Chapter 4. Soren
Ni is waiting near the entrance of Redline MC when I get off my bike. He’s wearing their leather Redline MC cut. He pushes off the wall as I approach, offering a nod.
“Glad you made it,” Ni says.
“I said I would,” I reply.
The moment I step over the threshold and the heavy door swings shut behind me, I notice how impressive the place is.
It smells like whiskey and leather. The building is a massive converted industrial warehouse, and the club has not made a single attempt to hide the raw, foundational bones of the structure.
The exposed brick walls are rough, permanently stained dark in places from decades of exhaust fumes and tobacco smoke.
Mismatched barstools line a wooden counter, surrounded by couches and even some beanbags.
Overhead, low pendant lights cast tight pools of warm light.
There is also BDSM gear. Spanking benches, St. Andrew’s crosses, a large cage.
Ni moves deeper into the room, and I follow him. We reach a cluster of people near the corner.
“King,” Ni says, looking directly at a massive, heavily built man leaning casually against the counter. He has a thick beard and eyes so dark I can barely distinguish the pupils. “This is Soren. Soren, King. He owns the club.”
King pushes off the bar. He’s wearing a tight white shirt that shows off his muscular arms. He extends a hand. I take it immediately.
“Ni says you run Halverson Moto,” King says. “Nice to meet you.”
“I do,” I reply. “Mostly custom fabrication, engine tuning, and vintage restorations. Nice to meet you too.”
King smiles. “I’ve heard about it. I hope you have fun tonight.”
“Thank you,” I say.
“Anya,” Ni continues, gesturing to a woman standing next to King. Anya has red hair, and she waves at us, smiling, but quickly turns her attention back to the other women she’s talking and laughing with.
“Dex and Sol,” Ni finishes, pointing to two figures leaning over a nearby table.
“Hey,” they say, looking at me. Both of them have bottles of beer in their hands, and they’re watching a video of a race.
“So you’re Ni’s friend,” one of them says. I’m not entirely sure which one. I figure Sol is the bald one and Dex is the Latino guy. “The one who never sees the light of day?”
“That’s me,” I say, and Ni hands me an uncapped bottle of beer. I accept it.
They start chatting, and I start listening. It’s not awkward, somehow. We talk about bikes and football.
At some point, during a temporary lull in the conversation, Dex goes to track down another round of drinks and Sol turns fully away to speak to the bartender. Ni and I drift a few yards away from the group, and my attention naturally moves out over the broader expanse of the room.
My gaze slowly sweeps across the mismatched tables, the scuffed floorboards, the heavy leather cuts, the scenes unfolding around the place—nothing explicitly sexual, although a couple is being flogged.
Then my eyes catch on a specific figure at the far end of the bar.
He is small. He wears a faded shirt, dark denim, and a Redline leather jacket that looks huge on him. His hair is long on top, and he has brown eyes and bronzed skin.
He’s very beautiful.
He is telling a story loudly. Both of his hands are moving constantly in wide, chaotic, sweeping gestures, and the two people nearest to him laugh right on cue. His own laugh is incredibly loud.
He looks like he’s performing.
I see his heavy boot, currently hooked on the bottom rung of the barstool. The toe is constantly tapping against the wood. It is a frantic physical tell, entirely disconnected from the easy swagger he is projecting from the waist up. He is putting on a flawless show.
I know that look. I have worn my own version of it, though never quite that manic. He’s not doing well. I can see the facade, the mask he has on. Those are the eyes of someone who’s suffering.
And he’s so small and beautiful...
My Daddy instincts scream.
I want to ask him what’s wrong and how I can help. But I don’t move.
Ni shifts his weight against the edge of the bar. Ni is an incredibly perceptive individual. I take another slow pull from my beer, keeping my expression entirely neutral, but Ni has already tracked the exact trajectory of my sightline.
“You’re looking at the blast zone,” Ni says.
Ni lets out a short exhale that is not quite a laugh. It carries too much concern to be genuine amusement. He leans his forearms on the counter, mirroring my posture, and looks across the room toward the far end of the bar.
“That’s Kit,” Ni says. “He’s part of the crew. Dex, Sol, him, and me. He’s the fastest thing on two wheels I’ve ever seen, and I’m including the professionals.”
“He has the build for it,” I note, my eyes remaining fixed on Kit. He’s skinny but definitely strong.
