Page 4 of Redline Baby

“Whenever you’re ready,” I tell him, stopping a few feet away. “Shop opens at nine on Saturdays.”

He offers a wave and pushes through the heavy glass front door.

Maren bundles Rue into her coat, promising they will see me for dinner on Sunday, and leaves the shop. Their departure makes the space instantly feel too large. It feels cavernous. I walk to the front of the showroom and manually throw the deadbolt on the heavy glass door. I flip the illuminated ‘Open’ sign to ‘Closed’ and walk slowly down the center aisle. I reach the master switch panel near the bathroom hallway and kill the main fluorescents. The shop falls into a heavy quiet.

I walk over to the bench and pull out my stool. I sit down heavily and pull my phone from my pocket. I unlock the screen. I open the browser. The tab is already open. I visit it almost every night. And I hate it.

It is a community forum and profile-matching site, built specifically for the Daddy/little dynamic. It’s an incredibly thorough platform. It isn’t a place for quick encounters. I lean my elbows heavily on the edge of the steel bench and begin to scroll. I move my thumb without any real urgency. The interface is clean, displaying short summary blocks of people looking for a Caregiver. I read the text, filtering out the performative submissions, searching for the truth in the words.

I know how to construct an environment that makes another human being feel completely protected from the world. I want to build that structure for someone. I have absolutely no one of my own to take care of in an intimate sense. I want a Little to anchor me just as much as they need me to anchor them.

My thumb remains hovering over the glass.

I can’t do it. The format fundamentally defeats the purpose. Connecting with someone through a screen feels totally alien to me. I tap the icon at the top of the screen, navigating to my own profile. It is completely filled out. I spent three hours writing it, carefully selecting the exact words necessary to convey the grounded, classic Daddy archetype I naturally inhabit. I listed my boundaries clearly. I explained exactly what kind of emotional presence I am capable of providing. The profile is flawless.

I tap the icon next to it, opening my messages. My sent folder is entirely, completely empty. The search has been going on for months, but nothing online has ever moved past this exact, stalled point.

I close the browser tab abruptly. I press the power button and set the phone face-down on the cold metal surface of the bench.

I exhale slowly.

Then I hear it. The side door handle rattles sharply, turning before I even have the chance to stand up. I don’t reach for a weapon, and I don’t call out a challenge. Only three people use that entrance without knocking first, and two of them went home half an hour ago.

Ni steps into the shop, letting the heavy door pull itself shut behind them. He’s wearing his leather Redline MC cut over a thick, faded gray hoodie. His beard is longer than I remember, his hair in a ponytail. Without any preamble, he crosses the concrete and drops heavily onto the empty stool stationed at the corner of my workbench.

“I knew you’d still be working late,” he says, as if he’s scored something.

“I’m pacing myself,” I answer, still feeling a little melancholic about my failed search.

“Let’s grab a beer?” he asks. I consider it for a moment and decide to do it. It’d do me good.

We both grab our bikes outside and go to our favorite bar down the road. It is a simple place where other bikers gather.

After we’re sitting with our bottles, the conversation starts perfectly smoothly, as always, with bikes. Ni is fiercely loyal, deeply tied to his ride-or-die crew at Redline MC. We talk for ten minutes about a blown tire on the interstate, an upcoming track day, and the rapidly dropping autumn temperatures.

Then, Ni shifts. He leans slightly forward on the stool, resting their chin briefly on their hand.

“You should come this Friday,” Ni says. “You can find a Little there.”

That sentence hits me. He knows I’m into kink. He is too. A lot of people in Redline MC are.

“They’re all good people, Soren. Everybody there rides. It’s very low-key. No one gives a shit about performing for anyone else. You just show up, get a drink, and exist.”

It is not a sales pitch. It’s true. I look thoughtfully at my bottle. I was never one for crowds. I’ve refused this same offer at least five times before.

But tonight, my faith in finding a dynamic online is wavering, and my solitude feels immense.

“They keep it totally locked down. The vetting process is strict. Trust me, nobody gets through that door who hasn’t earned the right to be in the room,” Ni says. He knows me. He knows he’s getting closer to an affirmative answer than he has ever been before.

Slowly, my gaze drops to my phone. I think about the months of waiting for something to feel real enough to actually pursue. I realize, quite suddenly, that I am tired of waiting in the dark.

I look back at Ni.

“Yeah, alright,” I say.

Ni nods. He doesn’t smile widely, he doesn’t congratulate me on the choice, and he doesn’t demand further confirmation. That is exactly why I like him so much. He simply accepts me as I am.

Chapter 3. Kit