In Good Spirits (DKAG Christmas Daddies)

1. Evan

CHAPTER 1

Evan

I don’t know why I thought this was a good idea. Because apparently, nowhere is safe from Christmas in December, not even sex clubs in Soho.

I sigh and toy with my glass of red wine, watching a couple of gorgeous men in nothing but red thongs and reindeer antlers doing an impressive routine on the poles to a perky festive pop song about baubles shaking under the tree.

It’s December first. I really thought I’d be safe for a few more days.

If I wasn’t such a miserable grump, their routine would probably have been very arousing. But all I can think about is heading back out into the darkness of London and trudging my way to my empty house. At least it would be quiet there.

Too quiet.

It’s a familiar routine. The grief wells up in me, so I forcefully swallow it down. Preferably with a mouthful of rich, warm merlot, like I do now.

The dancers finish their display and take a bow as the watching crowd applauds. I’ve got myself one of the small round cabaret tables that’s set around the sunken dance floor where people have been standing. It means I and any other seated patrons can still see the stage. That act was apparently the last one for the moment, however, as the lighting has changed and the music cranked up. I look around as the throng of mostly younger men below begin to thrust and gyrate to the new song.

I say ‘young’ like I’m old. I’m not even fifty yet, and not a bad catch, or so it seems. I can usually rely on Bootleg for a quick and easy hookup when the mood takes me. I’ve still got it in me to be the bossy older guy for an evening or even a whole night.

But once the morning comes, it’s always over. In daylight, boys don’t just want sex.

They want a Daddy.

And I can’t do that. Not ever again.

My glass is empty. Nothing left to help me swallow down the crushing sorrow. The lights and the music are too much, as is the cotton wool fake snow and colourful tinsel that’s been draped everywhere. It was foolish to think that maybe this year, things would be different. Or that somebody would be dazzling enough to distract me.

I haven’t even had the enthusiasm for an anonymous quickie in forever. I doubt I’m going to want anything until the new year now, when life returns to ‘normal’. Whatever that means.

Christmas is everywhere, and that means Beau is everywhere…and yet, cruelly, nowhere. My heart can’t take it. Perhaps exposure therapy will work next year. But for now, I plan on sticking with what’s protected me for the last several years.

Keep my head down until January. Start fresh, start anew, keep going, keep living. It’s what he would have wanted. Not that I got a chance to ask. But it’s what I need to survive.

I’m not hungry, but I promise myself if I leave now and make the half hour walk back to Russell Square, I can place an order with the Indian restaurant nearby that I adore and pick it up en route. That and another glass or two of red wine should be enough to salvage my Friday night. At the very least, stop it from tumbling into utter despair.

Decision made, I rise from my table, already seeing a couple of different parties eyeing it up, ready to pounce. I wish whoever gets it the best of luck, and that they all have better evenings than me.

Now I have dinner plans with myself, I don’t feel so hopeless. I’m reading quite a good spy novel at the moment, and that along with a long walk in Regent’s Park don’t sound like such bad weekend plans. At least I should be able to avoid most of the trappings of the season.

I stand and pluck my heavy woollen coat from the back of the chair I just vacated. As a lot of the patrons here enjoy wearing very little at all (and I often enjoy that on them, too) the heating is always turned up. But once I step out into the London night air, I’m going to need the extra layer.

Draping my coat over my elbow, I don’t bother to look over my shoulder and see who manages to grab my table. May the best men win. But I do catch the bartender’s eye as I walk past, giving him a nod. He’s the owner’s boyfriend—or kitten, I guess I should say. He’s usually wearing thigh-high boots, a jock strap, fluffy tail attached to a butt plug, ears and a collar. Tonight, like most of the staff, he’s also got a Santa hat on his head, although he has cat ears attached on either side of his, like they’re poking through the material.

I expect him to nod back and continue serving drinks. Instead, his eyebrows rise, and he looks over to one of the booths. I follow his gaze to see the owner, Miller, who gives me a look of recognition before smiling and waving me over. He took over the place a couple of years ago and really poured his heart and soul into it. Before, there were a lot of safety concerns for the dancers, or so I’ve been told. I was in a constant haze of booze and drugs in those days, trying to drown my fresh grief, so it’s all a bit of a blur.

But Miller is a good chap. In the bad old days, this place was famed for its anonymity with seedy types skulking around in the shadows. Now, he’s made it more of a community, a safe haven for kinksters and queers. I wouldn’t say the two of us are friends. But then again by this point I’ve pushed all my actual friends away, so I appreciate that he’s at least friend ly with me.

“Heading out?” he asks as I approach. He’s got his laptop open on the table, but he also has a cocktail, so I hope he’s not working too hard on the Friday night.

I nod and look absently around. “Yeah…Christmas isn’t really my vibe.”

He blinks in surprise. “Oh, I’m sorry to hear that. I know it’s not for everyone. I hope you’re excited about tomorrow at least?”

Something cold ripples through my chest. “Tomorrow?” I’m drawing a blank.