“He was on track for MotoGP. Had the times, had the talent. But the funding fell through. Now he just rides for himself. And by that, I mean he rides like he’s actively trying to find a wall that will finally stop him.”
Maybe that is why he looks so sad. But maybe not. I don’t ask, but Ni has always known how to read my mind.
“You noticed the back corner when we walked in?” Ni asks, gesturing vaguely with their chin toward the dimly lit section of the club.
“I noticed the Daddy/little space,” I confirm.
“Kit is a Little,” Ni says quietly. “A deeply open, highly vulnerable one, when he actually feels safe enough to drop the armor. He used to have a Caregiver. Charles. They were together for a long time. Charles was the only person who could actually get Kit to downshift. He anchored him. When Kit was spinning out, Charles was the one who could strip the adrenaline away and force him to just breathe. We always respected him. Some of us don’t get the Little stuff, but all of us respect it. But now…”
I look back across the room. Kit is currently laughing loudly at something the man next to him has said, throwing his head back, his throat exposed. It is a beautiful, utterly flawless counterfeit of joy.
“They ended it,” I state.
“They burned it down,” Ni corrects, a heavy edge creeping into their voice. “It was a brutal cycle. They tore each other to pieces at the end. But the care Charles provided was real. It was the only time Kit ever fully let go of the handlebars. Now Charles is over there…”
Ni doesn’t point, but his gaze flicks toward the back corner.
“…with John. Charles is being a Daddy to someone else, and Kit is completely locked out of the only dynamic that ever made him feel soft. It’s messy as fuck.”
I shift my sightline, tracking past Kit’s frantic performance, and look directly into the Daddy/little corner.
I see Charles instantly. He is a large, deeply grounded man, sitting on a low couch with an arm draped protectively around a younger man.
The younger man is laughing, leaning completely into Charles’ chest. Charles is looking at him with warmth.
I look immediately back to Kit.
He cannot access his Little side without a Caregiver to hold the space for him, so he is aggressively overcompensating by welding the armor shut and turning the volume up to a deafening pitch.
“He’s drowning,” I say softly.
“He’s suffocating,” Ni agrees, picking at the label of their beer.
“And he won’t let any of us help. Dex tries to logic him out of it.
Sol tries to just sit with him. I try to distract him.
But we aren’t Caregivers, Soren. We’re his ride-or-die, but we can’t give him the kind of anchor he actually needs.
He just talks louder and rides faster so we can’t hear him breaking apart.
Dex is the same age as him, but he’s much more mature. Kit is a danger to himself.”
I am a man who builds custom motorcycles from shattered, rusted frames. I understand the value of taking something that has been completely wrecked and meticulously, patiently rebuilding it from the ground up.
“I brought you here tonight for a reason, Soren,” Ni says. “I know you run a tight shop. I know you’re a Daddy who’s been looking for a Little who actually understands loyalty. And I know my friend is currently tearing himself apart because he thinks nobody is strong enough to hold him together.”
“You are a very subtle matchmaker, Ni,” I say dryly, though there is no heat in my voice.
“I’m a pragmatist,” Ni counters. “I see a broken chain, I find a master link.”
Before I can respond, the dynamic at the far end of the bar abruptly shifts.
Ni straightens and starts back toward the group. I go with him.
Kit slides his boot off the bottom rung of his barstool and lets his feet hit the floorboards. By the time we reach the others, I am standing only a few feet away.
I remain completely relaxed, leaning my lower back against the edge of the bar, my elbows resting comfortably on the wood behind me. I take up a significant amount of physical space on purpose.
I can see the exhaustion pulling at the corners of Kit’s eyes. He is completely unaware of my evaluation.
“Alright,” Kit says, his voice carrying easily over the room. “As much as I love educating you all on basic mechanics, I’ve got to head out.”
Dex pauses, his beer halfway to his mouth, raising an eyebrow. “Now? The night’s barely hitting its stride, Kit. King just got here.” He nods toward the owner of the club.
“I have an early morning,” Kit says. “Try not to miss me too much.”
“Yeah, yeah. Ride safe, idiot,” Ni says, waving him off.
Kit turns to leave.
But as he pivots, his frantic, sweeping gaze accidentally catches mine.
For a fraction of a second, the performance completely drops.
Our eyes lock. He is standing less than three feet away from me. Up close, his eyes look like brilliant, shattered glass. He looks directly into my face, and for one agonizing heartbeat, I know he does not see an audience member.
He sees a wall.