Chapter Three: Ryan

I 'm surprised when the room Oscar leads me into is the club's Nursery room. Surprised, but not uncomfortable. Especially when he sits me on the plush two-seater couch and then gestures to the door. "Open or shut?" he asks me. "Your call, darlin'."

Oh dear God, that accent .

As a kid, I used to watch spaghetti Westerns on TV, and I had a real fascination with American cowboys for a good portion of my youth. And even though the tattoos on this young man's arms, hands, and neck don't necessarily scream cowboy, everything else about him does.

So, suddenly, my old fascination is back.

I'm a city boy, born and raised in the suburbs of urban Australia. My accent isn't as thick and ocker as those who live out bush, but it still feels clunky and decidedly unsexy next to Oscar's. Or at least it does in my head.

"Closed, please," I answer, and he gives me a smile so warm that it makes my stomach flip pleasantly.

"I do like a Boy with manners," he teases as he shuts the door, and I snort.

"It's been a long time since anyone called me a boy."

Amusement lights up his eyes, which I finally notice are a golden kind of brown, like a well-aged whiskey, tiny gold highlights glinting in them when the yellow from the ceiling light hits them just right.

"Oh, honey," he says, grinning and shaking his head, "a man can be a Boy at any age." He gestures around the room and my answering smile slips a little as realisation dawns.

Oh .

"Oh," I repeat my stellar thought out loud. Then I swallow and look around again, taking in the change table and crib with a whole new understanding. "You meant Boy. With a capital ‘b'." I clasp my hands in my lap and fiddle with my fingers, suddenly nervous. "I've never…I mean, I'm not…Not that there's anything wrong with…" I stop my rambling, closing my eyes to take a deep, steadying breath. "I'm not a Boy. Just a sub."

"I know, darlin'." That voice of his is so very seductive. It's mellow and affectionate, but there's that sense of authority belying it which I have never been able to pin down or replicate. He's definitely a Dom, that's for sure.

"But…you're a Daddy?" The question tumbles from my lips before my brain to mouth filter can engage.

He nods, still wearing that gentle smile. "I am, yeah. But I'm also a Dom. I don't need my subs to regress if that's not somethin' they enjoy. But," he shrugs, and I watch the thin cotton of his black button-down shirt tighten around his biceps, "I don't like bein' called Master or Sir. It's Daddy or bust, I'm afraid."

A nervous giggle bubbles up from my stomach and I have to clear my throat to prevent it from escaping. "Y-you want me to call you Daddy?"

Oscar visibly startles at the question. "Oh! No. No, honey. I didn't bring you in here for a scene. I'd never do that without proper negotiation first. I just wanted to get you somewhere quiet and private, and this room was empty when I checked by earlier. I get the feelin' not too many people who visit this club are into this kind of play."

I should feel relief at his answer, but instead I'm surprised to feel a bubble of disappointment lodge itself in my chest. I rub at it, blinking when my hand encounters my chest hair. I look down and remember that I'm shirtless beneath my borrowed jacket. A jacket which smells like him, all spicy and warm.

"What's wrong?" he asks, and I firm my lips, shaking my head, prepared to refute him. But he snorts and continues, "I mean, aside from the obvious. I can be a real idiot sometimes, I swear."

"No, no, I'm…I'm okay," I assure him. "I mean, I'm a bit shaken up, but you got there before anything could happen." My throat works convulsively. "Thank you for that, by the way."

I was genuinely terrified that nobody would hear me. That nobody would come to my rescue.

"Hey now," Oscar inches closer, treating me like a flighty wild animal. He sits carefully on the mattress beside me and wraps an arm around my shoulders. I lean into his embrace, closing my eyes and enjoying the smooth cadence of his accent. "I didn't do anythin' special. I was just in the right place at the right time."

"You stopped him from forcing me…" My whole body shudders. I was violated, had my safe-words ignored, and I was physically attacked…but I was rescued before my attacker could take things further, and I take solace in that.

"Are you sure you don't want to press charges, darlin'?" There's a hard edge to Oscar's voice now, but I know it's an anger directed at that other Dom and not at me.

I shake my head. "No, he didn't—"

"He still assaulted you." He keeps his tone gentle, and he gives me a little squeeze, which feels both apologetic and bracing. "I know you don't want to hear it, Ryan, but what he did was assault. And, before you try and tell me that it could have been worse, I want you to think about what kind of advice you'd give a friend if they said someone did to them what that man did to you, okay?"

