchase. The remaining cash he’d take out when Rogan was with him.

Tate had pondered for quite a while how to handle what he considered tainted money. He’d brought up the subject again with Rogan recently, and his Daddy had advised him to follow his gut instinct and do what felt right. Rogan had then reiterated he’d support Tate on whatever course he decided to take. Now that Tate had determined he’d be giving the money to an LGBT charity, he’d ask his Daddy how to handle doing such a thing when he came home from work.

A knock at the door made him jump, his first thought being that Mitch was back to finish what he’d started. He slapped a hand to his chest, sucking in deep breaths to try and calm down. Tate glanced at the fat envelope of cash, then snatched it up before stuffing it into the cutlery drawer.

“Who is it?”

“Tate? Tate Myers?”

Shit. Who the fuck was that and how did they know where he lived? Whoever it was had a young voice, and the tone was higher pitched. No way could Mitch ever sound like that.

Tate inched closer to the door but made no move to open it. Even though the incident at the diner months ago had been fake, who knew if someone twisted like that didn’t actually exist?

“Who are you?” He attempted to make his voice as menacing as possible.

“We’ve never met before, and I’m not sure if Cam ever mentioned me or not, but I really need to talk to you. My name is Jace.”

Tate’s knees wobbled and he clutched the edge of the counter to keep from sinking to the floor. His blood seemed to drain from his body as he fought to make sense of what was happening. The only time he’d ever heard that name was when he’d been questioned by the detectives. Since then, the subject had never again been brought up.

“W-what do you want?”

He should call the police. Tate dug into his jeans pocket to wrestle his phone free.

“I know this might seem abrupt, but I haven’t been able to find you before now. I never had a number or anything. I… Please. There isn’t anyone else who can understand what it’s been like to know someone you were close with could do such sickening things. I won’t take up a bunch of your time. I only want to talk for a bit.”

Tate’s mouth went dry, the memory of his own desperation when he’d approached Rogan at the funeral staying his hand before he dialed the emergency number. He lowered his phone.

“Did you see that park at the end of the street?”

“Uh…” Shuffling footsteps could be heard on the landing, becoming softer before the sound drew closer again. “Yeah. I can see it from the railing. The one with the playground, right?”

“Yeah. Wait for me on one of the benches there. I’ll meet you in five minutes.”

“Promise?”

Something about Jace’s voice made his heart break a little. Tate still didn’t trust him—not by a longshot—but the hopelessness Tate heard in Jace’s voice was real.

“I promise.”

Tate tiptoed to the door and peeked through the peephole. All he caught was Jace’s back, his shoulder length black hair with magenta streaks and colorful clothing distinctive enough that Tate would be able to easily spot him.

Tate let out a long exhale, scrubbing his face as he debated his next move. Did he call Rogan? Did he call the detectives? Dammit. He could never make a fucking decision on his own, couldn’t think straight when he was under stress.

What would Daddy tell me to do?

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