As far as I’m concerned, I don’t have any plans for the whole month. I know my niece will try and entice me over for some sort of gathering as she frets about me becoming a ‘lonely old git’. Too late for that, Freddie, I fear. But even though I always make excuses, it’s nice that she tries every year regardless.

But what on earth could Miller be talking about?

“Uh-huh,” he says slowly. “Tomorrow.” Unfortunately, he’s looking as apprehensive as I’m feeling. This doesn’t bode well. “The Secret Santa Daddy/little Dates? We matched you with Christian Prior and he’s very excited, but then he mentioned you hadn’t replied to any of his messages.”

I feel my world tilt slightly on its axis. “Messages?” I repeat faintly.

As far as I’m aware, I’ve never met this young man, and I certainly haven’t heard anything about whatever this blind date thing is.

Miller licks his lips. I feel bad and he’s clearly concerned, but I have no earthly idea what he’s talking about. I certainly haven’t gone anywhere near the daycare room where the littles hang out since they created it. My heart wouldn’t be able to take it.

“Yeah, we set up a special section of the website for certain holidays,” he explains as he starts clicking and tapping on his laptop before spinning it around so I can see. “There’s a messaging service as part of it. We’re trying to match people up with various kinks on a more local scale than the big apps and stuff. It’s okay if you didn’t get the messages. Tian gave me his number to pass onto you as he figured something might be up.”

Now he’s got his phone out and he’s scribbling digits on the back of a cardboard Bootleg branded coaster. My head is spinning, and my palms are sweating. “I didn’t sign up for anything,” I manage to utter. The red wine is churning in my stomach. A date? With a little? Just the thought of it is making all that grief claw up my throat again.

Miller holds out the coaster and gives me a questioning look. “Uhh…well someone else did in that case. I’ve personally gone through all the matches with a great deal of care. Your profile is quite detailed, and I think you and Tian could have a lovely time. Don’t worry! Like I said, it’s supposed to be tomorrow, so it’s not too late. It doesn’t have to be anything fancy.”

I realise he’s still offering me the coaster with the phone number on, and I truly think I’m going to be sick. “I’m s-so sorry,” I manage to stammer. “No, I can’t. I just…there’s been a mistake. I’m not…this isn’t…I…”

Tears are burning in my eyes as I look around at the garlands of tinsel all around the club and the stars and baubles hanging from the ceiling. I can’t do Christmas. I can’t be anyone’s Daddy. I certainly can’t go on a date at Christmas with a little who…who…

A little who isn’t my Beau.

Miller drops his arm slightly. He’s not angry, but I see pity in his eyes, and that’s somehow worse. “I’m sorry,” he says genuinely. “I can see there has been some sort of misunderstanding. I’ll tell Christian that you’ve had to cancel.”

He goes to pocket the coaster in his shirt, but I find myself thrusting my hand out almost unconsciously. “No,” I say firmly. “I’ll do it.”

I might be broken, but I’m not a coward. It’s not this young man’s fault this fuck-up happened. The decent thing to do is apologise myself. But there’s no way I could possibly fathom going on a last-minute date tomorrow…

Before I can get too overwhelmed, I take a deep breath and do my best not to blink. Otherwise, the tears might fall. Miller presses the coaster into my hand with a sympathetic look.

“You sure?” he asks.

I manage a stiff nod. “Course. Perhaps there’s someone else that can take him out, though?”

Miller doesn’t exactly grimace, but his mouth does pull to one side. “Perhaps.”

That means ‘no’ then. He said he personally worked hard on matchmaking everyone. Now, because of me, this Christian boy is going to be let down.

But that’s not my fault. “You wouldn’t happen to know who did put me up for this?” I ask, slipping the coaster into my trouser pocket.

Miller frowns and turns his laptop back around. “Let me check the email address and see if that can’t shed some light on the matter for you.” He’s quiet for a few moments then lets out a groan I can barely hear over the music. “I should have looked more closely,” he says apologetically. “Lots of people have emails that aren’t their names, but this looks like someone else’s name entirely. Do you know a Marlon Lee?”

I can’t stop the sharp intake of breath that catches me out. I haven’t heard that name for a couple of years now. Back in the early days of my grief, I would have called him my best friend. We probably drank and slept our way across London several times over before we naturally drifted apart. I can’t even remember why now. I guess my mourning eventually took me in a different direction to him. He was always just out for the best time and didn’t care about breaking hearts in the process.

“Marlon signed me up?” I ask incredulously.

“It looks that way,” Miller says with a shrug. But then he rubs his chin and scowls at his computer screen. “I think we’re going to have to redesign this if we do it again next year. I didn’t foresee the system being misused in this way. I’m so sorry.”

I shake out my coat and put it on, the movements helping distract me from my emotions. “It’s fine, really,” I say gruffly. If I wasn’t such an arse, there wouldn’t be a problem. “I’ll fix it.”

Miller lifts his eyebrows. “Yeah.”

“Yeah,” I grunt. I give him a nod, then turn towards the exit.

I’m not sure how I’ll do that, but I do know that I’ll be texting two different numbers tonight and getting to the bottom of this.

“Bloody Christmas,” I mutter to myself. “Who needs it?”