Chapter Thirteen
Kyle
New Mexico
The hotel was nicer than anything Kyle had stayed in for a long time—soft lighting, thick carpet, a bed big enough for him to actually stretch out.
After the long hike, his legs were pleasantly tired.
He dropped onto the bed while Daddy Benson disappeared into the shower, humming some tune under the rush of water.
Kyle pulled out his phone blindly, just checking the time, and froze.
Three new texts lit up the screen, each from a different number. No names. No emojis. Just words that punched straight into his gut.
Unknown caller: We know where you are.
Unknown caller: You’re coming back.
Unknown caller: Mr. Greco wants his money.
His chest tightened. He scrolled back up, staring at them like maybe they’d vanish if he looked long enough. They didn’t. It didn’t matter that the numbers weren’t saved—he knew the kind of people who could make those promises real.
For a second, he wasn’t in the warm hotel anymore—he was back in that office in New York, hearing his boss’s voice, smelling stale cigar smoke. He’d taken that cash thinking it would buy him an escape. Now it felt like it had bought him a target on his back.
He set the phone down, but his hands wouldn’t stop shaking. He reached for the teddy bear Daddy Benson had given him as an early Christmas gift and pulled it close, pressing his face into the worn fabric. It was something solid, and right now he needed that.
The bathroom door opened, steam spilling out with Daddy Benson, hair damp, and a towel around his neck. “Hey—” His voice broke off when he saw Kyle curled on the bed, clutching the bear.
Daddy Benson crossed the room in a few strides and sat beside him. “What’s going on?” His hand was already on Kyle’s shoulder, steady and warm.
Kyle tried to swallow it down, but the words came out rough.
“Some guys are after me.” He didn’t look up.
“I…I took money from my boss in New York. From his desk. I thought I was getting away clean, but…” He gestured toward the phone like it might explain everything.
“Three messages. Different numbers. All saying the same thing—they know where I am. I’m gonna be taken back to face Mr. Greco. ”
Daddy Benson didn’t flinch. He just slid his arm around Kyle and pulled him in, chest firm against him. “Hey. Look at me.”
Kyle hesitated, then met his eyes.
“They’re not getting near you,” Daddy Benson said, voice low, no hesitation. “I don’t care who they are—you’re with me now. Nobody lays a hand on you.”
Something in Kyle’s chest loosened just a little at the way Daddy Benson said it, like it was already decided. But fear still prickled sharply under his skin. “You don’t know them. They don’t bluff.”
“I’m not bluffing either,” Daddy Benson said. He squeezed his shoulder. “We’ll figure this out. Together.”
Kyle let out a shaky breath, leaning into him, the smell of soap and hotel shampoo filling his head. For the first time since he’d read those messages, the panic eased enough for him to hear his own heartbeat again.
The thin slice of sunlight sliding past the blackout curtains woke him before the alarm.
For a moment, Kyle forgot where he was—just the soft sheets, the faint noise of cars moving outside, the warm weight of Daddy Benson’s arm draped over his waist. Then the memory of last night hit, sharp as glass.
His phone sat on the nightstand, dark and silent. He didn’t touch it. Didn’t need to. The words from those three messages were burned into his brain.
Daddy Benson stirred, his breath warm against the back of Kyle’s neck. “You’re awake,” he murmured, voice still rough with sleep.
Kyle made a small sound that wasn’t quite an answer.
Daddy Benson rolled onto his back, stretching, then looked over at him. “You didn’t sleep much, did you?” Not a question—more like he’d been keeping track even with his eyes closed.
Kyle shrugged, but the tension in his shoulders gave him away. “Just…kept thinking about last night.”
Daddy Benson sat up, the mattress dipping under his weight. “Then let’s stop thinking and start planning.”
Kyle turned toward him, the cotton sheet twisted around his legs. “Planning what?”
“Keeping you safe,” Daddy Benson said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. He ran a hand through his damp-from-sleep hair. “We change the plan. New routes. No patterns. We keep moving.”
Kyle’s instinct was to protest—tell him it wasn’t worth the trouble, that Greco’s guys weren’t the kind to give up. But the steady, unshakable way Daddy Benson looked at him made the words die in his throat.
“They’re not ghosts, Kyle,” Daddy Benson said. “They can be avoided. Outpaced. Outsmarted.”
Kyle tried to believe it. He wanted to. But the image of shadowed doorways and unseen eyes clung to him. “They have people everywhere in New York,” he whispered. “If they want me bad enough—”
“They’ll have to go through me first.” Daddy Benson’s hand covered his, firm and grounding. “And they won’t win.”
