The Daddy P.I. Casefiles: The First Collection

by Frost, E J

  She tries to reach into the bag at her feet without setting down her tea and nearly drops the cup. I take it from her and set it on the table. She fumbles a folder out of her bag and drops it in front of me like it’s scalded her.

  I flip open the folder and quickly scan through the report. “Jane Smith, huh?”

  “Sorry, I can prove it’s me. I have the receipt.” She begins to fumble in her bag again.

  I hold up a hand to stop her. “I believe you.” I understand why she’d want the tests to be anonymous. I don’t believe the HIPAA hype, either. After I take in her vitals, current lack of communicable diseases, although she’s had chlamydia once, family history of dementia, personal history of self-harm and depression, and the fact she has a birth control implant, I flip the folder closed and pass it back to her. Then I take out my wallet and hand her my card.

  She turns it over and reads the details several times, her eyes flicking back and forth, before handing it back.

  “You memorized it?” I ask. That was quick.

  “Do you want to quiz me?”

  Oh, that pert tongue. We’re going to have such fun.

  “No. Send me an email when you get home and I’ll respond with a contract and my address. Give me your number now so can call you later.”

  I take my phone out of my shirt pocket, tap it on and create a new contact for her: “Kitty.”

  She reels off her number. I type it in, show it to her to check it, pop her a text so she can add me as a contact, and put the phone away.

  “Finished your tea, sweetheart?”

  She picks up her cup, takes two swallows and puts it down empty. Her economy makes me smile. I take her hand and lead her out of the coffee shop.

  “Can I get my books?” she asks as we walk through the exhibition halls.

  “Sure.” I change course back to Hall B. “Do you have a way home?”

  She nods. “I drove here.”

  “You’re okay to drive?”

  She tips her head to the side and looks up at me with a quirky little smile. “Yes, sir.”

  When we reach her table, I’m pleased to see her books still there. I hold them for her while she tucks them into her bag. Then I help her fold up the tablecloth and put that away, too. Her bag’s bigger than it looks. Maybe she has an undetectable extension charm on it. That thought makes me grin, and remembering her quirky smile, I ask, “What was that funny smile, baby doll?”

  She puts her hand over her eyes. “It’s embarrassing, sir.”

  Those are the best stories. “Tell me anyway.”

  She bites her lip before she says, “It was a couple of years ago. I’d been caned on the soles of my feet and they swelled up. I couldn’t wear my shoes and I couldn’t bear the pressure of the foot pedals on my bare feet. There was a Walmart near the party, so I limped into Walmart and bought flip-flops so I could drive home. I was barefoot and wearing this terrible vinyl dress I’d worn to the party and my hair was a mess and all I could think was that I was going to end up on YouTube. You know those ‘People of Walmart’ videos? So, yes, I’m fine to drive and at least I don’t have to stop at Walmart today.”

  That sets me laughing. I can just see her limping through Walmart. “I won’t do anything to you that’ll end up on YouTube,” I promise her.

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Once her stuff is packed away, we stand by her table. The moment stretches awkwardly. It’s goodbye for now. We both know it, but neither of us wants to say it.

  “I’ll walk you to your car,” I offer. “Unless you want to stay for the speed dating.”

  “Definitely not,” she says emphatically.

  I chuckle and take her hand, leading her away from the table and toward the exit. “Is it really that bad?”

  “Yes. Four minutes to try to figure out if your kinks match and if you’d have anything to talk about beyond the weather? The best of the worst from the last time was the guy who messaged me and asked if I would send him a picture of me peeing. It was . . . great.”

  I like her sarcasm. “Hence, no bathroom play.”

  “Hence no bathroom play,” she repeats. “Pretty sure that guy did not know what ‘hence’ means, or how to use it in a sentence.”

  “Now, baby doll, so judgmental.” At her incredulous glance, I laugh. “Okay. Speed dating’s out.”

  “So, so out.”

