The Shepherd (The Game 6)

Corey called his car The Frog. Or Froggy. As in, “Let’s go home, Froggy!”

It was his pride and joy. He posted three types of pictures online: books, bruises, and Froggy.

I’d offered to take him home once when he’d had one too many colorful drinks with a few other Littles, and I’d said I could just throw his car onto the bed of my truck. He’d been so adorably mad.

“What’re you grinning about, Sir?”

“The time I said I could throw your toy car into my truck and take you home.”

The scowl was instant. “My car is badass!”

I let out a laugh. “Okay, you little comedian. It’s badass. Let’s go—we have a date with a paddle.”

His hazel-green eyes lit up; my awful insult about his car was forgotten, and he scurried inside.

He was already brightening my day immensely, and we hadn’t even started yet.

I couldn’t believe my eyes when I parked in the city a few hours later. Sloan was standing on the curb outside our usual restaurant, and he was smiling. When Sloan Wallace smiled, everything was right in the world. Someone pushed the pause button on my worries, and I swore I could stare at his beautiful mug for hours.

I jumped out of my truck and locked up, all while watching him. “What’s that on your face?” And I wasn’t referring to the nerdy glasses he used when he couldn’t be assed to put in his contacts.

He furrowed his brow and walked over to check his face in the sideview mirror.

I chuckled. “I’m talking about your damn smile.”

He snorted and straightened, and his smile morphed into a wry smirk.

“No, bring sexy back.” I cupped his face in my hands and watched the smirk soften again. “You’ve had a good day.”

Christ, I could kiss him. I almost wanted to nip at his cheeks to make sure his real face wasn’t hidden underneath. But no, this was my Sloan. Complete with leather jacket, beanie, and those glasses. And he was smiling.

He shook his head in amusement and pulled away from me. “Yeah, maybe I had a good day.”

He was gonna have to be more specific.

“Well, tell me about it.” I opened the door to the restaurant and let him in first.

“Let’s order first. I’m starving.”

All right.

We’d been coming here on and off for fifteen years, and they’d been close to shutting down the whole time. The menu consisted of burgers and countless types of milkshakes, and it was essentially a dimly lit diner. An attempt to bring romance into the ’50s diner car era, with candles and more muted colors. It didn’t really work, but it was our place. The food was cheap, they flew the rainbow flag, and we had all the privacy. Oh, and they had the best fucking fries. For those alone, they deserved every five-star review on Yelp that I’d made Sloan give them.

I wasn’t much for being online, except our kink community’s forum and the Facebook group of my food collective.

We sat down in a booth and ordered our usual, two cheeseburger combos with fries and Cokes, a chocolate shake for him, strawberry swirl for me with extra strawberries and extra whipped cream.

“Fuck me, they have plastic straws.” I grabbed one from the dispenser. “Leave them five stars from me for this.” This was my field, dammit. It was almost impossible to find plastic straws at our US suppliers anymore, and we tried to stay local. “The other day, Ben and I delivered over a hundred thousand environment-friendly takeout containers to a new fast-food joint in Bethesda. Was each one wrapped in plastic? You’re damn right. But sure, let’s attack our straws.”

Sloan grinned at me and shrugged out of his jacket. “You’re cute when you get going.”

I frowned. “I’m always cute.” Then I pushed up the sleeves of my Henley and jerked my chin at him. “We’ve ordered. Tell me why you’re in a good mood.”

He really radiated contentment. It was a great look on him.

“When Carol’s folks picked up the kids, they sat me down and basically expressed their support,” he admitted. “They think the timing of Carol’s job in Chicago could not be worse—I mean, Loki’s so young, he doesn’t understand the concept of Mommy leaving. Em barely does either. So they told me whenever I need help, whenever I need a break, I can call them.”

Fucking hell, that was good to hear. I was sure it helped Sloan restore some balance too. He came from a family where men split and treated their women like shit, and it’d fucked with his head when Carol’s biggest desire to argue and fight had surfaced. Sloan had blamed himself, to a degree. Because in his experience, only men screwed up. He’d been abandoned by his pop at the age of nine.

In short, he needed to see more parents and couples who weren’t douchebags, be it mothers or fathers. He’d marveled at my folks too. He couldn’t believe how they were so happy together after nearly fifty years.