Page 3 of Lost Little Boy (Pride Camp 2025 #5)
Chapter Two
Wexler Grassley, III
“I’m not getting any younger, Wex. It’s time you started making yourself known around the office, son, and that’s not a suggestion. This will all be yours and Nancy’s when I’m gone, and you need to be more hands-on so the employees respect you.” My father’s rant was like a broken record.
I left the DC area when I went to college, and nowhere in my five-, ten-, fifteen-, or fifty-year plan had returning to DC been on my radar. I worked for the family business, damn near seven days a week. I, at least, wanted my nights to myself.
My father demanded I relocate to DC so he could keep an eye on me, not because he believed I was a business savant who could take Grassley Industries into the stratosphere.
It drove him crazy that he didn’t know where I was or what I was doing every minute of every day.
I, however, had no desire to live under my father’s thumb at the ripe old age of thirty-five.
One silly arrest for possession of marijuana, twenty-two years ago, had classified me as a delinquent in my father’s eyes.
He believed he needed to keep an eye on me so I didn’t stray from the straight and narrow, as he’d dictated since I was fifteen.
At that time, he’d forced me to spend my sophomore year of high school at a private boarding school for troubled youth.
The time there had taught me a lot of shit—some of it, heart attack inducing, if the old man ever found out about it. Besides, the pot wasn’t even mine. I was holding it for one of my school friends.
“Dad, I’m not cut out to work in an office like you.
You already have someone more than capable of running the company in Arlington.
Flying out of New York is more convenient for me, and you know it.
You moved to New York for that very reason when Granddad ran the company, and you were the vice president of the export division.
You only moved back to DC when Granddad got sick and you bitched about flying out of Dulles every time you went out of the country. ”
My older sister, Nancy, was the vice president of the exports division of Grassley Industries, an international import-export company that had been founded and run by my grandfather until he died.
It was handed down to my father and his brother, Reginald, who passed away a year ago in a scuba diving accident.
I handled the import side of the company, making deals with companies, small businesses, and single artists all around the world to import their goods into the United States to sell their products through many distribution channels.
I was fair to the folks I did business with, just as my father had been before me and my grandfather before him.
I enjoyed the traveling required to do the job and wasn’t looking for a change anytime soon.
I was a single guy living in Manhattan and enjoying my carefree bachelor days.
Who gave a fuck if I didn’t have a plan to settle down and marry the boy next door.
The idea of finding the perfect boy next door seemed like a pipe dream I’d probably never consider sharing coffee with, much less a whole life. That was my parents’ reality, not mine.
I wanted someone who would give me a run for my money but would let me love them and care for them as we made a life together.
I wasn’t about to settle for anything less than a spirited boy who wanted to enjoy the life I could provide for him.
Of course, telling that to my father was like grabbing onto a live wire.
“You’re right, your sister is good at what she does, but, son, she has two children to raise and can’t devote the time it takes to keep the company successful.
It’s your time to take over, Wex. This is our family legacy at stake.
” I could tell he believed it was his final word on the matter. I disagreed.
“Look, Dad, I’ll be in DC tomorrow for our monthly family dinner as expected. We can fight about this when I get there on Friday evening. I’ll come by the office around five, and we can get a drink, okay?”
We hung up just as the cab arrived at my destination, The Playground.
It was a multifloored building housing a huge BDSM club on Little West 12th Street near Washington Street located in a former meatpacking warehouse that was for sale after the kosher meat company that owned it decided to move the operation to Yonkers.
My friend, Oscar Leone, used to be a commercial realtor in New York City.
When the building went on the market, he snatched it up for a steal and converted it into four distinct kink clubs, one on each floor with a very vanilla bar on half of the street level next to the building lobby.
It had something for every kink lover in the tristate area.
My club du jour was The Play Pen, a place for Daddies to meet girls and boys, littles and middles.
The Play Pen had space for different tastes—video, pinball, board, and foosball games for middles and activity areas for littles featuring dolls of all sorts, coloring books, blocks, stuffies, race car tracks, and a sandbox for excavating toys where treasures were buried.
