Chapter Four
Dylan awoke with a start.
His sleep had been restful. Too restful, in fact. Shouldn’t he had experienced nightmares? That was a traumatic event yesterday! How could he just sleep so soundly? How could he sleep like a…
Baby.
He groaned as he heard the diaper rustle with his movements. The padded warmth felt good, but that feeling of comfort quickly wore off. Now, he felt a wave of shame and guilt wash over him.
Every time he gave in and went to Little Space, he swore it would be the last time. Yet he was always drawn back to it.
Stop it, Dylan! You’re a cop! A veteran! A warrior. You’re not supposed to crave this crap! You can’t just run to your pacifier and diapers every time you have a hard day.
But he knew what had occurred yesterday was more than a hard day. He could have died. What’s worse, others could have died.
The smell of breakfast sizzling atop the stove stirred hunger within him. But it faded, being replaced by panic, as he heard Teagan approaching the bedroom.
Crap!
He had to get out of that diaper.
True, she’d seen him like that plenty of times before. She was the one who’d put him in it last night, after all.
But now that he felt so guilty and ashamed…well, he couldn’t stand the thought of her seeing him in it.
He padded swiftly into the bathroom, across its length, and to the attached walk-in closet. He fumbled through the built-in chest of drawers until he found a pair of gray boxer-briefs. He didn’t bother unfastening the tapes on the diaper, instead just shimmying out of the garment. He was in such a hurry that he nearly stumbled as he tried to get his right foot through the leg holes of his underwear—his big boy underwear—but he managed to stay upright. He’d just pulled the boxer-briefs up when Teagan walked in, wearing a smile.
Gosh, she looked so beautiful. As always.
Her light brown hair was pulled back. She hadn’t put her makeup on yet. She still wore her sleep shorts and favorite t-shirt. But even still, she was the most gorgeous woman on earth.
She didn’t need makeup, as far as Dylan was concerned.
“You changed,” she noted.
“Yeah,” he said.
He hated that the diaper was even laying there on the floor between them.
Why was he so embarrassed? She knew he was a Little. She was used to his diapers. Was he really going to go through this regimen of shame once again?
“I figured I needed to get ready for the day,” he said.
“You sure you don’t want to wear—”
“I’m sure,” he said.
He hoped he hadn’t snapped at her. He hadn’t meant to. The thought of doing so made him want to cry.
Everything made him want to cry today. He could feel the pressure behind his eyes.
Just more weakness. Goodness, Dylan. Get your shit together. Now!
“I made breakfast,” she said with a soft, reassuring smile.
“Sounds great,” he said. “I need some good food and strong coffee.”
That’s right. Strong coffee. That’s what men drink. Maybe add a shot bourbon to it. That’ll really show her how manly you are.
He bent down, grabbed the diaper, and threw it in his drawer as he pulled out a pair of shorts. He’d worry about the discarded nappy later. But right then, hiding it seemed like his only course of action. For some reason, he didn’t want Teagan touching the thing.
Out of sight, out of mind. For now.
He slipped into his shorts and followed her back into the bedroom on their way to the kitchen. He stopped when he spotted his phone lighting up atop the nightstand. He grabbed it and winced.
“Oh man. The captain wants to see me.”
“On your day off?” Teagan said.
He sighed, nodded, and turned back toward the closet to get dressed.
Breakfast would just have to wait.
***
Of all the things Dylan hated most about the police station, it was the smell.
It was a mixture of stale coffee, body odor, urine, and cleaning chemicals. That urine stench came courtesy of the holding cells, and specifically, the “drunk tank.” Even though it was behind a locked door, that odor still managed to work its way through the rest of the building. It was faint in some parts, but it was there.
Dylan said hello to a few guys after stepping through the back employee entrance and walked through the bull pin where eight desks were arranged.
He said, “Hey,” to a few detectives. He nodded a greeting to two uniformed officers who were carrying their shotguns, having just checked them out and ready to load them into their cruisers.
On his way, he silently reminded himself that he was in fact not wearing a diaper beneath his jeans.
He had a reoccurring nightmare that he showed up to the station dressed as a Little and all his fellow brothers and sisters in blue laughed hysterically upon learning his secret.
