Benson (A Daddy for Christmas 3)

Chapter One

Kyle

New York City

The bass thumped through the floor like a second heartbeat, vibrating up through Kyle’s soles as he hit his final pose.

One arm raised, chest heaving, sweat glistening on his collarbone under the strobe lights.

The crowd roared, which were mostly men, a few women scattered in the mix, all of them lit up by the pulsing glow of red and violet.

Some clapped. Some whistled. A few just stared, eyes glassy with lust or envy or both.

Kyle held the pose a second longer than usual, letting the music fade out behind him.

Then he turned and walked offstage, his breath catching in the thick, humid air of the club.

The Velvet Room was always loud, hot, and a little too desperate.

The walls were lined with mirrors and velvet curtains that had seen better decades.

The bar was sticky, the drinks overpriced, and the clientele ranged from Wall Street creeps to tourists who thought they were being edgy.

But it paid. Barely.

He passed the other dancers in the wings, some stretching, some fixing their makeup, one guy already halfway into a leather harness, and made his way toward the dressing room. He was halfway there when he heard it.

“Foster. Office. Now.”

Kyle froze. Mr. Greco’s voice cut through the music like a blade. Sharp. Cold. No room for questions.

Kyle turned slowly. “Everything okay?”

Mr. Greco didn’t answer. Just jerked his head toward the back hallway.

Kyle’s stomach dropped. He hadn’t missed a shift. Hadn’t shown up drunk. Hadn’t even talked back lately. Still, something in Mr. Greco’s tone made his skin crawl.

The office was tucked behind the storage closet, past the busted soda machine and the mop bucket that always smelled like bleach and regret. Kyle stepped inside, heart thudding.

Mr. Greco was already behind the desk, sleeves rolled up, tie loose. He was a big guy with broad shoulders, slicked-back hair, and a face that looked like it had been carved out of concrete. He didn’t look up right away. Just tapped a pen against the desk like a ticking clock.

“Sit your ass down!” Mr. Greco ordered.

Kyle sat stiffly in the cracked vinyl chair across the desk, trying not to bounce his knee.

The office smelled like stale cologne and old paperwork, and the overhead light buzzed just enough to make his skin itch.

He hated this room. Everyone did. Nothing good ever happened here.

If you got called into the boss’s office, it meant one of three things: you were in trouble; you were about to be in trouble, or you were about to get fired.

Kyle had no idea which one it was, but none of them sounded great.

He kept his eyes on the edge of the desk, tracing the chipped wood with his gaze.

His palms were sweaty. His heart thudded in his chest like it was trying to punch its way out.

He ran through a mental checklist: he hadn’t been late, hadn’t mouthed off, hadn’t skipped a set.

He’d even stayed late last week to help clean up after that bachelorette party disaster. What the hell was this, then?

Mr. Greco hadn’t said a word since Kyle walked in. Just sat behind the desk, flipping through a folder like he was reviewing someone’s tax fraud case. The silence stretched, thick and heavy, and Kyle could feel it pressing down on him.

He hated how small he felt here. Like he was twelve again, waiting outside the principal’s office after getting caught sneaking out of the gym. Only this time, it wasn’t detention on the line. It was rent. Groceries. Heat.

He needed this job. As much as he sometimes hated the club. The noise was too loud. The way some regulars looked at him like he was a walking fantasy they could buy. There wasn’t a backup plan. There wasn’t a safety net.

Kyle swallowed hard, trying to keep his voice steady. “Is something wrong with my dancing?”

Mr. Greco didn’t look up. Just kept flipping pages, slow and deliberate, like he was enjoying the suspense.

Kyle’s stomach twisted. He could feel the sweat at the back of his neck, cold and clammy. He wanted to stand up, to walk out, to say screw it, but he couldn’t. Not yet. Not until he knew what this was.

Because deep down, he already had a feeling.

And it wasn’t good.

Mr. Greco looked up. “Don’t you know why you’re here?”

“No,” Kyle said, though his voice trembled.

Mr. Greco leaned forward. “You’re not pulling your damn weight.”

Kyle blinked. “I just finished a set. The crowd…”

“I’m not talking about the stage,” Mr. Greco snapped. “I’m talking about the private rooms. After hours. You’ve been dodging them.”

