Page 16 of Born Daddy

Chapter Five

Tate trotted down the interior steps of his shitty apartment building then made his way to the building manager’s office. He didn’t trust the old as fuck elevator. The brick exterior of the two-story structure had been inadvertently decorated with patches of moss. Clearly, no one knew how to use a power washer. To add to the overall shabby appearance, the accompanying once-white trim on the windowsills and the doors had been mostly chipped away.

He glanced around as he made his way across the cracked asphalt parking lot, on alert for any news media, or perhaps that author who’d been hassling Rogan. Not that Tate knew what the guy looked like, but in his imagination, the writer would burst out of nowhere, wearing a wrinkled shirt and ratty blazer, hair sticking out everywhere in a cacophony of greasy strands and three-day old stubble.

He snorted to himself. Reading was one of his obsessions and mysteries had always been one of his favorites. Lately, murder and mayhem had been shoved aside and his other go-to read—fantasy adventure—had taken its place. He wasn’t in the mood for anything involving crime scenes.

Tate pushed through the door of the office, the knob so loose in the wood Tate feared he’d accidentally dislodge it.

“Hi, Mr. Suffolk. I have the rent.”

The skinny, elderly man glanced up from the old desk that barely fit the cubicle-sized room, his facial features cemented in a permanent scowl. Mr. Suffolk reminded Tate of an illustration of Scrooge that had been in one of his most cherished books as a kid. The precious tome had accidentally been left behind after he’d been ushered to one of the many new foster homes he’d been dumped in over the years.

“Cash?”

“Yes, sir. I made sure.”

“And the extra two hundred?”

Tate bit back the terse remark he wanted to make. “I’ve got it.”

Mr. Suffolk narrowed his eyes. “Hmmph.” He shook a lazy forefinger toward a haphazard stack of papers at the end of the desk. “Leave it there.”

At this point, Tate had become accustomed to people acting as if he had some sort of disease because of his association with Cam, but this guy?

Tate dropped the twelve, one-hundred-dollar bills that he’d pulled from the stash he had hidden, then tossed them where Mr. Suffolk had indicated. Every other tenant coming in to rent from him only had to pay a grand a month. But Tate’s special rate was an extra hundred bucks every month Tate remained living there. Mr. Suffolk had explained it was a tip for allowing such a low-life as Tate to stay at his disgusting, roach-filled establishment. That meant that next time, if he was still stuck living there, he’d be on the hook for thirteen hundred.

Tate grunted and shook his head.

Mr. Suffolk snarled, “You got something you wanna say to me, you little pervert?”

“No, sir. Just…thinking.”

He waved his hand dismissively, as if shooing Tate away. “Out. I got shit to do.”

Tate didn’t bother responding, instead turning on his heel to escape the suffocating confines of the so-called office. Even though it was only eight in the morning, the air was already heavy with humidity and the sun was too bright for Tate’s mood. At least he wouldn’t have to worry about dressing warm for another few months, so his T-shirts and jeans would do just fine.

When he’d been ousted by the authorities from his own home, or rather the place where he’d been living that had belonged to Cam, he’d only been allowed to take one suitcase of personal belongings with him. Even then, he’d had to pack under the supervision of a detective. Everything had been seized as evidence—everything. Even his phone had been taken away. He’d only been allowed his e-reader after a desperate round of pleading.

Tate strolled down the street along the broken sidewalk, an occasional burst of graffiti and random attempt at landscaping being the only thing breaking up the monotony of the residential neighborhood. He passed rows of brick apartment buildings and older homes that had been converted to multiple dwellings on his way to the commercial section. The diner where he’d been grabbing coffee in the morning and—if he felt he could keep them down—some eggs and toast, was only a couple blocks away.

His mind drifted back to the ridiculous rent Mr. Suffolk had wrested from him, and Tate was once again grateful that he’d been able to grab the safe deposit key undetected from his dresser drawer. The second the detective had turned his head to answer a question from the other room, Tate had snatched it from under his folded shirts and shoved it into his front pocket. The cops had searched him right after they’d burst into the house, guns drawn, then thrown him to the floor, so he’d counted on being able to get away with the only thing that would keep him off the streets.

The bank accounts had all been frozen too.

Tate tugged open the glass and metal door to the diner, stepping with relief into the cooler air. The middle-aged hostess with a musical Jamaican accent, glanced up and gave him a smile. Not everyone who was aware of who he was treated him like a piece of walking shit. Rogan entered his thoughts and he batted away the small flutter of his heart the recollection caused. He’d make himself crazy otherwise.

“Good morning, hon. I kept your table in the back for you. Eating anything today?”

To his surprise, he found he was hungry. “Sure. I’ll go ahead and get the eggs and toast.”

She smiled wider. “You got it. I’ll go put that in for you.”

“Thanks.” He was about to walk away when his stomach growled. “Wait!”

She paused mid-stride then turned to face him again. “What?”

“Actually, could you add a side of bacon with that? And some milk?”

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