So, every time he showed up to work—but especially after a night of Little Space—he consciously made sure that he was indeed wearing “big boy” clothes.
He arrived at the captain’s office. Thanks to the copious amounts of glass that made up the upper half of the walls, he could see that no one else was in there. He knocked on the window. The captain looked up from his paperwork and waved him in.
“Have a seat,” Captain King said.
Captain Kevin King had been around the block a time or two during his thirty-year career on the force. And he had the heavy, tired eyes to show for it. He could retire anytime he wanted, but Dylan suspected he stayed around because he owed alimony to his second ex-wife until she remarried. She was dating, he’d heard, but no proposals yet.
Dylan eased into one of the two visitors’ chairs in front of the bland, government-issued desk.
Man, he was sore from yesterday. Running, jumping fences, and tackling guys will do that to you. It was worse than playing football back in high school and college. Of course, he’d been a lot younger back in those days, too.
The captain’s old, beat-up desk was cluttered with file folders and papers. His equally old, equally beat-up office chair squeaked as he leaned back. It was evident from the somber look on his face that he had bad news to deliver. But first, he said, “How you holding up?”
“I’m good,” Dylan said, waving off the notion that he wouldn’t be.
“You sure? That was a big deal.”
“It was just a little scuffle.”
The captain cleared his throat and continued to appraise him. Finally, he set his chair straight and leveled a pointed yet understanding stare across the desk.
“The review board is taking a look at this thing. You know what that means. You’re on leave as of this morning.”
“What? Captain!” Dylan said.
The senior officer held up a hand to curtail any further protest. “It’s out of my hands. But…I agree with them. They need to take a look, son.”
“I didn’t even fire my gun!” Dylan said.
“Exactly,” the captain said, leaning back once again. “That’s the problem. You had a near hostage situation, and you chose not to shoot. We need to review this.”
It was at that moment that it hit Dylan.
“You want to make sure I have what it takes to do the job,” Dylan said.
“It’s not about that,” Captain King said. “Son, this line of work gets to us all. Look at me. I have three grown kids who barely talk to me and two ex-wives. The only friends I have are cops and I don’t even like half of ‘em. I check my pension and investment accounts three times a day—once at breakfast, at lunch, then again at dinner—seeing if I can afford to retire yet, doing the math and crunching the numbers, praying to God there’s some way I can make it work. The moral of this story: don’t end up like me.”
Dylan was confused for a moment. Finally, he said, “So I should quit?”
“I’m not saying that,” the captain said. He took a sip of coffee and cringed a little.
Dylan didn’t know if it was from the fact that it was cheap and disgusting, cold, or a little bit of both.
The captain leaned back and said, “Think of this as paid vacation.”
“I’m suspended?”
“You’re on leave. There’s a big difference.” A few beats of silence ticked by before he said, “ Paid leave, I might add.”
“But Captain, I didn’t shoot anyone! I thought the review board only looks at things to see if a shooting is justified.”
“This time, they’re looking at this to make sure you shouldn’t have shot someone.”
Dylan rubbed the back of his neck and stared up at the ceiling. He could feel tension radiating in his shoulder blades.
Damn.
“Do I need my union rep?” he said.
“No one’s talking about firing you. Or disciplinary action. Just maybe some more training.”
“So I get busted back to the academy?”
Captain King shook his head. “It’s not like that. Just some training to ensure you don’t…hesitate…in the future.” A caring expression shaded his eyes as he said, his tone more sensitive, “Dylan, I don’t want to attend your funeral. And none of us want to attend the funeral of a civilian. Do you understand?”
Dylan nodded.
He did understand. He understood that he’d messed up. He was weak. He didn’t have what it took to be out there on the streets, keeping people safe.
He understood just fine.
“Am I free to go?” he grumbled.
King nodded.
Once Dylan had stood, the captain said, “Hey, think of this as a good thing, kid. Next week is Thanksgiving. You won’t be out there busting your ass. Enjoy a nice turkey dinner with your family. Take this time to recharge. This crap will blow over. You’ll come back in a week or so feeling great.”
Dylan nodded and walked out.
He sure didn’t feel great now.