CHAPTER 4
ROBBIE
Not even Hew’s usual demanding shit was enough to distract me from what I’d discovered.
I prided myself on being a professional — which meant keeping my thoughts to myself and getting the job done.
But Hew’s attitude was tying me in knots.
Just when I thought I’d misjudged him and he was an okay bloke, he’d say or do something and I was back to thinking he was a complete and utter tosspot.
Plus, I was pretty sure he was running his own consultancy business during company time.
Yeah, so the guy had a few health issues, but that didn’t mean he needed to block off four hours each day as a “private appointment.” That wasn’t the only thing I didn’t approve of.
He also made business calls on his personal mobile, despite having a company phone with a data wipe feature.
But Hew didn’t want to use a device that was, in his words, “inferior” to his own.
What a fucking prick.
He wasn’t interested one bit in understanding the business or the culture. As far as he was concerned, they were buying his expertise — and the company needed to change to fit him, not the other way around. More than once, he’d said he wanted to “shake things up.”
Yeah, well — shaking things up in this company could be explosive. Or at least get you fired.
I could only hope it was the latter, because I was starting to really, really hate this job. Not just because of Hew, but because it was messing with my ability to write.
I’d been inspired when I worked with Claudia — writing and publishing a MM paranormal second-chance romance. Then, when she left, I wrote an urban fantasy where her departure became the catalyst for the character’s need to uncover a darker plot twist and take down a secret organisation.
But now? My well of inspiration was empty. My anxiety was increasing. And I was fast reaching a breaking point.
Something needed to give — and I very much suspected it was going to be me.
I hadn’t been sleeping well. My mind just wouldn’t switch off.
Reading before bed wasn’t helping, either.
I’d hoped staying up until my eyes grew tired would be enough to help me drop off.
But my brain was still running amok. Every time I thought I was drifting off, the image of those graphic photos would spring up, and I’d be back to thinking about that email address.
Had Dad contacted that bloke for a hookup? Hell, was it even called a hookup back then?
The date wasn’t lost on me — 2016. I’d been at Uni then, so I had no idea what Dad was doing when he wasn’t at work.
I’d shown Evan the photo I’d taken of the fuck list, and he just sat there with his mouth wide open like he was trying to catch flies. Like some human Venus flytrap.
“Well, fuck me,” Ev says when he finally found his voice. “You know, I always thought your dad was hot. I’d have let him fuck me for free!”
Those were not words I ever wanted to hear my best friend say.
Seriously, the image being painted in my head was...nope. Not going there. This is me screeching to a halt and turning my thoughts in another direction.
“God! I’m just saying. You don’t have to pull a hissy fit.” Ev rolled his eyes at me like I was the one being overdramatic.
Why was it that the thought of my dad having sex with some random bloke didn’t freak me out, but when Evan said he’d happily “bump uglies,” I was suddenly wondering where to find some brain bleach?
Fine. I’ll concede that my dad was a good-looking man for his age. And back in ’16, he was in his early forties — so that would’ve made it easier to find guys.
But there weren’t any dating apps back then. Just how had he found these men?
There wasn’t a gay bar around here. I’d checked. Google said the nearest one was over 35 miles away.
So that meant he was making contact another way.
Then the penny dropped.
Graffiti.
The last time I’d used the men’s toilets in the local pub, I noticed names and what looked like phone numbers written on the back of the cubicle door. Along with a load of other shit — drawings of dicks and smutty jokes.
That had to be where he’d found those guys’ contact details.
Hmm. Maybe I need to look at his mobile and see if there are any apps or other contacts on there. You know, just to double-check.
Was I acting like a dog with a bone with this? Should I let sleeping dogs lie?
Did I have to know whether my dad was completely straight?
Who the hell was I to judge?
Was I pulling him out of the closet and disrespecting his privacy?
Maybe.
Why?
Because...
Because what?
Because I was curious? Because I wanted to understand him better?
Why, though? Why do you need to understand him better?
He was your father. He loved you. Cared for you. You looked up to him.
Isn’t it enough to know that he loved you?
It should be. But it’s not.
Why not?
Because...better understanding him helps me better understand myself.
There it is. The real reason why you keep pulling on the thread — rather than the excuse you’ve been hiding behind.
What excuse is that?
The one that says you aren’t gay. That you’ve just been too busy to date.
When the real reason is that you’re attracted to men. Just like he was.
Arguing with myself wasn’t helping.
I wasn’t sure I was ready to admit that my inner voice might be right — that I was using Dad as an excuse to explore.
I just wasn’t ready yet.
But unlike my father, I wasn’t going to hide behind a mask forever.
I was my father’s son. I had his bloody-mindedness, as he called it. His strengths. His weaknesses.
Only I would learn from his mistakes and not let history repeat itself.
There was no way I was staying in the closet.
I’d come out of the shadows when I was ready.
Until then, I was going to walk in my dad’s footsteps — and see where they led.