Kyle let out a slow breath, some of the night’s tightness loosening in his chest. Maybe Daddy Benson couldn’t promise forever. But in this room, in this moment, he felt almost untouchable.
They left the hotel around midmorning, the lobby coffee still steaming in their hands. To anyone watching, they looked like two guys on a road trip—no rush, no worries. But Kyle kept glancing at every reflection they passed, scanning for faces that might be looking too long.
Daddy Benson didn’t call him out on it, but Kyle noticed the way he subtly checked the street before they stepped outside. It wasn’t just protective—it was calculated. Controlled. That alone made Kyle’s pulse slow a notch.
They wandered through the small downtown first, ducking into a shop selling handmade blankets and turquoise jewelry.
Kyle tried to focus on the normalcy: the faint smell of cedar from the shelves, the soft hum of some old country song playing low.
But his mind kept looping back to those three texts.
Daddy Benson touched his elbow lightly. “Which one do you like?” he asked, nodding at a row of Navajo-patterned throw blankets.
Kyle shrugged, but it came out sharper than he intended. “Not really thinking about blankets.”
Daddy Benson just nodded, didn’t push. But a minute later, Kyle noticed him pick two up and toss them on the counter anyway, like he was building small pockets of warmth they could carry with them. They stopped to put them into the truck, then continued to walk.
They grabbed lunch at a quiet diner near the edge of town. While they ate their burgers, Daddy Benson steered the conversation toward completely ordinary things—gas prices, a random truck he’d seen on the highway, how the coffee here actually tasted like coffee instead of a burned tire.
It was all deliberate. Kyle knew it. Every topic, every easy laugh was Daddy Benson keeping the weight off his shoulders, even for a few minutes at a time.
When they headed back toward the hotel in the late afternoon, Kyle realized his neck and shoulders didn’t feel as rigid.
He was still scared—he wasn’t stupid—but the edge wasn’t as sharp.
Not with Daddy Benson walking just a half-step closer to the street side, like he could physically keep trouble from getting near.
Daddy Benson set the blankets down. “We keep moving tomorrow,” he said. “Different route, different towns. They can’t hit what they can’t lock onto.”
Kyle nodded, swallowing hard. “I just…I don’t want to drag you into this.”
Daddy Benson gave a short laugh. “You think you’re dragging me? Kyle, I chose this. I chose you.”
And just like that, some of the cold in his chest thawed. It wasn’t gone—not yet—but for the first time since those messages came in, he let himself believe maybe this road still had more ahead than behind.
The motel was quiet in an uneasy way—like the air itself was waiting for something to happen.
They’d both moved around the room in practiced silence: Daddy Benson checking the locks twice, Kyle half-distracted as he set the blankets on the chair and sat up in the bed with his teddy bear.
He didn’t understand why the teddy bear comforted him, but it did.
The TV was on, volume low, with some comedy laugh track spilling into the space.
Kyle leaned back against the headboard, phone in hand, eyes skimming news headlines without really reading them.
That’s when it came—a faint scrape, like rubber soles shifting on the concrete walkway outside their door.
Daddy Benson was on his feet instantly. No startle, no wasted motion. Just a smooth, quiet shift from relaxed to alert, eyes on the door. He lifted a hand—wait—and crossed to the light switch, flipping it off so the room slipped into shadow.
Kyle’s pulse spiked. The scraping came again. Whoever it was didn’t knock. Didn’t speak.
Daddy Benson eased closer to the window, keeping to the side where no one could see in. A quick glance through the gap in the curtains, then he stepped back, his jaw tight. “Not a guest,” he murmured.
Every nerve in Kyle’s body lit up. “How do you know?”
“Guests don’t hang around a door they don’t knock on.”
He moved toward the small nightstand, pulled open the drawer, and closed it just as quietly. Kyle didn’t know what he’d checked for—maybe nothing—but there was an unmistakable readiness in the way Daddy Benson stood now.
The footsteps shifted direction, fading down the walkway. Only when they were gone did Daddy Benson flip the light back on, his shoulders easing by degrees.
“You’re good,” he said without looking at Kyle. “Just some idiot who picked the wrong spot to loiter.”
But Kyle could see it in the lines of his face—Daddy Benson didn’t believe his own reassurance. And maybe that was why Kyle did. Because Daddy Benson didn’t sugarcoat. If he said they were fine for now, they were.
Still, Kyle knew sleep wouldn’t come easily tonight. Not with that scrape echoing in his head, and the shadow of someone lingering just outside their thin motel door. Daddy Benson wrapped his arms around Kyle.
“You’re safe in my arms.”