Well, damn it.

"I hate it when people use logic on me," I grumble sulkily, but the corners of my lips pull upwards as he chuckles. Then I sigh and acknowledge, "If he'd pulled what he did on Jake or any of the other Subs, I'd tell them it was assault and that they should report it." Tears clog my throat and blur my vision. "I…I feel so stupid."

"No, baby, you're not stupid." His tone is firm. "This club is supposed to be a safe space. That sorry excuse for a man took advantage. He's the stupid one, not you."

"He's probably long gone," I shrug, still trying to blink away the tears.

"Except his ID is in the system downstairs. I had to hand over my passport to be let in, ‘cause I ain't got my driver's licence here yet. But I know they took my details before I came on up here, and they woulda' done the same with him."

Gnawing on my bottom lip, I acknowledge that he's right about that, too.

"I can come with you to the station if you'd like," he offers gently, and I'm overwhelmed by how sweet and kind an offer that is. "In fact," he continues, "I probably should, in case they need a witness statement. I won't be in the city for long, but I'll give them a way to contact me once I'm gone."

And that's how I wind up sitting in the Fortitude Valley Police Beat shopfront, making a report to a very friendly and understanding police officer.

Located in the middle of Brunswick Street, amongst the pubs and nightclubs, the space is brightly lit and exists as a stop-measure between all the craziness that happens in the city and the main police station, which is a short drive away. I'm willing to bet that they mostly deal with drunken shenanigans, but the officer who takes down my story and hands me information for counselling isn't at all judgemental. She hadn't even raised her eyebrows when I walked in wearing my booty shorts and Oscar's leather jacket and nothing else.

"For now, this report will be passed on to an investigator. They'll probably want to talk to you themselves, too. Then, they'll investigate," she assures me, speaking with compassion that seems completely genuine as I stand to leave, "and someone will be in touch."

I frown, "I'll be moving out of state in a couple of weeks. Will that be a problem?"

"Only if this goes to court. You may need to come back for that. But we'll take it one step at a time, okay? Just remember that you have choices through all of this, and you can ask for extra support through it, too."

Nodding, I shake her hand and she tells Oscar to make sure I get home safely, assuming that we're closer than we are. Before I can protest, he assures her that he will, and then he guides me back out onto the main hustle and bustle of Brunswick Street with a firm hand on the base of my spine. I imagine I can feel the warmth of his palm through the leather, and I briefly wish that I wasn't wearing the jacket because I really like feeling his touch.

"Now, do you need me to call you an Uber or a cab? Or did you want to go back to the club, or…" he hesitates for half a second, "did you want to come back to my hotel room? Not for anything sexual," he's quick to add, "but it's nearby and, forgive me for sayin' this, darlin', but you look beat."

I wait for the voice of reason in my head to tell me that going to a strange Dom's hotel room is an even worse idea than going into a private room in the club, but that voice is silent. Oscar rescued me from that other guy. He's been nothing but gentle and courteous and hyper respectful of my potential boundaries. He even took me to make a police report and stuck around while I did. I feel like he's trustworthy, and he's right: I really am exhausted.

"If…if it's okay…I'd like that. To go back to your place. Only if it's really okay."

His handsome face lights up with the warmest smile I've seen him wear all night. "I'd like that, too, honey."

* * *

His hotel room is only a fifteen-minute walk from Brunswick Street. It's in one of the newer hotels, on the thirty-second floor and with a phenomenal view of the city's twinkling lights. The room is only a studio, though, with a king-sized bed, a tiny two-seater couch, and a very tiny kitchenette containing little more than a kettle, mini-fridge and sink. The bathroom is just as minimalistic, with a shower, toilet, and a tiny basin crammed into a space not much bigger than my walk-in wardrobe at home.

"I did not think this through," he muses sheepishly as he looks from the bed to the too-tiny couch, to me and then back to the bed. "I'm gonna take the floor, okay?"

"Absolutely not," crossing my arms, I glower at him. "This is your hotel room. I can still get an Uber home."

Disappointment flashes in his eyes and it warms me all the way to my toes.

"Or," I add, suddenly feeling shy and unsure of myself, "we can share the bed."

Heat flares in place of the disappointment before his cheeks flush and he blinks the lusty expression away. "I warn you," he points an index finger at me, "I'm respectful when I'm awake, but I'm a snuggler in my sleep."

