You Can Count On Me (Christmas Daddies, #2)

by Fae Quin

You think you’ve seen everything by the time you hit thirty-seven. But then a familiar tiny blond eleven-year-old shows up at your house just after dark, wielding a baseball bat in one hand and an inhaler in the other. And he threatens you with it—the bat, not the inhaler—until you agree to take his dad on a date, and you realize you were wrong. You definitely haven’t seen everything. Nope. Not even close.

“Take your time!” I called as he scurried off, scampering like a woodland creature despite the fact he was the size of a goddamn moose.

His tiny little shoulders slumped. I was not taking this kid’s bat. Even if he’d threatened me with it.

“Pops says violence is never the answer,” Bubba quoted again, but his eyes were full of mischief this time. “But Theodore Roosevelt said ‘speak softly and carry a big stick.’ And he was the president, so…” He shrugged as if that explained everything.

Made my heart hurt thinking I’d been off angst-ing away in the woods while Rooster had sat his big-ass body down here and drawn flowers all over the driveway with his baby. Jesus, that was cute.

“Yeah well, sometimes adults are dumb.” I shrugged, bit my lip, and slurped down my own cocoa feeling more than a little charmed by his honesty. “We get in our own way.” I shrugged again, feeling like a broken…shrugging record. “But the beauty of being human is realizing we’re wrong and fixing our mistakes.”

“He’s busy prepping for Halloween.” He blinked, then sniffed arrogantly. “He’s the art teacher at my School,” Bubba explained in the self-important way only kids could. Like he was telling me his daddy was the goddamn president.

I felt like a goddamn monk, fantasizing about our legs touching like it was the most tantalizing foreplay.

Because we were friends. And that’s…apparently what friends do. Also, apparently they make jokes about biting you? And flirt with you incessantly.

I felt small in an entirely new way. Safe. Comforted. Valued. Like now that he was around, there was a real adult to take care of whatever trouble might befall us. I didn’t have to stand quite so tall, or be quite so perfect.

His skin was pink from the cold, and I had the ungodly urge to climb onto his lap—despite my size—and hide my face inside his neck. I had a feeling I’d be safe there. I had a feeling, wrapped in Trent Montgomery’s capable arms, my demons wouldn’t feel quite so close. I’d find my balance.

These two lost boys had me wrapped around their little fingers and they didn’t even know it.

He slept in my bed that night to avoid the fumes, and I stroked the blond fluff from his face, grateful he was still little enough he let me hold him close. One day he wouldn’t be. I’d collect his affection like an empty bucket waiting for rain.

Trent shook his head to clear it. The playfulness in his expression disappeared, however, as he gave Bubba his full attention. “Sometimes…the meanest kids have got the biggest demons they’re fighting.”

Rooster took my coat from me, hung it up, then led the way to the kitchen. If I’d been a better man, and a better friend, I wouldn’t have checked out his ass as it jiggled when he walked. But…Jesus had said love thy neighbor, hadn’t he? I was pretty sure he’d never said, “Love thy neighbor apart from his ass.”

I raised my eyes to Heaven, praying for strength. Please God, help me so I don’t beg to lick his ass. Amen.

It was like the happiness was erupting. The relief I wasn’t alone. The fact that I could share this joy with them, just like I’d shared the weight on my shoulders.

Things were different now. I’d broken the pattern of abuse. I’d taught Bubba to be different. Strong in all the ways that mattered. Kind in the ways that mattered more. There was more strength in kindness than there was in violence.

“It’s okay, Pops,” Bubba reassured him. “I can be big for you sometimes, if you need it. I don’t mind.”

“You’re going to go to my goddamn house. You’re going to drink your goddamn hot chocolate. You’re going to let me take care of you. And when I deem it goddamn time, I will tell you what you want to know.”

“What kinda stories do you like?” My cheeks tingled with embarrassment immediately and I shrugged, hiding behind my cup. Wasn’t like I was about to tell Trent’s damn mama that the only books I read were ones that had more sex than plot and a whole lot of dicks. Even monster ones. Especially monster ones. With knots.

I’d been on my own for so long I’d almost forgotten what it felt like to lean on someone else. But Trent was teaching me—baby steps—one smile at a time, what it meant to have a partner. To trust. That not everything good was a trap.

There was nothing sexier than a man who cared about kids. Who knew how to talk to them. Treated them like they were real people—because they were—with big feelings tucked into bodies tiny enough they couldn’t carry them on their own yet.

