Page 93 of Dangle

Slone

I’m on the ground in NYC. I’ll be there soon.

I typed, deleted, and retyped my message to him several times, unsure of how to express the gratitude I felt. He dropped everything, arranged a flight to get him here in what had to be hours before a commercial flight could’ve managed, all because I asked. No one had ever done that. Not even my parents when I came down with chickenpox and the nanny took me to the hospital.

Finally, I landed on a version that didn’t sound too needy or clingy or any other way a grown-ass man who played hockey shouldn’t sound.

Me

Thank you for coming and missing your family’s celebration to attend mine with me.

Slone

You’re my boy. You are my family.

Holy fuck, the man was too fucking much sometimes. I already didn’t know how to respond to his kindness, and then he hits me with more. I loved it. So freaking much. It soothed me in a way I never knew was possible. It uplifted me whenever I feltdown, or I spiraled. It felt fucking amazing. Which was a poor descriptor, but it was all I had.

But as much as I loved it, I hated it too. Every act and word of kindness felt like a shoe waiting to fall. No, it felt worse than that. Like lying on your back under a guillotine held up by an increasingly fraying rope with your neck on the line and your eyes watching the rope strands snap one by one.

Yeah.

That.

That summed it up.

So, yeah, every act and word of kindness brought a storm of emotion—good and bad—swirling together until you couldn’t tell where the elation ended and the anxiety and fear began. As much as it affected me, though, I wouldn’t ever tell him how his kindness made me feel. Because after doing some research into kink, I truly think I’m a bit of a masochist. I love it when he makes me hurt in a good way, and this anxiety, fear-ridden elation was one of the good ways Slone made me feel. I never wanted it to end.

A glance told me Slone would be arriving at the gates soon. Turning, I looked for my phone only to find it still in my hand. I shook my head at my craziness and dialed the gatehouse.

“Good evening, Mr. Malachek. This is Aaron at the gate.”

“I have a visitor arriving soon. I’m unsure of what he will be driving since he’s in a rental picked up from the airport. His name is Abraham Slone.”

“Do you have his birth date, sir?”

Fuck. When did they implement that nonsense? Sighing, I replied, “Sorry, I do not. Not off the top of my head. Will that be a problem?”

“Do you have a description?”

Holy hell, this is ridiculous. Next, they’ll ask for his blood type. Not wanting to delay Slone getting in, I said, “He’s darkblond with brown eyes. He’s in his thirties. Around six foot three. He served in the Marines, if that helps.” I didn’t know if it would, but I didn’t think it could hurt.

“Thank you, sir. We will text?—”

Shit. I interrupted, “Can you text this number specifically? My parents have retired for the evening. Big day tomorrow and all.”

The security guard replied, “Yes, sir. We can text this number.”

Swallowing a huge sigh of relief, I said, “Thanks so much, Aaron. I appreciate your help.”

Me

Security measures: You’ll have to show ID and will probably be asked questions. I cleared you, but if you have issues, talk to Aaron.

Did all former NHL players live like prisoners in bougie communities like this? Or really, any celebrities? Did Katie Carter?

I found it way over the top, but as long as Slone got through, I didn’t care.

Slone