The declaration makes my heart thud painfully in my chest. This beautiful young man reminds me so much of Maddy, despite looking nothing like him. It's in the way he wears his heart on his sleeve. The way he's determined to be honest and respectful at all times, but while still having that firm, dominant air about him.

When it comes to personalities, I've got a type, and this guy? He's everything I've ever been attracted to, if in a much younger package.

And he's only here temporarily , I remind myself. Also, you're leaving in a couple of weeks, too.

Not wanting to acknowledge why those thoughts hurt so much, I force a grin. "I like being cuddled."

"Is that so?" I don't know if I imagine the way his eyes light up, because he clears his throat and gestures to his suitcase sitting open on the coffee table in front of the little couch. "Anyway, let's get you into somethin' more comfortable, hmm?"

I'm loathe to let go of the leather jacket, and I'm also embarrassed to have to borrow his clothes at all. "I can just sleep in the shorts…"

A strangled sound comes from the vicinity of the back of his throat. "Darlin', you in just those shorts could tempt a priest to sin."

"Please," I scoff, looking down at myself. With the jacket open, my aging torso makes me feel vulnerable. I've been trying to keep myself fit, but my skin is still softening and wrinkling, marked with age spots and grey hairs. The six pack of my youth is gone, the toning to my belly even harder to maintain now than it was a year or two ago. "I've got one foot in the grave."

Pausing in his rummage through his clothes, Oscar looks up at me sharply. "I beg your pardon?"

"I appreciate how kind you've been, but I'm not unaware of my appearance. I'm old. Definitely too old for you. I…" the words I planned to say vanish from the tip of my tongue at the shift in energy in the room.

Oscar's expression is serious, but nothing about his demeanour scares me. Even though he's frowning at me, I don't feel the unease I felt with the other guy in the club.

"You don't get to tell me you're too old for me," he says slowly and deliberately. "Unless my being thirty-four is a problem for you—"

"Thirty-four?" He's seventeen years my junior. That thought makes me feel like a lecherous old man. "I'm old enough to be your father."

"Funny, because I'm the one who likes being called Daddy," he jokes, then cocks his head. "You're, what, forty-five? Fifty at a stretch?"

"Fifty-one," I sigh heavily and sit on the couch. "Almost fifty-two."

"Still a bit young to be my pops, but I suppose you're technically right." Then he shakes his head. "Not that age matters to me. I like older men. Especially when you've got that silver fox goodness goin' on." Lips quirking, he admits, "Maybe it's my daddy issues that got me wantin' to dominate older guys. I don't know, and I don't really care. As long as we're both consenting adults, age ain't nothin' but numbers."

I get a thrill at the way he casually admits he wants to dominate older guys, but before I can tell him I'd like to play, Oscar starts rummaging through his suitcase again. The clothes inside are all rolled into tight bundles, neatly arranged in rows. He obviously values order and tidiness, which I appreciate.

"These should work," he pulls out two bundles of soft cotton then shakes them out one by one. Navy cotton boxer shorts and a light blue t-shirt are extended my way. "Bathroom's through there," he gestures at the room I spied earlier, "and the hotel has complimentary toothbrushes."

I'm hit with a wave of loss as I carefully take the jacket off, handing it to him in exchange for the borrowed sleep clothes. When I'm out of his line of sight, I lift the t-shirt to my nose and sniff it. It's clean and fresh, smelling like it's been freshly laundered. Usually, I love the smell of freshly cleaned cotton, but it doesn't compare to the spicy, masculine scent trapped in the fibres of his jacket.

I get changed slowly, grimacing at the almost plastic thwack of lamé hitting glossy white tiles when I drop my boy shorts to the ground. My fingers hesitate before I reach for the cotton boxer shorts, but I drop those, too, when a knock sounds at the door.

"You doin' okay, darlin'?" Oscar asks, and my pulse skyrockets.

"Y-yeah," I answer, feeling decidedly off-kilter, but unable to explain why. "I'm just slow."

There's a brief moment of silence before he asks, "Would you like some help?"

I'm an adult. Have been one for a hell of a lot longer than he has, in fact. But for some strange reason, the idea of him helping me get dressed is appealing in ways I can't articulate. My mouth goes dry and my heart continues to pound rapidly in my chest.

"Darlin'?" he prompts, then, in a more serious tone, says, "Ryan?"

Looking at the puddles of fabric on the ground, I nibble my bottom lip for a moment before answering, "Help me?"