Page 12 of Daddy's Little Chaos Gremlin

With the way he’d dived into the chocolate milk, I didn’t think it was an allergy thing. Maybe he just liked different kinds of cookies.

“I have to be careful of sweats, so I don’t get fat,” Zephyr explained.

There was a sad, wistful look in his eyes as he glanced at the cookies again. “They look amazing, though.”

Daddy picked up a cookie and broke it in half, putting one piece on his plate and the other on mine.

“A half a cookie won’t hurt you, not with all the energy you spend when you’re in motion,” Daddy said.

His tone was gentle and firm, one I knew well after the years we’d been together. He was concerned, but he was also unwilling to back down. He was right, too. Half a cookie wasn’t going to cause Zephyr to gain an ounce of weight. The fact that he was afraid to eat one had me worried, too. I’d read about athletes starving themselves to maintain certain weights or attain physiques. I’d also read that many of them had been taught how and encouraged to do so by their coaches. I didn’t know much about the troupe Zephyr had been traveling with, outside of the troubles that had caused them to break up. I hoped they weren’t behind his fears about eating.

Another thought nagged at me, one that immediately made me fiercely angry on his behalf. Those fuckers better not havebeen limiting his food intake and controlling what he could or couldn’t have and they damn sure better not have put it into his head that a single anything was going to make him fat. That was a dangerous way of thinking. I’d known a friend back in art school, an awesome guy who was in the sculpture program with me. He’d been a little husky when we were freshmen, but no more than a lot of other guys on campus. We were art students, for fuck’s sake, not athletes. Each year he’d gotten thinner and thinner, and shyer and shyer, avoiding the gatherings, the birthday parties, the midnight Chinese food runs and pizza parties during gallery week. I’d thought he was just laser focused on landing a spot in one of the local gallery displays. There were always one or two reserved for students at the university, since we were also some of the biggest patrons when they had events, and they loved being able to say that they were among the first to display an artist’s work if they blew up in the mainstream. It wasn’t until he was taken out of the dorm in an ambulance, suffering from organ failure due to starvation and constant purging. All because he’d been picked on and bullied so badly in high school that he’d chosen a drastic course of events to ensure that the same thing didn’t happen in college.

It took me a moment to pull out of the memory, and refocus on the conversation taking place, and the way Daddy was studying Zephyr, concern written all over his face.

“I understand that moderation is important,” Daddy said, keeping his voice steady and non-judgmental. “But you shouldn’t have to deny yourself everything. You’re tiny, maybe a little too tiny even for your stature. Would you be agreeable to seeing a physician, just to make certain that you’re healthy and in peak performance shape?”

I knew good and damned well that Daddy cared about way more than if he was able to twist and springboard all over the yard, but Zephyr probably would have protested if he’d put it any other way. We’d both noticed how little he ate, and now we knew at least one of the reasons, but was it healthy? That’s what we were both eager to find out.

He was super tiny for a grown man.

Almost fragile when I’d been clinging to him beneath the blankets.

“I’d be okay with that,” Zephyr replied. “I wouldn’t want to sign your contract and not be able to do what you need me to do. If I, um, earn the contract, anyway.”

“You are well on your way,” Daddy sought to assure him.

I’d hated how sad he’d gotten this morning when he thought he’d screwed up the shoot and I never wanted him to feel like that again. I knew Daddy didn’t, either. We’d already come to feel very protective of him in the short time he’d been with us, and while the trial wouldn’t officially end for a few more days, I’d already come to think of him as my kitten and I wanted him to stay that way.

Always.

7

ROWAN

One thing I’d come to appreciate over the years was the close bonds of friendship I’d forged through membership with The Lactin Brotherhood. Among our ranks were bakers, musicians, accountants, mechanics, and yes, even the doctor I called on to come examine Zephyr. Phillip had seen me through rehabilitating the damage I’d done to my knee during a snowmobile accident and been my personal physician ever since.

Now, as he stepped through the door of the apartment, I was grateful for him being in private practice, with the ability to shuffle things around so he could drop in this evening, before Zephyr’s anxiety had the opportunity to rev up again. Despite telling him that the contract was within his grasp, I knew he’d never be able to relax completely until he had it. One of a dozen reasons that I was already regretting the ruse I’d concocted.

At this rate, I doubted my ability to last the week, and Tristan was already struggling not to rack up a plethora of extra chores. I’d never imagined it would be so difficult to rein ourselves in, but then, we’d had the freedom to express ourselves however wechose for so long that the concept of acceptable levels of noise and activities were ones that had been lost to us years ago.

It was hard to enforce rules we’d never had before, and it seemed a bit unfair, too, in light of how hard Tristan was trying. I loved hearing his laughter ring through the house. He’d never been able to tone it down when he was excited about something, especially when it was something he was creating. It was like trying to silence a bird when it was happily singing.

It just didn’t feel right to me.

I’d noticed how easily Zephyr laughed right along with him, and when they’d been plotting out their moon shoot, I’d witnessed the same excitement from him that I’d fallen in love with seeing from Tristan. There had to be some way of shaving time off this little experiment. After all, Zephyr hadn’t balked once upon seeing the cramped living space we had to share at the apartment. He’d been too interested in us and the projects Tristan had in mind. After learning of his nomadic lifestyle with the acrobatics troupe, I’d begun to realize that he’d come to us just hoping to be a part of something that would let him use the amazing talents he’d amassed over the years.

There was no purer intention in my book.

“So, you said on the phone that he’d engaged in some acrobatics this morning and suffered a dizzy spell afterward that left him wobbly until he’d gotten something in his stomach,” Phillip said as I led him through to the living room where Tristan and Zephyr sat waiting for us. “That sounds consistent with a sugar crash, which you already knew, but your main concern is how little he eats at mealtimes, is that accurate?”

“Yes, especially as a professional performer,” I said as he removed his shoes and left them beside ours at the end of the hall. “Aren’t they supposed to consume meals more often and in greater amounts, because of the energy they expend?”

I could see the tops of their heads over the back of the couch before they turned azure and honey-hued eyes upon us, both looking nervous.

“In theory, you would be correct,” Phillip replied. “But you fuel a body differently for playing football than you would acrobatics where keeping within a specific body mass index is crucial to one’s ability to perform.”

That’s what I’d figured, too, which was what had led to my not saying anything when he’d rushed out the door that morning to stretch after only a glass of water to hydrate. Should he have had milk instead, or would it have curdled in his belly once he’d started working up a sweat?

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