Any man that looked that good in beat up jeans and flannel deserved a second chance.

The little dark curls of chest hair that peeked between the folds of the flannel were enough to make me lightheaded. He had chest hair. Chest. Hair.

“I’m terrified because you’re everything. You’re everything I’ve ever wanted. And for the first time in my life, every action I take is wrong, wrong, wrong. I don’t have sweet words. My silver tongue gets tangled. You make my hands sweaty, and my heart race. I feel like I’m in goddamn grade school when you’re around.”

I couldn’t help but smile back at him, leaning my head against the back of the couch to mirror him. I knew peace then as we sat there several feet apart, our hands tangled chastely together, big bodies squashed onto his massive sofa. Words were tricky, slippery things. But they could free you too.

Forgiveness tasted like forty kinds of hot cocoa, felt like borrowed hoodies, and smelled like Trent’s cologne.

To say I was surprised when he shared one of his AirPods with me and the filthiest, smuttiest, steamiest gay porn I’d ever heard began to play in my ear would be the understatement of the century. Without blinking, Miles demonstrated how to squat with a Smith machine. He was officially a lot more kinky than I’d given him credit for. Vanilla my ass.

This was goddamn monster porn.

😭😂

“Yes, sir.” I fumbled, breathless, my cock aching as I shifted uncomfortably in my seat. My pants were way too tight for this shit. Could someone die from having a prolonged boner? I hoped not. I’d been hard for what felt like a century.

He was the kind of person that made a house a home. The kind of person who took his trauma and used it to make the world a more beautiful place. He was as strong as he was needy. Lost as he was found. He made me feel stronger than I’d ever been before. I needed him. He needed me. The tide and the moon.

If ass eating was an Olympic sport, Trent Montgomery would’ve won the gold fucking medal.

He squeezed us tight in response, and suddenly the crowd wasn’t too loud anymore. The world wasn’t too colorful. Everything was just right.

“Red for stop, yellow to pause, green for go, okay?” Trent reminded me like I hadn’t ever read kinky porn before.

“You gotta know, Trent—” Miles’s eyes flickered, his smile was soft, and his body was softer despite being all hard muscle. “Messing up? Yeah. It’s just a way to learn how to be better. Mistakes are just lessons.” Mistakes are just lessons.

“Let me carry the weight for you. Let me be in charge. Let me hold you. Let me fuck you. Talk to me when you need to—pick me. Let me in. Let me fight your battles. Let me stand beside you. Let me share your secrets. Let me keep you safe.” I swallowed. “Please—” My voice cracked. “I’ve never felt the way I do for you, and it’s scary and wonderful—but god. I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

“Expoo-sure therapy really works!” “Ex-poo-what now?” “I’m a genius! Thank you, Mary Cover Jones—and other well-known psychologists—for your groundbreaking discoveries!” Bubba thanked the ceiling seriously before he pointed at us both, waggled his eyebrows, and ducked out the door.

Strong arms pulled me against the thump, thump of his heart. He held me together till I could hold myself.

“I think he loves you,” Bubba said, and my heart stopped. “I’d tell you not to hurt him, but I don’t think you ever would.” I squeezed my eyes shut tight. Tears burned hot down my cheeks, mixing with the soapy water. “I think Pops loves you, but I think you love him more. And maybe now you’re around I don’t have to protect him anymore. You can do it for me.”

Tears spilled onto his collar, onto the salty sweet skin of his throat, but he didn’t mind. “Let it all out, Miley.” He held me tight. “I can carry it.” And he could.

I had to get home to my green-eyed babies.

Words were tricky, dangerous things. Use them wrong and you could lose everything. It was no wonder sometimes he couldn’t find the right ones. I was struggling now to do the same.

And I realized something I should’ve understood a long, long time ago. Being a dad wasn’t about the title. It wasn’t about perfection. Being a dad meant showing up when you were needed. It was as simple as that. Doable. Wonderful.

Love was vulnerability. It was trusting someone to love you after showing them the parts of yourself you’d never been able to embrace.

I love you the way I never knew I could love someone. With my whole heart, my toes, my nose, and my lashes. Every little, inconsequential part of me loves every little inconsequential part of you.

Bubba was staring at us, his baseball bat in hand, his cow hat pulled down over his too-large ears. He cocked his head to the side. “Gram’s been honking at you for like three minutes. We both ship Triles, but even we have our limits.”

Love was patience. Love was imperfection. Love felt like…falling knowing there was somewhere soft to land.