Chapter 3 Daddy Shamus

The breeze whipped Shamus's ginger hair across his sun-burned face as he strolled along the lively Seaside Heights boardwalk. One year. It had been one year since he'd met Timmy, his heart stolen by the sweet young vacationer with eyes the color of the Atlantic. Shamus's cousin Finn had covered his shift at the bar, allowing him to celebrate their one-year anniversary with a pizza picnic on their favorite bench, with a view of the beach where they had first met. Throughout the day, he had carefully crafted a special gift for Timmy, wrapping it in shiny red paper. He planned to ask Timmy to move in with him for the summer tonight. He lived in a small apartment above his bar on the boardwalk. If things fell into place for them living together during the summer, he would eagerly welcome him into his home at the end of the season.

Shamus spotted Timmy by a brightly lit pizza stand with a goofy grin plastered across his face as he chatted with the cashier. Relief washed over Shamus, momentarily pushing down the knot twisting in his gut. A strange sense of apprehension settled in as if something was off. For one thing, Timmy had ordered the pizza and paid for it. He never paid for anything when he was with Shamus. As he approached, Timmy's grin faltered, replaced by a hesitant smile.

"Hey," Shamus said, his voice strained. "Why did you pay for the pizza?"

"I wanted to."

"Did you forget I'm your daddy? I pay for everything." Shamus reached into his back pocket, fingers fumbling for his wallet, eager to repay Timmy for the pizza. With a swift motion of his hand, Timmy created a stop sign in the air.

Timmy had ordered their usual—a large pepperoni with extra cheese—and they made their way to the bench. The sun dipped lower in the sky, painting the boardwalk in hues of orange and pink. The cotton candy vendor's cart a few stalls down added a sweetness to the salty air.

Timmy sat stiffly beside him, an unusual silence hanging heavy between them. As Shamus took a bite of pizza, the gooey cheese melted in his mouth, but the growing sense of dread overshadowed the delicious taste.

Timmy hesitated, then blurted out, "Daddy Shamus, we need to talk."

Shamus's stomach knotted tighter into a ball. The carefree atmosphere evaporated, replaced by a cold dread. "What is it?"

Timmy sighed, averting his gaze. "This isn't working for me anymore. I mean, us. I don't want you to be my daddy."

The words hit Shamus like a pile of bricks, knocking the breath out of him. "What do you mean?" he asked.

"I met another daddy," Timmy confessed.

Shamus felt a shard of ice pierce his heart. A year. They'd been together for a year, sharing stolen kisses under the boardwalk's flickering lights and spending lazy evenings curled up on Shamus's couch, Timmy's laughter echoing in the small apartment on the weekends. A year shattered by a single sentence.

Shamus didn't know what to say. The boardwalk, once a source of comfort, now seemed alien, the sounds distorted and muted. The pretty colors of the sunset were replaced by a dull gray.

"I'm so sorry, Daddy Shamus. I never meant to hurt you." Timmy paused. "But I don't love you. And I don't think I ever did."

Shamus shook his head, staring at the vast ocean, its endless horizon mirroring the emptiness he felt inside. The pizza sat forgotten between them, a silent testament to a love now gone.

Shamus had no words. He placed the pizza box on Timmy's lap, stood up, and walked away without saying another word. The pain of Timmy's words stung his eyes, blurring the lights and people into a watercolor wash of pain. In that moment, the boardwalk, once a place of joy, became a symbol of his shattered relationship.

Timmy's voice echoed through the air as he chased after Shamus through the crowd, his pleas falling on deaf ears. Shamus stopped in front of the hotel on the boardwalk to avoid Timmy, because he had no more words for him, not then, or for the rest of his life. Drained from emotional disappointment on their anniversary, he was done with Timmy.

Frantically, he burst into the hotel and quickly approached the front desk to secure a room for the night. They informed him that his room would be ready in half an hour, so he sank into the plush cushion of a chair in the lobby, feeling the smooth leather against his skin. As he sat down, the clerk approached with a tray, setting a fresh lemonade before him.

The front doors slid open, and Shamus saw a young man shuffling in with the hesitant gait of a wounded animal. He couldn't be much older than twenty. His face was a canvas of bruises and angry red welts. Dark circles shadowed his eyes. He had a split lip, and a pronounced limp marred his movements. His clothes hung loosely on a frame that seemed perpetually on the verge of collapsing, each step a testament to his pain. An older man guided him with a gentle hand on his elbow, and he leaned heavily on the man. Maybe his father or uncle.

"Careful, Miguel," the older man muttered, his voice thick with worry.

Miguel . Shamus quickly snatched the name and tucked it away in his memory. It wasn't the sight of the injuries, though they spoke of a brutal encounter, stirring something unexpected within him. It was the way Miguel held himself, with a quiet dignity despite the visible pain etched on his face. Even from a distance, Shamus could see a mixture of defiance and sadness in Miguel's eyes and yet as he moved, his curly brown hair bounced playfully around his collar. He must have been miserable as he struggled to walk. A flicker of something resonated with his own bruised ego. He smiled at Shamus, sending chills up his spine.

A sting of shame, sharp and unexpected, sliced through Shamus's self-pity. Here he was, moping over a relationship, while this Miguel kid carried the weight of a proper battle. He put Shamus to disgrace.

No one deserves to be beaten up. He didn't believe the older male was responsible for the bruises. But who is? And for what reason? Shamus was ready to take up arms for the boy. If anyone needed a daddy, it was poor Miguel.

Miguel winced with every movement, his body tense and ready for anything, a story of pain and wariness etched into his every flinch and limp—Shamus knew that story all too well from his own past. It was a strange mix, vulnerability overlaid with a quiet strength, and it stirred the nurturing side within him—a flicker of warmth in the middle of his heartbreak.

Here he was, drowning in self-pity over a broken heart, while Miguel walked wounded, the victim of something far worse. A strange protectiveness welled up within him, a stark contrast to the emptiness left by Timmy's kiss-off. He watched, oddly captivated, as the older man, with a worried frown, helped him into the elevator. The doors slid shut, leaving Shamus alone with a confusing mix of sadness and newly sparked concern for the battered stranger.

Once Shamus had his room card, he took the elevator to the third floor, where he bumped into the older man who was with Miguel. He came out of room 305 and looked like he was in a hurry.

Shamus was in Room 307, the one beside the young man's. He went inside and looked for alcohol in the mini refrigerator. He pulled out a small bottle of Jack Daniels and drank from it. He could hear Miguel unpacking. Then he turned on the TV to a program with animal sounds. Maybe a National Geographic show or something like that.

Shamus's phone rang. He looked to see who was calling, and it was Finn.

"What's up, Finn?"

"Timmy is here looking for you. He's already had three shots and said you'd be footing the bill. I cut him off. What's going on?"

"Kick him out of the bar and tell him he's not welcome there anymore!" Shamus ended the call.

That little piece of shit drinking in my bar after he fucked me over. He wants a sugar daddy, not a loving one.

Shamus pulled the present out of his pocket, removed the card, and ripped it to shreds. He found notepaper and wrote:

Miguel,

Hope you feel better soon.

Secret Protector

He left his room to set the present by the boy's door. Knocking on the door, he felt a mixture of excitement and nervousness as he quickly made his way back to his room, listening for a moment to make sure the boy opened the door.

Shamus heard him open his door, so about ten minutes later, he opened his own door to check if Miguel had taken the present, and was pleased to see it was no longer outside the door of room 305.

Later, he sent a text to Finn to send one of the guys to bring him a medium Seaside Sips' T-shirt from the bar.