Catch up on part 1 of “The Client is Always Wrong” before reading on…

Part 2: Slow Correction 

The next morning, the lobby of Langston & Smythe Accountancy, Inc., was tranquil. The receptionist, Jason, sat blinking down at the steaming cup of coffee placed neatly on his desk. On the crisp cardboard sleeve, a smily face was drawn in permanent marker. Jason glanced up, perplexed, at the broad-shouldered man who had just handed it to him. 

“Uh… thanks?” he said cautiously. 

Brandon gave him what was clearly meant to be a warm smile. It appeared to have been copied from a YouTube tutorial on executive charm. “You’ve been so helpful this week,” he said, his voice more measured than usual. “Figured it was the least I could do to show my appreciation.” 

He was dressed conservatively today. The blindingly white dress shirt was buttoned all the way to the collar. His tie, a subdued navy stripe, was perfectly knotted. His usual flashy smartwatch was absent, replaced by a modest analog one with a silver band. Still, his sheer physical presence—tall and thick through the chest and shoulders with a square jaw and strong neck—radiated restrained heat, like a luxury engine idling just under the hood. 

Jason narrowed his eyes. “Okay, what’s going on?” 

Brandon chuckled awkwardly and glanced over his shoulder. “Nothing. Just… wanted to turn over a new leaf.” 

Jason watched Brandon stride toward the elevator, his steps just a little too recused, his posture a little too straight. He made a mental note to ask Frank about it later. 

Upstairs, Frank was too busy sorting through edits on his next client project to question the sudden coffee offering Brandon delivered to him, complete with a soft “Thanks for all your hard work.” Once Brandon had moved on to surprise the rest of the office with a box of donuts, Frank pulled out his phone and fired off a quick text to Mike. 

F: Shame you’re missing the personality transplant. 

M: Oh? A kind stranger gave him a little guidance? 

Frank chuckled, giving his phone a playful side-eye. 

F: You’re enjoying this. 

M: Oh, I’m deeply invested in public civility. 

Frank sipped his coffee and shook his head. Free gifts and contrived apologies were nice, but they didn’t change the man underneath the performance. Brandon was still an ass. 

That evening, the executive garage beneath the agency was nearly empty, all concrete, oil slicks, and angular shadows. The click of expensive shoes echoed off walls as Brandon strode toward his Jaguar, car keys swinging from his fingers. 

He was halfway there when the yellow-orange lights overhead flickered, then dimmed. The hairs on Brandon’s arms stood on end as he looked around. He paused when he heard footsteps. Deliberate, heavy, hard-soled footsteps. 

When he turned, DadMan was already behind him, the same electric blue suit clinging to his tall, beefy frame. It shimmered under the dim fluorescent lights with his every movement, like a lightning storm concentrated over a small area. His expression was unreadable, calm, and still, but the force of his presence made Brandon’s stomach flip. 

“You’re improving,” DadMan said, his voice gritty and dark. “But even in service, you’re still acting like an entitled dick.” 

Brandon laughed too loudly. “I don’t know what you—” 

DadMan stepped forward. Brandon’s breath caught as the next word escaped him. 

“I–I said ‘thank you’ and ‘sorry,’” he stammered. “I was polite. Isn’t that what you want?” 

“You’ve learned to mimic behavior,” DadMan murmured, circling him slowly like prey. “But you haven’t internalized it. You’re not fully reformed. Not yet.“ 

The words slammed into Brandon’s chest, turning up the temperature of his racing pulse. Reformed. The word lingered in the air, cloying and inescapable. 

“I’m not—” Brandon turned to follow the slow orbit of the superhero around him. His voice cracked. “I’m not trying to fake it. I just…” 

DadMan tilted his head. “Say it.” 

“Say what?” 

Brandon blinked. DadMan closed in on him, placing a gloved hand on his collarbone. 

“What you’re afraid to say aloud.” 

The silence stretched uncomfortably. Brandon’s hands curled into fists at his sides. His whole body ached, not just with tension but with a simmering, unbearable want. 

He turned away, jaw clenched. 

“I throw fits because it gets me control,” he finally said, each word forced out like a dubiously obtained confession. “Because if I yell first, no one sees I don’t know what I’m doing. I like being in charge. I get off on it. On making people jump.” 

DadMan was quiet. Not judging, but not comforting, either. 

Just listening. 

Brandon’s shoulders slumped as the floodgates opened. “But ever since I saw you last night in the bistro…” 

He swallowed hard. 

“I want to be told what to do. I want someone else to take it all. To take… me.” 

DadMan stepped in close, so close Brandon could feel the buzz of energy beneath DadMan’s suit. His faint, masculine scent—clean and metallic, like ozone on skin—wrapped around him. 

“It’s time for someone else to be in control now,” DadMan said. 

Brandon’s lips parted. 

“Say it, Brandon.” 

“I want someone else to be in control.” 

The moment the words left his mouth, something in his spine gave out. His knees hit the concrete before he knew he was falling. The cold echoed up his legs, grounding him. Humbling him. He looked up at the electric-blue chest rising in front of him. The broad shoulders, the superhero who had barely touched him but owned every inch of him in that moment. 

His mouth was open. Breathing heavily. Panting like he’d run miles. Like a dog waiting for a leash. 

DadMan leaned down, one gloved hand brushing Brandon’s jaw—not possessive. Just acknowledging. 

“Before you leave town tomorrow,” he said, his voice a hot coil of promise, “you will prove you’ve learned.” 

A pause. 

“Or I’ll correct you more thoroughly.” 

And then he was gone. No sound, no step, no fade. Just gone. 

Brandon sat in his driver’s seat for twenty minutes afterward, hands clenched on the steering wheel, his pulse hammering in his throat. His erection pressed painfully against the zipper of his slacks, but he didn’t touch it. Not yet. 

Not until he earned it. 

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