There were parties and special events nearly every week, but I didn’t attend those often because I was a Daddy without a boy.
I went to The Play Pen every third Thursdays because that was the meet-and-greet night.
Unattached Daddies and littles took over the place to meet, and hopefully, find their compatible other half, or even just enjoy some fun to test the waters with a partner.
So far, I’d come up empty, though I’d met several Daddies and littles I’d become friends with. It was a place I could be myself, and the idea of moving to the DC area and starting over to find new friends was the last damn thing I wanted to do .
I was going to be thirty-six in the not-so-distant future and part of me thought about settling down, but never in the way Nance and her husband, Adam, had done with their school parties, neighborhood association meetings and block parties.
I wasn’t ready to be a father and wondered if I ever would be.
I was fine being a Daddy to the right boy, but he hadn’t come along. I kept hope alive that I’d find him some day. Unfortunately, the third Thursday night of April wasn’t that day.
There were a lot of boys and girls in the play areas, but none of those who were alone appealed to me. I didn’t know what I was looking for exactly. I wanted a boy with a little fire, but not some overindulged brat whose previous Daddy had decided they were too hard to handle and dumped them.
And it wasn’t a boy who wanted to make me a sugar daddy, either. Was it too much to ask for a sweet boy who was looking for a Daddy to offer him some guidance and nurturing that would allow the boy to fly?
I went to the bar in the middle of the warehouse that wasn’t associated with any of the smaller clubs. Oscar was sitting at the end with his laptop and a rocks glass of Jameson, neat. His usual.
“Mind if I join you?” I pulled out the stool next to him, not waiting for an answer.
“No little for the night, Wex? Are you only into guys, or do you like girls, too? I saw a cute little with blond curls and a sweet smile in the art area who might interest you.” Oscar gave me a sideways glance as he played online poker on his computer.
“Strictly dickly, but thanks. What about you? I don’t see you perusing the offerings.” The bartender walked over, and I pointed to Ossie’s drink and held up two fingers. They nodded and walked away.
“You know, a Daddy/little relationship doesn’t have to be sexual. If you enjoy the job of taking care of a little, you can be satisfied with a platonic relationship.” Ossie smirked at me.
I raised my right eyebrow. “How about you? You have a lot of platonic little relationships?”
Ossie laughed and held up his left hand. “I’m a one man’s man. And, as many married Daddies have said, I was never in control of the relationship, and now even less so. We’ve been married for five years—”
A small hand touched Ossie’s shoulder. “Careful, I’ll turn you over my knee.”
We all laughed. “Carmine, it’s good to see you. How’ve you been? ”
Carmine, his husband, shook my hand. He was a petite guy with dark curly hair and big brown eyes. His Italian heritage was strong. “I’m good. How about you?”
That was easy. “Fighting with my father over moving down to DC. I’m not excited about the prospect.”
Carmine laughed. “I’ve lived in that area before I met Daddy Ossie. It was a different culture, really. I liked living in Baltimore better.”
Popping him on the ass, Ossie said, “Yes, well, you went to orgies every weekend in Baltimore, which is why I don’t let you go back without me.”
Ossie looked at me. “Why are you so opposed to moving to DC? Can’t you go down during the week and come back to New York for the weekends?”
While a good idea in theory, the pushback from my father when I’d suggested it was bigger than I’d expected. “Not according to my father. He wants me…”
Who the hell had I suddenly become? The New York Times, broadcasting my business to friendly acquaintances?
“It’s a never-ending saga, but enough of that. How’s business?” I took a gulp of my drink, getting ready to leave.
“We’re thinking about reworking Feathers.
Lingerie fetishists have slowed down on the scene over the winter.
Carmie suggested we revamp it as a dance club and flood it with foam on the weekends for jock nights.
I’m not thrilled with the idea of making it a big washing machine on Saturday and Sunday nights, only to have to scrub it down on Mondays.
” Ossie kissed Carmine’s temple, which was sweet.
I finished my drink, threw money on the bar and stood. “Good luck with the foam. Let me know where you get your bubbles so I can invest.”