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Henry’s eyes flashed, and he stepped forward. But instead of lurching for Jason, he put his hand on my shoulder, guiding me toward the door while stepping around the obnoxious man to usher me out of the bathroom.

Jason’s answering laugh chilled my soul as it followed us out of the room.

“Daddy?” I asked quietly as we headed back to our table. “Is he going to be an issue?”

He sighed as we took our seats. “I don’t know, baby.” His shoulders slumped, and I hated seeing defeat on him. It didn’t suit him at all. “I really hope not.”

The second-worst thing to happen that night was that I never got my spanking.

Chapter thirty-seven

Henry

Early June

Pride Month was always fun in the Seattle area, in part because it basically lasted for two. While the rest of the country celebrated in June, and Ben definitely capitalized on that by offering Pride specials throughout the month on the bar’s social media accounts and our sometimes-visited website, the city’s Pride celebrations largely took place at the end of the month while neighboring communities celebrated throughout July. It made sense. June’s weather could be temperamental, but by the end of the month and into July, the rain was largely gone and sunshine reigned supreme for a solid two-to-three months.

Out-of-towners were always surprised that we got very little—if any—rain in the summer months.

Seattle’s Pride celebration was the last weekend in June, and I’d planned a Pride event two weeks later at Mix It Up. With help from some of my business-owner friends in our neighborhood, we’d put together a block party of sorts for the celebration. It was going to be Mix It Up’s first Pride event at this scale, with inflatables for the kids, drinks for the adults—supplied by me, of course—and a host of vendors who’d have their wares on display.

I felt a little nauseous every time I started overthinking all the things that could go wrong. Businesses backing out, a bad storm rolling in, vendors unable to get supplies, and no one showing up because our marketing was terrible were among the innumerable worst-case scenarios my chaotic brain conjured when I couldn’t help myself.

What I didn’t plan on was the most devastating worst-case scenario, one that had never even made it onto my radar.

***

I’d just gotten off the phone confirming another vendor for the Pride in the Mix event—I now only had booths available for two more businesses, and I already had feelers out for those—when Ben stuck his head in the back and called out my name. We were still half an hour or so away from opening for the night.

“Henry?”

I stood, poking my head outside the office door so I could meet Ben’s eyes down the hallway. “What’s up?”

His gaze shifted away from mine for a split second, so quickly I thought I’d imagined it. But it made my stomach tighten. “Someone’s here asking to see the owner. Looks official.” He winced.

With a long-suffering sigh, I ducked back into the office to close my laptop and tuck it into my backpack then headed out into the bar. Ben went back to his pre-opening duties as I stepped onto the floor to greet an unfamiliar man in a nondescript trench coat, an understandable choice due to the chilly mist outside. I knew instantly he was the health inspector—I’d encountered his type before, and they always spelled trouble.

Shit.

I forced a smile to my face. “I’m Henry Ravenwood, the owner.”

The man stuck his hand inside his coat, and I cringed. I knew what was coming next.

Sure enough, he produced a badge, and I squinted quickly to see if I could catch his name. I didn’t quite get it before he stuffed the badge back into his coat. “Health inspector. We received an anonymous complaint of suspected infractions here, so we need to check this place out.” The man, who had notably not given me his name, glanced around at the dark walls, floor, and ceiling of the dance floor, the deep, well-aged mahogany of the bar and the stage at the back, and the wooden platform with open curtains dividing the elevated seating area from the booths and open space by the bar. “Mr. Ravenwood, I trust you’d be happy to show me around, answer my questions?”

A clatter sounded from behind the bar, and I glanced over my shoulder at Ben, who was standing in front of a mess of spoons splayed haphazardly across the bar top. I smiled back at him, hoping my eyes conveyed the importance of him staying chill. He eyed me as he collected the now dirty spoons, but I knew I didn’t have to worry—Ben’s middle name was chill. “I’ve got this, boss. You help our friend here.”

I nodded, turning back to the unwanted intruder. “And your name, sir?”

“Oh, sorry. My name is Curtis Atherby.”

Flashing what I hoped was an accommodating smile, I extended my hand to the wide, empty space. “Well, Mr. Atherby, I’m all yours. What would you like to see first?”

As I led the inspector around the space and answered all his questions satisfactorily—I hoped—my stomach curled up in knots at the principle of the thing. We were completely above-board here, and I knew we had all our ducks in a row, but still. Curtis Atherby was scrutinizing me and my place. One wrong move, and he’d likely start looking for reasons to cite me.

We’d been open for thirty minutes by the time Mr. Atherby finished his needlessly thorough inspection in the public areas, the back rooms, even our well-appointed if small kitchen. He hadn’t appeared to find anything amiss, but who knew what was going through his brain? He was a stoic motherfucker.

“Okay, Mr. Ravenwood. Looks like we’re all set here. You’ll receive my report via email in the next few days.”