Page 20 of Born Daddy

By the time Rogan reached Tate’s apartment, he’d calmed down somewhat. He’d also given himself an inner lecture about freaking out every time Tate called. Part of his lecture had included how he couldn’t take on the responsibility for Tate’s life, but so far, his heart was having none of it. Rogan had forged ahead into this odd relationship out of a selfish need to make sense of what had happened, how someone he’d thought he’d known so well had successfully concealed his true nature.

But now, that need had become something else. Rogan had yet to figure out what that something was.

Rogan parked in the visitor section of the rundown parking lot then made his way through the ratty lobby of the three-story building. Once again, Rogan bemoaned the fact that Tate was not only living in the apartment complex itself, but the area itself. Throughout his years as a cop, the neighborhood’s reputation had only gotten worse, recent attempts at gentrifying notwithstanding. Only a couple of blocks over had been the scene of one of his biggest busts ever—the very one that had landed him in the hospital.

Opting to trot up the stairs rather than wait for the ancient elevator, Rogan knocked on Tate’s door with restraint and called out to identify himself. He still wasn’t sure what it was that had spooked the young man.

Tate answered almost immediately. He smiled up at Rogan tentatively.

“Hey.” He opened the door wide then stepped aside. “Come in.”

Rogan smiled back then passed over the threshold. His instincts demanded he check the surroundings for threats, his eyes narrowed as they adjusted to the dimmer lighting. Not that he didn’t trust Tate. More that he didn’t trust Tate’s ability to judge when he might be in real danger.

Rogan grunted to himself. Maybe he should look in the mirror. His character judgement radar needed some fine tuning of its own.

“Did you want a soda or water? Sorry, but I don’t have any beer.”

Rogan turned to regard the young man with wide blue eyes and full kissable lips, and drank in how fragile—yet beautiful—he was.

“That’s all right, Tate. I’m fine.”

Rogan hadn’t been inside the apartment when he’d dropped Tate off before, so he was having a difficult time hiding his reaction to the appalling living space. He’d always prided himself on his acting skills, his ability to mask what was running through his head. No undercover cop could survive in the field without that ability. However, hiding anything from Tate was proving to be unexpectedly difficult.

“Yeah, I know. Pretty gross, isn’t it.”

Rogan’s head whipped around at Tate’s statement of fact.

“I didn’t think I was being so obvious.”

Tate shrugged with a half-smile. “It’s cool. I had the same reaction.” He leaned on the small counter covered with a dull yellow, chipped and stained laminate, cigarette burns dotting the edges here and there as if the brown marks had been meant to be decorative. “Quite a difference from living in Cam’s house.”

Rogan frowned slightly, noting how Tate hadn’t referred to the residence he’d lived in for three years as his home. He wondered whether that’s how he’d always viewed Cam’s house—as if it wasn’t his rightful home—or if he was unconsciously distancing himself from that place.

“Tell me what happened, Tate.”

Rogan moved to one of the two rickety, old school banquet room chairs at the small round dinette table and took a seat. Tate followed Rogan’s lead and grabbed the other one. As Tate took him through the ugly events of the morning, Rogan clenched his teeth to keep from blurting anything out that might indicate how upset he was, how much his stomach was knotted in fear over what could’ve happened to Tate. The fear turned to rage once Tate’s story got to where he’d gone after he got away.

“I don’t know what made me do it. Impulse, I guess.” Tate had been alternately waving his hands around and raking his fingers through his hair throughout the animated recounting of his tale. “But I had to look into Detective Sullivan’s eyes and try to get him to understand that I didn’t have anything to do with what Cam did, nothing.” Tate huffed in exasperation. “It has to stop. The longer they go on publicly calling me a person of interest, the more these kinds of things will happen.”

Tate wrapped himself in an embrace. “It scared the shit outta me.” He gazed up at Rogan with glimmering eyes. “There’s another monster like Cam? Right here in the city, so close by that he could just show up out of nowhere? Are there others, are they waiting to get to me, to beg me to help them—”

Tate slapped a hand to his mouth, holding in a broken sob. Rogan couldn’t stand it anymore. He shot from his chair then fell to his haunches next to Tate. He took a chance and placed one hand on Tate’s knee, hoping to ground him with the light touch.

“Hey, listen to me, Tate. It’s going to be okay, we’ll work through this together. I promise you’re not alone.”

Tate shook his head, screwing his eyes shut, keeping his hand clasped over his mouth. Tears fell down Tate’s cheeks and Rogan pulled him from the chair, tugging him onto his lap, cradling the weeping man. Rogan gave up on practicing restraint. He held Tate close, rocking him as the sobbing went on unabated for several minutes.

Rogan wondered if Tate had been holding everything inside ever since he’d discovered the awful truth about Cam. Perhaps the utter shock had shut him down to the point where he’d been unable to face his new reality. Rogan clutched Tate closer, pressing his lips together in a hard line. Perhaps Tate would never be whole again.

Gradually, Tate’s crying turned to snuffling until he became still. He sniffed repeatedly, then rubbed his nose against his T-shirt covered shoulder. While Tate hadn’t tried to pull away from him—hadn’t even tensed or become awkward in Rogan’s embrace—Rogan couldn’t say the same for himself. He hadn’t intended to go so far, but the naked pain exuding from Tate had driven him.

But it was time to let Tate go before things went in a direction they never should.

“Hey. Let me get you some tissues.”

Rogan gently disentangled himself from Tate, not missing how—for the briefest of moments—Tate hadn’t seemed as if he’d allow Rogan to let him go. But then Tate seemed to snap out of his emotionally driven trance.

“Sorry.”

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