“You want me to grind on some sixty-year-old in a Santa hat for tips? Pass.”

“Yes, it’s part of your fucking job especially during Christmas season.” Mr. Greco’s dark eyes blazed with furious anger; his pupils narrowed to slits.

Kyle’s jaw tightened. “I’m a dancer. I dance on the stage. That’s the job you hired me for.”

“You don’t define your job. I do,” he shouted. “Do you think those guys come here just to watch you twirl around under a disco ball? They want more. They pay more. And you’ve been saying no.”

“Yeah,” Kyle said, heat rising in his chest. “Because I don’t let people touch me.

That’s not what I signed up for.” A wave of flaming fury washed over him as Mr. Greco outlined the change to his job description; the injustice of it all left a bitter taste in his mouth.

He would never comply with that old man’s gruff and unreasonable humiliating demands.

The way Mr. Greco looked at him made him uneasy.

Mr. Greco slammed his hand on the desk. “Then maybe this isn’t the place for you.”

Kyle stared at him, his expression unreadable. “You’re firing me?”

“I’m giving you a choice,” Mr. Greco growled. “Start working the private rooms tonight. Or get the hell out.” He stood rigid, his posture radiating an unspoken command, a silent order that tolerated no refusal.

Kyle stood and didn’t even hesitate. “Then I’m out.”

Mr. Greco stood, face red. “You ungrateful little fuck!”

But Kyle was already walking out the door, down the hall, past the mop bucket and the busted soda machine. His hands were shaking. His throat burned. He needed the money. God, he needed it, but not like that. Not at the cost of himself.

He reached the dressing room, changed his clothes, grabbed his bag, then paused.

Screw it.

He turned back, slipped into the office while Mr. Greco was out front yelling at someone.

The drawer wasn’t even locked. Kyle yanked it open, heart pounding, and there it was: a fat stack of cash, probably the night’s take.

He didn’t count it. Just shoved it into his leather jacket pocket and walked out like nothing happened.

The cold hit him like a slap when he stepped outside. But this time, it didn’t sting as much until he heard the police sirens. Were they coming for him? He quickened his pace, head down, the rhythmic thud of his boots on the pavement a steady drumbeat. Don’t let them get me. Run faster.

He was done dancing for other people’s rules.

And he wasn’t looking back.

Now he was running faster in the cold to keep warm and to ward off the police cars. He didn’t have a plan, just a direction. West. Anywhere but here.

By the time he reached his shoebox apartment his fingers were numb and stiff, barely able to bend.

The radiator hissed and clanked, offering little warmth against the icy wind that seeped through the cracks in his windows.

He didn’t bother turning on the lights. Just grabbed his old backpack from the closet, stuffed it with the essentials: jeans, a couple of shirts, toothbrush, charger, the photo of his mom from when she was a Radio City Rockette.

He clutched the single photograph, the only image he had of her, her youthful face smiling up at him.

Her long auburn hair cascaded down her back, a stark contrast to the piercing blue eyes she shared with Kyle.

Her eyes sparkled like shooting stars. He placed the photo in his bag, zipped it up, and slung it over his shoulder.

He paused at the door. Looked around the tiny room. The cracked mirror. The scuffed floor. The window that never quite closed all the way.

“Good riddance,” he muttered.

Outside, the snow was falling harder. He walked to the edge of the highway, thumb out, breath fogging the air.

Most cars didn’t stop. A few slowed, then sped off.

Finally, an SUV pulled over. The driver was a woman in her forties with a cigarette dangling from her lips and a cute furry dog in the back seat.

“Where you headed?” she asked.

“California,” Kyle said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

She raised an eyebrow. “You got a death wish or just bad timing?”

“Little of both.”

She shrugged. “Hop in.”

As the SUV rumbled westward, Kyle leaned his head against the cold window. His stomach twisted, not from fear, but from the weight of everything he was leaving behind. The city. The club. The rules. The shame.

He didn’t know what was waiting for him in California. But it had to be better than this.

Right?

She dropped him off at a gas station in the middle of the night. He stepped inside and bought some snacks and coffee. Now he needed another ride. He couldn’t stay at the gas station until morning.