Page 4 of Asher's Answer
“My house,” Charlie says calmly, as though it’s perfectly normal for police officers to go rogue and bring young guys on the brink of a meltdown to their personal homes. He nods his head at the first cop -the one that looks like him- and adds, “Thanks, Josh. I’ve got him from here.”
Wait. Hold up. I’m being left here with this new guy all alone? Nope. This is how serial killer movies start.
The thought is such a valid one, in fact, that I stamp my foot and repeat it aloud.
Charlie chuckles and shakes his head, and Josh -who I’ve decided I will forever call Jaywalker out of spite- pats me on the shoulder and assures me, “It’s okay, Ash. I promise. Charlie’s going to look after you. He’s good at that.” Before I can read too deeply into the statement, Josh closes the rear car door and climbs back into the passenger seat gracefully. The window slides down and he says, “I’ll see you later,” before the car pulls away from the curb. It’s then that I notice the second car -a sleek, black later model SUV- parked in the driveway.
“C’mon, Asher,” Charlie coaxes me forward towards the clapboard home.
It’s two stories, painted gray with white accents, with a wraparound porch. It’s got a cute cottage feel about it. Welcoming and homey.
Just the sort of façade a serial killer wants you to see.
“I’m not a serial killer,” Charlie laughs, and once again I realize I’ve spoken my thoughts out loud. “And I know this is unorthodox, but Josh said you’ve been sleeping in the library on campus and that you panicked and lapsed into little space when he got there to talk to you…” he turns and frowns at me, because the second he mentioned ‘little space’ I froze. “Shit.” He bounds back down the three front stairs and takes my hand in his. This action feels better than it has a right to. “Come on, baby. Inside. We’ll talk.”
Baby.
Nobody’s ever called me ‘baby’. Not even Cooper. It’s a generic endearment, but it feels like fireworks have exploded inside me. My heart hammers and my head feels fuzzy, and Little Ash comes hurtling back to the surface.
“’Kay,” I respond, allowing him to tug me up the front stairs of his picturesque house and into the little foyer.
Inside is just as pretty as outside. It’s all polished timber floors and white walls with French provincial-style furnishings. Painted white surfaces, golden-hued timbers, and gray linens. The whole thing is like something straight out of a magazine. It’s almost incongruous with the very manly police officer who apparently lives here.
Maybe the decorating is his wife’s doing?
I don’t like that thought, and I don’t want to analyze why very closely.
I’m still clutching my backpack, but soon enough Charlie’s in front of me, easing it out of my tight grip.
“We’re just gonna put this down here,” he tells me, setting it on the floor inside the doorway before opening the zip and digging around inside it. He pulls out my blankie -a faded green fleece decorated with bunnies- and my binkie, holding both out to me. I take them with shaking hands, my cheeks on fire.
Nobody else has ever seen these items, let alone touched them, but he’s just handing them over as though this is totally normal.
“Juice?” he asks me while he gently guides me through the open plan living and dining areas and into the kitchen at the back of the house. It’s a U-shaped kitchen with gleaming appliances and a large central island with three high-backed stools set in front of it. So far, there’s no sign of a wife. I’m not relieved. I’m not. “Or milk, or water?”
“Juice, please,” I answer and bring my blankie up to my face. I stroke the corner against my cheek, trying to calm my racing heart as a sippy cup is carefully slid in front of me. I inhale sharply.
“It’s okay,” Charlie repeats in that deep, low voice that hasDaddywritten all over it. Even if I have had zero experience with Daddies to this point, I can’t help but feel like I’m reading him correctly on this. Plus, you know, the sippy gives him away. He nudges the cup. “Go on, you can drink it.”
I’m a little overwhelmed by how open and accepting this simple action is. Additionally, it’s been so long since I allowed myself a chance to be little that, when I pick the cup up, I smother another sob.
“Hey,” before I know it, I’m being held against an incredibly firm chest and a large, masculine hand is carding through the mop of curls on my head, “it’s alright, baby. It’s okay.”
I’m not exactly a small guy. I’m 5’11” and I’ve worked hard to bulk up since my teens. But cradled by this man, I feel little…and strangely cared for. How is that possible when we’ve only just met? It’s not a bad feeling, but it makes me instantly more vulnerable and a touch confused.
The last vestiges of my resolve break and the tears I shed in the back of Josh’s car are nothing in comparison to the meltdown I have now. But Charlie holds me through it all, through the snot and the tears and the heaving, body wracking cries, soothing and rocking me until I’ve exhausted myself.
Then he helps me lift the cup to my lips, encouraging me to drink, and I do.
Chapter Four – Charlie
When Josh texted me near the end of my shift with his concerns about a kid who’d been caught living in the campus library, I wasn’t quite sure what to expect. The follow up phone call -informing me that the kid had panicked and slipped into a little headspace and didn’t seem to have anyone to support him- cinched my resolve to help, even if only for one night. If nothing else, I’d help my brother with his job. I had a particular set of skills and experiences that could help in the situation, after all.
Then he and his partner, Samara, had pulled up with the kid asleep in the backseat. I chatted briefly with them about the situation and Sam leveled me with a knowing look, even though I know Josh wouldn’t have told her anything about my personal life. She’s an observant cop and a smart woman. And, having watched the kid in the backseat interact with Josh before he told her that I had a unique perspective that could help, I’m sure she’s put two and two together.
It doesn’t bother me. I’m not ashamed of my preferences or my kinks, especially when my desire is to live the lifestyle and not just play temporary scenes. I’ve always known that, sooner or later, my personal and private lives were going to intersect. And, as long as it doesn’t impact my ability to do my job, my colleagues shouldn’t care less.
The kid, though. God, he’s adorable. He’s got wide hazel eyes, a mop of chestnut-colored curls on his head, and an athletic build – broad shoulders that taper down to slim hips and strong thighs. He’s perfection, and from the moment I saw him, the desire to hold and protect and look after him fired along my synapses.
