Page 12 of Daddy’s Rules

“Please,” I chuckled. “I’ve heard some wild ones, so bring it.”

He looked away, stabbing his fork into the pancake soaked in syrup. “The wildest,” he mumbled. “I think—okay, let me get this right in my head. I think we’re all spies, like, our brains when we sleep are uploaded into the universe, and like, we’re all sleeper agents, so that if someone says a phrase to us, we activate and become a different person.” His face is completely deadpan. It was a new theory for me.

“I hope not,” I said. “So, you think we’re all being controlled?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know, but you hear about those people who just become different people. I think they’ve been activated,” he said. “But I do binge a lot of crime and drama shows, so I’m highly influenced by plots that happen.” He gave me a smirk. “What if it was a string a words? What would yours be?”

“To describe me, or do you mean completely random?”

Benji shrugged, but I knew he was just trying to figure me out a little more. He knew my name, he could easily have searched me online, but he hadn’t reached for the phone in his pocket since picking it up at the coat check. “I’ll go first, maybe. So, like, teddies, pastel, books, juice, law, or something.”

“I’ll give it a go,” I said, scooping another fry with mayo and devouring it. “Boss, cuffs, control, caretaker, cuddles.” My voice went quieter as my lips curved to a large smile. “Do you think that’s true?”

“From what I’ve seen, yes, but maybe the first one should also start with a C,” he said.

“And if it did, maybe it would activate me,” I chuckled. “I wonder what I’d become, maybe some feral being who demanded control instead of asking for it.”

Benji nodded his head slowly. “And what would I become?”

“You’d be right where you want to be, living in your pleasure, constantly.”

“Mhm, I like that. Actually, I think my sleeper agent thing is a song, you know, the start of ‘Bills, Bills, Bills’ by Destiny’s Child. That wakes something in me.”

He chuckled.

“You’re cute.”

Beneath the table, our feet were locked in play, like the arms of an octopus suctioning themselves together. I’d never been so physically attached to someone else before, especially not someone from the club, but here I was, ready to ruin a streak, and break rules.

“You’ve got my cell number, right?” I asked him.

“Yeah, you gave me your card.” He snorted. “Are you leaving?”

“Soon,” I said, regret in my voice. “But I can have a car take you wherever you need to go. It’ll save you a walk in the rain.” I glanced at the thin windbreaker jacket he’d brought with him.

He giggled. “I’ll definitely take you up on that.”

“It’s been a really nice evening,” I told him.

“Honestly,” he said, pausing for us both to notice he was adhering to one of the rules. “I think you saved my night from being awful, and I’m sorry for maybe being an ass when we first met. I’ve been around lawyers and the law for so long my brain is always trying to understand someone’s angle.”

“And what angle did you find from me?”

He smirked, looking away again, his teeth sinking into his lower lip. “We kinda did your angle,” he let out. “It was a lot of fun. Thank you. And for the food. And the stuffy.”

“You’ve thanked me enough,” I told him. “I’ll make sure you get home okay, and you’ve got to keep in touch. I wanna know how you do on the LSATs.”

“I will,” he whispered. “Thank you, Daddy.”

* * *

Two Weeks Later

Benji had continued to linger on my mind. I tried not to pry into him, even if I was the type of guy to run background checks on everyone I met. Playhouse was the respite from that; it gave my mind a safety net from overthinking and was just fucking.

He hadn’t texted or called or even shown up at the club again. I was so sure he’d call; I was so sure he’d ask to meet again, and he hadn’t. Not a smoke signal or carrier pigeon either. He’d made a Benji-sized dent on the mattress in the hotel room I kept, and I’d hoped he’d fill it again, but after two weeks, it was looking less likely.

I sat across from a board of men. All dressed in the only suits they had with the mild smell of sweat pungent in the air, these men were talking about quarterly reports. It was one of the downsides of investing, that sometimes they wanted you in their offices, wanted you to see how good they’d been—as if I was all of their Daddies, as if they needed my approval, when what I knew they wanted was additional funding.