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Four months later
Bryce hands me the oversized scissors and I cut the red tape. It falls to my feet, draping over my brand-new light up steeltoed boots Bryce purchased me especially for this occasion.
Cheers sound from the crowds of people watching. "Yip yip hurray!"
I smile, then bury my face in Bryce’s chest. "We did it, Daddy!"
Bryce places his hand on my bum. "We sure did, boy. You should be proud of yourself."
Today’s the day we unveil the community housing project for underhoused LGBTQ+ individuals in Upstate New York. Bryce and his men have been working on it all summer, and they completed it in record time. Most times, projects like this take years to pull off. You have to draw up plans, hire architects, and make deals with labor unions so you’re supporting your workers while still maintaining profitability.
Because Bryce has connections with the city council, he was able to rush the project full speed ahead. He didn’t have to build the building from scratch either—his men simply converted the old hotel units into brand-new apartments. It’s a stylish, elegant building that only needed a little love to help it shine.
I look at the mural of Bryce’s grandmother that a wonderful Manhattan graffiti artist painted on the side of the building, then press my hand to my warm heart. Her story is so sad, but it’s the reason why Bryce became the man he is. She faced horrible discrimination due to being a lesbian. Her legacy is a community housing project full of people like she, who mean developers discriminated against.
Bryce waves to the crowd. "This project has been a long time in the making. Years ago, I knew that I wanted to create something to give back—I’d been far too fortunate and lucky not to repay my blessings to my local community. Every room is eligible for housing vouchers so no one will need to pay out of pocket. I hope you treat this like your home—because it is. You can quit searching for housing now. You’re welcome here."
The crowd cheers again, bursting into rapturous applause. They hug each other and cry because of Bryce’s kind actions.
"Thank you, sir," a mother with a rainbow tattoo on her arm sobs. "I always get turned away from housing because of my tattoo and now I don't need to worry."
Bryce smiles. "There will be no discrimination here."
I gesture toward the mural. "Bryce started this project in memory of his grandma. She was a lesbian who couldn’t receive a good home just because of who she loved."
Everyone looks toward the mural and snaps photos of it. I hear comments and murmurs about how talented the artist was.
Bryce rubs my lower back and smiles. "Thank you for saying that. My grandmother would’ve been proud."
My parents are in the crowd and they hoot and cheer as they wave at me. "We love you, BJ!"
My father walks toward me with a big rainbow cake covered in candles. "I support you, son. No matter what."
I try not to cry as I stare at the cake but it’s too hard. It has a picture of me and Bryce in the center sitting on a truck.
"This is the cutest cake ever." I sob as my father joins me onstage to deliver the cake. "And it means so much."
My father wasn’t present in my life before, but now he is. It’s all thanks to Bryce.
Bryce pecks my cheek. "Wow, that’s a beautiful digger."
"It sure is." I giggle.
Bryce waggles his eyebrows. "Now, are you attracted to ones like that? Or like the one we sat on at my job site?"
I blush, burrowing my head in his belly. "Both, Daddy."
Bryce knows all my secrets now even that I like diggers. The bigger, the better, that’s my motto. Bryce is my favorite digger of all. Last week, he put on a yellow costume and found a yellow condom with a digger design on the latex. He fucked me with it, and I melted.
Bryce truly gets me. Now, I realize why none of my other attempts to find a Daddy worked out. They’d never treat me like Bryce.
"There’s enough cake for everyone, boy." Bryce nudges my side. "Would you like to share?"
"Yes." Of course I would. There’s no fun in eating cake if everyone can’t have a bite.
My father lifts up the cake and everyone dances and applauds. Music pumps from the oversized speakers we set up by the inauguration stage. My mother produces a big knife and slices the cake onto paper plates.
She hands me the first slice. "For my special boy. You know, your doctor called me last week, and he says that your bloodwork is excellent. You really ought to change your number. Tell your Daddy—"
