Page 8 of Redline Baby

“I noticed the Daddy/little space,” I confirm.

“Kit is a Little,” Ni says quietly. “A deeply open, highly vulnerable one, when he actually feels safe enough to drop the armor. He used to have a Caregiver. Charles. They were together for a long time. Charles was the only person who could actually get Kit to downshift. He anchored him. When Kit was spinning out, Charles was the one who could strip the adrenaline away and force him to just breathe. We always respected him. Some of us don’t get the Little stuff, but all of us respect it. But now…”

I look back across the room. Kit is currently laughing loudly at something the man next to him has said, throwing his head back, his throat exposed. It is a beautiful, utterly flawless counterfeit of joy.

“They ended it,” I state.

“They burned it down,” Ni corrects, a heavy edge creeping into their voice. “It was a brutal cycle. They tore each other to pieces at the end. But the care Charles provided was real. It was the only time Kit ever fully let go of the handlebars. Now Charles is over there…”

Ni doesn’t point, but his gaze flicks toward the back corner.

“…with John. Charles is being a Daddy to someone else, and Kit is completely locked out of the only dynamic that ever made him feel soft. It’s messy as fuck.”

I shift my sightline, tracking past Kit’s frantic performance, and look directly into the Daddy/little corner. I see Charles instantly. He is a large, deeply grounded man, sitting on a low couch with an arm draped protectively around a younger man. The younger man is laughing, leaning completely into Charles’ chest. Charles is looking at him with warmth.

I look immediately back to Kit.

He cannot access his Little side without a Caregiver to hold the space for him, so he is aggressively overcompensating by welding the armor shut and turning the volume up to a deafening pitch.

“He’s drowning,” I say softly.

“He’s suffocating,” Ni agrees, picking at the label of their beer. “And he won’t let any of us help. Dex tries to logic him out of it. Sol tries to just sit with him. I try to distract him. But we aren’t Caregivers, Soren. We’re his ride-or-die, but we can’t give him the kind of anchor he actually needs. He just talks louder and rides faster so we can’t hear him breaking apart. Dex is the same age as him, but he’s much more mature. Kit is a danger to himself.”

I am a man who builds custom motorcycles from shattered, rusted frames. I understand the value of taking something that has been completely wrecked and meticulously, patiently rebuilding it from the ground up.

“I brought you here tonight for a reason, Soren,” Ni says. “I know you run a tight shop. I know you’re a Daddy who’s been looking for a Little who actually understands loyalty. And I know my friend is currently tearing himself apart because he thinks nobody is strong enough to hold him together.”

“You are a very subtle matchmaker, Ni,” I say dryly, though there is no heat in my voice.

“I’m a pragmatist,” Ni counters. “I see a broken chain, I find a master link.”

Before I can respond, the dynamic at the far end of the bar abruptly shifts.

Ni straightens and starts back toward the group. I go with him.

Kit slides his boot off the bottom rung of his barstool and lets his feet hit the floorboards. By the time we reach the others, I am standing only a few feet away.

I remain completely relaxed, leaning my lower back against the edge of the bar, my elbows resting comfortably on the wood behind me. I take up a significant amount of physical space on purpose.

I can see the exhaustion pulling at the corners of Kit’s eyes. He is completely unaware of my evaluation.

“Alright,” Kit says, his voice carrying easily over the room. “As much as I love educating you all on basic mechanics, I’ve got to head out.”

Dex pauses, his beer halfway to his mouth, raising an eyebrow. “Now? The night’s barely hitting its stride, Kit. King just got here.” He nods toward the owner of the club.

“I have an early morning,” Kit says. “Try not to miss me too much.”

“Yeah, yeah. Ride safe, idiot,” Ni says, waving him off.

Kit turns to leave.

But as he pivots, his frantic, sweeping gaze accidentally catches mine.

For a fraction of a second, the performance completely drops.

Our eyes lock. He is standing less than three feet away from me. Up close, his eyes look like brilliant, shattered glass. He looks directly into my face, and for one agonizing heartbeat, I know he does not see an audience member.

He sees a wall.