Page 28 of Born Daddy

Chapter Eight

Tate glanced over his shoulder as he shoved his key into his apartment door lock. Even though Rogan had assured him that the guy in the diner had been a fake, he couldn’t shake the feeling there might be others out there who weren’t.

He shouldered his way in, hugging the canvas bag stuffed with his groceries to his chest, then kicked the door shut behind him. He quickly set the bag on the counter so he could turn the deadbolt and slide the chain into place, the false sense of security it gave him necessary before he could do another thing.

As he unpacked his food, Rogan’s words the night before replayed in his mind. Rogan had been vague as to how he knew the diner guy wasn’t for real, but Tate could guess. Sure, he’d already known he was likely being watched, but he hadn’t expected the detectives to go so far. That they would try and entrap him had never been something he’d considered.

But another thing stood out to him. Tate paused, holding the bag of apples he’d taken a long bus ride to obtain from the farmer’s market. Not only for the fresh produce, but to clear his head a bit. Rogan had stood up for him. Had confronted the men he worked with and known for years before he’d ever been aware of Tate’s existence.

The way Rogan had couched his words reminded Tate of how the detectives would talk to him. Saying only enough to get their meaning across, but not enough to tell the true story. And Tate understood that Rogan couldn’t give him every detail, that their relationship had probably created a lot of gray areas for his new friend. Lines had been blurred.

Yet, he defended me anyway.

Tate made his way to the ratty sofa, adjusting the throw he’d bought the first day he’d moved in, then sat down. He didn’t trust the cleanliness of the furniture at all, not to mention the rest of the place. The word biohazard had entered his mind the first time he’d seen it, but at least he wasn’t in the streets or an even worse motel downtown. He wasn’t a full on germophobe, perhaps only a pre-germophobe.

After unscrewing the top of his seltzer water, he took a healthy swallow, the cold drink a relief after being out in the heat. The one topic he couldn’t seem to eradicate from his brain, the one that had shoved its way to the head of the line in his thoughts, was Rogan himself.

The man both terrified and thrilled him.

Tate had wandered around in shock that first week after Cam had been killed. Sometimes he’d lie on the bed and stare at the ceiling for hours, alternating between gut clenching sobs and a bizarre state of detachment he hadn’t experienced since his childhood years in foster care. Then, he’d spent another week trying to reconcile grieving the loss of his Daddy—the man he’d loved—with despising Cam for being such a monster, and raging that the asshole didn’t deserve to have anyone grieving for him

In the almost two months since then, he’d been primarily trying to make it through each day in addition to maintaining his sanity. Not until Rogan had come along had this new feeling, this terrible, unrelenting ache risen to the surface.

He was lonely.

Tate tucked his legs beneath him, wishing he’d been brave enough to bring his teddy bear with him when he’d been rushed out of his home by the detectives. At the same time, Frodo had been one of the first gifts he’d gotten from Cam after he’d moved in, and the association of seeking comfort from the toy, along with the fact it had come from the devil incarnate, would’ve negated the purpose.

However, he couldn’t slide Rogan into the spot left vacant from losing his Daddy. The idea was wrong on so many levels. He was still too vulnerable, still under suspicion with his life in flux, it would be too soon. Then there was the shared association with Cam. All these points were clear, logical reasons that meant nothing could ever happen between them.

Cam tipped back his head, finishing off the bubbly water then letting out a loud belch. He swiped the back of his hand across his lips.

And Rogan isn’t a Daddy.

It was bad enough clicking with a Dom who wasn’t into the Daddy scene, but getting too attached to someone vanilla—a middle-aged man who’d never been interested in the lifestyle—was a guaranteed disaster. Tate’s heart couldn’t withstand another brutal assault. He wouldn’t survive it.

With a sigh, Tate pushed himself off the sofa. At the same time, he wasn’t about to let go of the moments Rogan was willing to share with him. Not when it meant he’d end up being without anyone, would have nothing to look forward to when he woke up each day. That realization was too dangerous. He had to protect himself from going down that dark road.

I’ll just be careful, that’s all.

Tate plucked his cell from where he’d set it on the counter after emptying his bag of groceries and made the call he’d been putting off for a while. The day after everything had happened, Master Zane, who ran the club where he and Cam had met, sought him out to make sure he was okay. He hadn’t been, so they talked for a while until Tate had calmed down enough to make at least one positive decision. Getting a place to stay that wasn’t a transient motel.

After getting some guidance and reassurance from Master Zane, the door had been left open for Tate to call anytime he needed anything or if he got into a jam. It wasn’t fair, especially since the man was the only person until Rogan had come along who didn’t believe he was guilty as fuck, but Tate hadn’t taken him up on the offer. Like the teddy, the association had seemed too close to home.

But maybe he needed to hear from someone who understood his true nature. While Rogan had expressed an interest in learning about the lifestyle, it had been from a place of curiosity. The subject wasn’t off-limits, just not the type of interaction a boy like Tate needed.

Rogan wouldn’t be dropping by to get him for another couple hours, so maybe he could get hold of Master Zane before he left for the club. He typically didn’t come in until around four in the afternoon, so he could be on site during the busiest hours.

The Master answered after the first ring. “Tate! I’ve been thinking about you.”

Tate sank down on the sofa again, relief washing over him at the sound of a familiar voice. A Master’s voice. An ally.

“Hello, Master Zane.”

The formal words he spoke were yet another source of comfort. This was his world. This was what he needed.

“How have you been doing? And how can I help you?”

Tate had always viewed Master Zane with respect and believed in the goodness of the man. Pushing him away because of the negative association with Cam was ridiculous, and he was only hurting himself in the process. Master Zane certainly hadn’t pushed Tate away for that reason. He had to quit allowing the specter of Cam to ruin the good things in his life that remained.

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