Hitman Daddy by Aster Rae

3

Christian

I'm bored.

So fucking bored.

My fake ID worked but I've never wanted to be anywhere less in my life.

First, there was the Italian. The tall, annoying, ugly asshole in front of us in line.

He was a complete jerk to the bouncer and basically the rudest dickhead I've ever seen.

Who wants to party with someone like that?

Second, there's the crowd. The nightclub is packed. People line the walls as far as the eye can see.

I thought it would be fun to go to a super popular nightclub with a line that stretches all the way to the pizza shop around the block. But it's not.

The music is loud. The bartender is too swamped to get us a drink.

The worst part?

I can't compete with the boys here.

Gorgeous twinks line the walls and sip expensive drinks.

Gigolos with ripped muscles and six packs flaunt their sex appeal to older men they’re trying to sell.

Even the bartender looks like something out of a Helix Studios production.

Me?

I look like a frumpy loser who let his grandmother dress him up in something he wore when he was sixteen.

I don't fit in with these models.

How will I ever find a Daddy?

"Bar’s open." Tristan nudges me.

I glance towards the bar. The crowd has thinned out slightly although not enough for us to grab a spot.

"It's still busy as hell." I hate sounding like a Debbie Downer because I try to keep a semi-positive attitude in everything I do.

But the sweaty atmosphere and loud music are taxing me.

I thought I could pretend to be an extrovert for an evening but what I really want to do is retreat to my bedroom and cuddle up under my snuggie.

"I'll see if I can charm him,” Tristan says.

A huff escapes me as we push through the nearly impenetrable crowd.

The people don't move so Tristan strong-arms his way through them until we reach our destination.

We collapse into the only available seats. "I feel like Moses parting the Red Sea."

"I didn't realize it would be so packed," Tristan contends.

Tristan knows I hate crowds. He was there for me when I had a major panic attack at the New York State Fair two years ago and nearly started crying because I thought I'd lost him. He bought me a corndog and led me through guided deep breathing exercises on his meditation app to calm me down. It worked. We got through the rest of the festivities without a second meltdown.

But the second I got home, I raced to my bedroom and whipped out my pacifiers.

I thrust one in my mouth and buried myself in my dino blanket with my favorite stuffies.

Tristan tried to cheer me up so we could grab a taco from Taco Taxi with Tina later that night but I wasn't having it.

The anxiety braiding itself into my heart was too intense to bear.

"It's fine." I pick up a drink menu and pretend to study it while we wait for Tina to arrive.

She was supposed to come twenty minutes ago but she sent Tristan a text that she’s running late.

I doubt the bartender's going to give us the time of day, but I force myself to pick out a drink I'd like anyway.

Tristan flags him down. "Are you available for service?"

The bartender glances up. A smirk pulls at his lips when he spots Tristan.

"What can I get you, cutie?"

"I'll have a Manhattan."

"I'll have a Starburst vodka," I say.

The bartender ignores me. He stares into Tristan's eyes and licks his lips.

Jealousy pangs across me. I try to ignore it but I can't.

I don't have a problem with Tristan.

It's just that Tristan's not even gay and he's never had a problem attracting men.

He's ripped and beautiful. Men fall over their feet to buy him things.

I'm the opposite. I'm slim and hairless and I barely have any muscle definition at all.

I didn't even get my first facial hair until I was seventeen.

Who wants to date a baby?

The bartender slides us our drinks. "You're cute as fuck."

"I'm taken," Tristan says apologetically.

I'm thrilled that the fake ID worked and that Tristan got us drinks.

But I'd so much rather be at home perusing ways to start my own ice cream parlor and looking for a Daddy.

We receive our drinks and head back to the dance floor.

The DJ puts on a kickass Doja Cat song and I sip my Starburst vodka and dance with Tristan.

That's when something crazy happens.

I've barely taken a sip of my drink when the most gorgeous man walks towards me.

I force myself to remember to breathe.

The man is stunning. Ripped muscles bulge out of his tight-fitting suit. Tattoos snake down his hands. Scars crisscross over his tanned forearms and even creep onto his neck.

Danger rockets through me.

I sense that this man has done terrible things.

But I also sense that he could be an amazing protector.

A man who would have no trouble wielding a gun and putting a bullet into anyone who would ever want to hurt me.

My throat constricts as he stops in front of us. I wait for him to start speaking to Tristan. Because that's obviously what he's going to do. Right? Every man always talks to Tristan first even though Tristan isn't interested in them.

I nearly drop my Starburst vodka when he turns to me.

"I need to see your ID."

Disappointment crashes through me like hurricane waves against the Statue of Liberty.

"Motherfucker," I mutter.

A bodyguard. Of-fucking-course.

He doesn't want to talk to me or Tristan.

He wants to make sure I'm twenty-one or he's going to report me to the police.

Still. It's a little presumptuous to walk over and demand to see my identification card.

What right does he have to be so fucking demanding?

I dig my fingers into my glass. "Is something wrong?"

I'm fully aware that I'm guilty as hell.

But I refuse to let him beat me at this pointless game.

He doesn't flinch. "You don't look twenty-one. Show me your ID."

Anxiety thrums.

Tristan and I share a glance. “Why should I show this asshole my ID?" I say.

"Just show him," Tristan groans.

"He didn't ask anyone else for their ID. Why should I show him mine?"

"I already told you." The man's eyes slit. "You look too young to legally drink. If you're using a fake, the cops will shut us down."

Terror lances me. But I refuse to back down.

This is the first time I've used my fake. It cost a lot of money. While I don't want to be here tonight — I'd still prefer to browse Reddit with my favorite stuffed animal in my room — I don't want this man to force me to admit defeat.

I want to go on my own accord if I must leave. Not because some sexy bouncer forced me.

"Ask my friend for his ID." I put my hands on my hips. "Then I'll know you're not picking on me."

So much for maturity.

He takes a menacing step towards me. A wave of cologne washes over me.

My translucent arm hair stands straight up as he narrows his dark eyes at me.

"This nightclub is my baby," he growls. "I refuse to risk everything because some little shit is using a fake."

Shit. I was right to think he's a bouncer.

Why else would he refer to the club as "his" baby?

The threat of legal action crushes my defiant personality.

This man will kick me out and report me to the police.

"Fine." I fish in my back pocket for my wallet. I slide the ID into his palm.

His eyes bore into my skull. "Igor."

A man hulks over. "Run this through the system. Make sure it's not a fake."

I knew my baby face was a liability.

But I didn't think Mr. Gorgeous Bouncer would call my bluff so easily.

The bouncer turns back to me.

His deep coffee eyes blaze into mine.

Suddenly, another thought hits me.

What would it feel like to have his thick strong arms wrapped around me?

Protecting me?

Keeping me safe and blocking out the rest of the big scary world?

I stare up at his massive scarred body and start to quiver on the dance floor.

I want to tell him I'm sorry that I lied about my age to get into this club and apologize for being such a bad little boy.

But I also want to thrust my arms around him and bury my face in his chest.

I want to inhale his scent and feel his massive arms caress me as he whispers that everything will be alright.

I can't afford to get in trouble.

I can't afford to get reported to the police for using a fake before I start my social media marketing program at CUNY this fall.

It's a horrible way to start a new career.

I have no choice but to leave.

When the gorgeous bouncer turns around to speak to his associate one last time, I tear myself away from his presence and press my lips against Tristan's ear.

"We have to fucking run."

Tristan doesn't ask questions.

We leave my ID behind and rush outside.