Page 24 of Daddy Detectives: Episode 1
My ears perk up when they get to talking about beneficiaries. Will and Lizzie are added to the beneficiary list, along with some vague statement about any future children being automatically included.
Future children.
I never dreamed I’d get married, let alone have kids. And now we’re talking about the possibility of having even more. Actually, I’m okay with the idea. Like I told him, I want Ian to be the biological father of our next child. I smile at the mental image of a little curly haired boy with green eyes.
My mind wanders as I study Leo’s many diplomas hanging on the wall. Behind him is a wall of dark wood bookcases holding matching sets of law books with fancy leather covers. This is all too rich for my blood.
I know next to nothing about estate planning and complicated finances. My philosophy has always been simple—spend less and save more. I did all right for myself as a bachelor police detective, and I have a decent amount of money tucked away in investment accounts—certainly enough to survive comfortably on my own after retirement. But Ian? He’s loaded. Ridiculously so.
Ian was raised with a silver spoon in his mouth—by his adoptive family, of course. But you’d never know that by meeting him. He’s the most selfless, compassionate, empathetic person I’ve ever known. Knowing what I know about his early years, it’s a miracle he turned out the way he did. I credit the Alexanders for that.
I glance at him through my peripheral vision, listening as he chats with Leo, and my chest tightens. I want to give Ian the world—which is ironic because he can buy almost anything he wants. But there are things I can give him, intangible things, that I know he craves—protection, physical security, emotional security, devotion, and companionship. Iknowhim, and I know what he needs, and I’m only too happy to give those things to him.
When Ian notices I’m watching him, he grins, reaches for my hand, and links our fingers. I squeeze his hand in return, as he keeps up the conversation with Leo without missing a beat.
Once all the talking is done, andlotsof revised papers are signed—by both of us—we take our leave.
As a five-star restaurant, Renaldo’s has a strict dress code, so I’m dressed in a black suit, white dress shirt, and black tie—my go-to look. Ian is wearing cream slacks, a pale aqua shirt, and cream loafers that look as comfortable as bedroom slippers.
“Let’s walk to the restaurant,” Ian says as we exit his attorney’s N. Michigan Avenue building. It’s a nice night, and the restaurant isn’t far.
It’s early Friday evening, and the sidewalk is filled with tourists laden with shopping bags, as well as with locals leaving their offices and heading for the train or the bus. The street traffic is heavy, cars rushing by, taxis, people on bikes.
We head east on N. Michigan toward the restaurant. We’re walking side by side, close enough that our arms occasionally touch. A couple of times Ian’s fingers brush mine, and when I catch his gaze, he grins at me.
I know he wants to hold hands, and I feel bad that I still struggle with outing myself in public. It’s easier for me to be myself and relax at Ian’s favorite dance club, because nearly everyone there is gay, or an ally, so I don’t feel like I stand out.But here? Out in public, we’re sort of a minority, wading through a sea of heterosexual couples.
But Ian couldn’t care less. His grin remains intact, and I have to admit he’s far more courageous than I am.
As he casually brushes his pinky against mine, I glance down at the slender gold wedding band on his left hand. The one that has my name engraved on the inside, just as my ring has his name engraved on it.
Wedding rings.
We’re married.
Husbands.
I catch his gaze—those beautiful green eyes are looking at me like I hung the moon for him just because I’m taking him out for dinner.
I really don’t deserve this guy.
To hell with society! And to hell with my own personal hang-ups. Ian deserves better, and what kind of husband would I be if I didn’t meet him halfway?
I reach for his left hand and interlace our fingers. His eyes widen in surprise, but immediately his shocked expression turns into a smile. We get a few curious looks from passers-by, even a few surprised double-takes, but nothing disapproving or judgmental.
The tension in my shoulders eases when I realize the pedestrians around us aren’t going to stone us. In fact, most of them ignore us completely.
My focus is on the man walking by my side, so when I hear a woman’s shrill scream up ahead, I’m disoriented for a split second as I try to pinpoint her location. Suddenly, others are screaming, too, and the pedestrians a block ahead of us scatter in all directions.
As the crowd parts, I see the source of the chaos. A white sedan has jumped the curb and is plowing down the sidewalkstraight for us, knocking over newspaper racks and trash cans. People are shouting as they jump out of the way, falling, hitting the pavement. I spot two bodies on the ground.Shit!
Instinctively, I wrap my arms around Ian and drag him out of the path of the vehicle. Another man rams into us in his frantic haste to escape the car, shoving us toward the brick exterior of an office building. I maneuver us at the last second to take the brunt of the impact myself as we slam into the building, but Ian still hits the bricks with the right side of his body.
The car shoots past us, and a moment later we hear the unmistakable sound of metal hitting metal. I look down the sidewalk to see that the car hit a light pole head on, coming to an abrupt stop.
I scan Ian for injuries, running my hands along his arms and shoulders, searching for broken bones or blood. “Are you hurt?”
“No,” he gasps. It sounds like he’s had the wind knocked out of him, too.
