“I’ve got an offer,” Mr. Greco said. “Your old job. With a raise. And no more after-hours crap. You’d just dance. That’s it.”
Kyle’s mouth opened, but nothing came out. He hadn’t even thought about going back. California was supposed to be a fresh start, even if it still felt like a half-written chapter.
“I…I moved,” he said finally. “I’m in California now. Planning to work here.”
Mr. Greco was quiet for a beat. “Well. That’s too bad. But if you ever come back, there’s a spot waiting for you. No questions asked.”
Kyle nodded, even though Mr. Greco couldn’t see it. “Thanks,” he said softly.
After they hung up, Kyle sat there for a long time, phone still in hand. The offer lingered like a ghost—unexpected, generous, and strangely comforting. Maybe he wasn’t as disposable as he’d once believed. Maybe for the first time in a while, he had options.
That night, the condo felt too quiet. Too clean. Too full of Daddy Benson’s absence. Kyle put on his brand-new red sweater with a fresh pair of jeans, then he walked on the sidewalk until the neon lights of a gay club blinked into view. He dressed to feel his Daddy Benson with him, and not for attention. But he got it anyway—eyes trailing him as he slid onto a barstool and ordered something strong.
The music pulsed through the floor, a heartbeat he didn’t feel. A man with a silver chain and a warm smile leaned in.
“You here alone?” he asked.
Kyle nodded, sipping his drink.
“You want to dance?”
Kyle shook his head. “Just needed a place to sit.”
Another man, younger, with a laugh like sunlight, touched his arm. “You’re too pretty to be this sad. Want company?”
Kyle smiled faintly. “I’m not really…in the mood.”
They kept coming—friendly, flirtatious, curious. He answered politely, never unkind, but always distant. He had three drinks, none of which dulled the ache. If anything, they made it worse. He wasn’t lonely for company. He was lonely without his Daddy Benson.
Kyle had expected little from the night—just a drink, maybe a little music, something to take the edge off the loneliness that had been clinging to him since Daddy Benson left California. The gay bar was dim but warm, pulsing with low laughter and the occasional burst of drag queen brilliance from the stage. He sat alone, nursing a gin and tonic, trying not to look like he was waiting for something.
Then, the man in the three-piece suit slid onto the stool beside him. Not the kind of suit that screamed Wall Street—this one was tailored, charcoal with a subtle pinstripe, the vest snug against a crisp white shirt. His tie was deep burgundy, silk maybe, and his shoes looked like they’d never touched pavement. He had salt-and-pepper hair, slicked back with intention, and a face that was both kind and calculating. Kyle noticed the way his eyes scanned the room before settling on him, like he already knew who he was looking for.
“New around here?” the man asked, voice smooth, like he’d said those words a thousand times but still meant them.
Kyle nodded, unsure whether he should be wary or hopeful. “Just moved from New York City.”
The man smiled, not wide, but enough to soften the sharpness in his jaw. “Looking for work?”
Kyle hesitated, then nodded again. “Yeah. I used to dance. At a gay club in the city. I’m hoping to find something like that here.”
The man leaned back slightly, appraising him, not in a sleazy way, more like a businessman sizing up a potential investment. “I’m Mr. Myers,” he said. “I own a few clubs inOrange County. The one in Costa Mesa has an opening. You interested?”
Kyle blinked, caught off guard by the directness. “Yeah. I mean—yes. Definitely.”
Mr. Myers reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a sleek black card, embossed with silver lettering. He handed it to Kyle like it was nothing, like he hadn’t just changed the course of his week or maybe his life.
“Be there tomorrow night at seven,” he said. “Ask for me.”
Kyle stared at the card for a moment, then looked up. Mr. Myers was already turning away, blending back into the crowd like he hadn’t just appeared out of nowhere. Kyle’s heart thudded in his chest not from attraction, though the man had a certain gravity, but from the sudden shift in possibility. Maybe this move wasn’t a mistake. Maybe things were about to start.
He left before midnight, walking home with his hands in his pockets, the night pressing close around him. The condo was dark when he stepped inside. He didn’t bother with the bedroom—just collapsed onto the living room floor and stared at the ceiling.
He thought about the way Daddy Benson had looked at him before leaving. Hopeful. Hurt. Still loving.
Kyle reached for his phone, fingers trembling slightly. He didn’t overthink it this time. No edits. No disclaimers.
Just:
