Page 2 of Chance's Choice
“There’s nothing to fix,” I assure him, feeling stupid for having made the confession to begin with. Sometimes, my brain and my mouth don’t connect before the latter engages. This is definitely one of those situations. “Like I said: I’m comfortable with who I am. I am. I just have moments sometimes. But don’t we all?”
Something darker and more melancholy flickers in his eyes and he nods, takes a fortifying swallow or three of his beer, then admits, “After I got shot, I questioned whether I’d be a good enough Daddy for Ash. I couldn’t physically do things the way I wanted, you know?” He sighs and shakes his head. “And even now, even years later, I have moments where I wonder if I’m still good enough for him now that I’m not a cop.” That surprises me, but before I can turn the tables to tell Charlie he shouldn’t feel that way about himself, he continues, “So, yeah, I think I get it. I don’t like it, but…I get it.”
“See,” I say instead, understanding that I won’t be able to talk him out of his self-deprecation any more than he can talk me out of mine, “we’re all fucked up.” I lift my glass to him and he laughs as I add, “Cheers!”
Conversation shifts back to the auction once our strange, emotionally charged moment has passed. I ask him about whether it’s just sessions with Daddies and Doms being auctioned, and he explains that The Center and The Grove have both received donations from other kink-friendly places in the city and beyond. Day spas, hotels, photographers, costume designers and even a guy who builds custom adult nursery furniture have all donated their time and services as prizes to be bid on. The Grove has come to the party with discounted memberships for anyone signing up or renewing on the night of the auction, too.
“This whole thing is genius,” I tell Charlie as he finishes explaining the deal he’s made with The Grove to split the funds and, if the whole thing proves to be a success, the plan to make it an annual event.
“Yeah,” he agrees, his smile turning proud, “Josh came up with it.”
“No way.”
Josh is Charlie’s Little brother. And, yes, that’s Little with a capital ‘L’. He’s a cop, like Charlie was, and is generally the joker of our entire group. He’s also known to be kind of a brat, though the guy has a heart of gold and we all love him, even if we give him shit.
“Gotta hand it to him, then.” I say when Charlie just nods at me. “He’s much smarter than he pretends to be. Then again, didn’t he just ace his Detective exams or whatever? I’ve gotta learn to give the kid more credit, huh?”
“He did. Mom threw a party and everything,” Charlie chuckles, but he’s still wearing that proud expression. “I’d say we should all start giving him a bit more credit.”
“Except when he says something stupid in the chat.” Which is almost always. We’re all aware that he does it for the attention, but Charlie is almost always guaranteed to take the bait where his younger brother is concerned,
Now it’s Charlie’s turn to tilt his glass towards me in acknowledgement. “Except for that,” he agrees.
After circling back to the original topic of conversation, we start to wrap up our meeting.
“So,” Charlie says as he stands and slides on a black, form fitting jacket, “I’ll have Cherie send you the contract and we’ll go over what else we need from you as we get closer to the date. We’ll probably need a bio, some examples of your favorite kinds of Daddy/boy interactions, that kind of thing. A list of your hard limits, too. Pretty much anything you’d bring up during negotiations.”
I nod and climb off my own bar stool, draining the last of my glass of beer before placing the empty glass down on the countertop. “Sounds like a plan.”
I just hope it’s nothing I’ll come to regret.
Chapter Two – Kade
My life feels like the lyrics to an old Sinatra song. I’ve made mistakes but not enough to mention…or something along those lines. I’m paraphrasing. It works for me.
Anyway, I’ve always sort of flown by the seat of my pants. Mistakes are made and then either forgotten or learned from. I don’t dwell or mope: I just keep going.
Hmm. Maybe I’m not like Sinatra. Maybe I’m like a certain forgetful Disney fish, keeping on swimming.
(Okay, this time the paraphrasing is so I don’t get sued.)
See, the thing is, I don’t like to regret things. I don’t like to feelbadabout things.
But moving back home to the city I grew up in -and left as soon as I fucking could- stirs feelings of guilt I had long ago buried. Guilt and sadness and melancholy and regret so cloying it chokes me.
Did I mention I’m slightly melodramatic?
Now, I know I had a choice. I didn’t have to come back to this landlocked city, hours away from the places I would much rather be. But I’ve been working for the same company for almost twenty years and the promotion I was offered -with the caveat being I had to come back and work at Head Office to claim it- was too good to turn down.
Of course, my job is tied in to my feelings of regret, but that’s not worth going into right now. No. I’m good at what I do, having climbed up the ranks from lowly salesman to the head of the marketing division (with my sights set on Vice President within the next five years) by using my natural charisma and charm.
Still, I can’t lie to myself about how I got the job in the first place…
But I can ignore it.
I can ignore feeling used. I can ignore the stab of guilt at having betrayed a friend. (A good friend. A best friend.) I can even ignore the urge to reach out and apologize now that I’m back in town.
I can. I swear I can.