  “And the online thing?”

  “It was good, for a while. I could connect with anyone anywhere in the world who shared my kink. I had some great conversations, met people I’m still friends with, and learned a lot, but it’s not the same. I want to be topped again. Physically.”

  I pause at the outer doors to the conference center and look down at her. I tap the tip of her nose with my forefinger. “Pretty sure I can help you with that.”

  She smiles up at me. “Yes, sir.”

  Chapter Two

  Emily

  He had me at “smart woman.”

  Everything after that: the negotiation, the audition in the bathroom, I didn’t need any of it. I already knew. And I’m pretty sure he knew, too, or he wouldn’t have approached me. Logan’s a man who knows his own mind.

  But as soon as I climbed in my car and drove away, the voice started. The Hateful Internal Monologue, I call it. HIM. Despite the male acronym, HIM’s voice is female, whiny, specific. My mother’s voice.

  Émilee, what would a man like him want with you?

  He chose me; he must have seen something he liked.

  He sees someone weak. Someone he can hurt.

  I like being hurt. My mother didn’t understand that. She cried on my wedding day, not out of happiness, but because she saw the scars on my thighs where I’d cut myself in high school. She cried when I brought my first Dom home after leaving Ash, because she couldn’t understand why I’d want to be with a scary, leather-clad biker rather than my smooth-talking, marketing-executive, soon-to-be-ex-husband. She didn’t understand me, and now that she’s slipped into the perpetual grey haze of dementia, she never will. But her voice still lives in my head, questioning me, undermining me, making me doubt every choice.

  Émilee, you stupid girl, don’t you dare go into the bathroom with him. He could rape you, hurt you.

  But I went, and he hurt me, and I loved it. I climaxed for him, when I was sure I couldn’t. He pulled me through the embarrassment and weirdness of doing what I was doing in front of a stranger to a wonderful, warm place. And afterwards, until I got in the car with the taste of him still on my mouth and my face stinging from his stubble, her hateful voice was silent. I could think and feel without doubting every breath. It was during that blissful silence that I agreed to everything he wanted, without asking for anything of my own. I’ve negotiated my own publication deals for years. I’ve represented myself on the purchase of three houses. But I didn’t impose a single condition. Just agreed to everything he wanted, then drove home, emailed him the way he told me to, and began packing. Even when he sent me a contract, all I did was add a few things like urethral dilation and ass-to-mouth to the hard limits he’d taken from my sign before I signed it and sent it back to him.

  “Hon, you can’t just spring this on me. We’ve got a blog tour starting Saturday.” My P.A.’s voice in my ear is almost as shrill as the one in my head.

  I switch the phone to my other ear, sandwiching it between my shoulder and cheek so I can keep packing. “I’m sorry, Mitchy.”

  I’m not sorry. I mean, I’m sorry for inconveniencing her, but I’m not at all sorry I said “yes” to Logan. It keeps surprising me, how much I want to go. A cruise? I’ve never even been on a boat except the ferry. Two weeks with an almost-complete stranger? I must be out of my mind. And yet, even the hint that I might not get to go—like when he suggested that I have to pass another audition—sent my pulse racing with anxiety.

  “These cruises are invitation only,” I tell her. “I don’t know anyone who’s been on one. I couldn’t say no.”

  “B
ut such short notice? Does the boat even have wifi?”

  “I’m sure it does. Just think, this might be a new line for me. Cruise romances.”

  “It’s been done,” Mitchy sighs.

  “Kinky cruise-romance? Really?”

  I haven’t read any, but I tend to stick to historical, and a cruise romance would definitely be contemporary.

  “I think so.”

  “Would you do some research for me? See if there’s any market? What I’m working on right now is feeling pretty tired.”

  Another highlander historical. It’ll be my eleventh, and although they’re good, consistent sellers, I’m having a hard time finding inspiration for this one.

  Maybe I could add a bathroom scene. I have plenty of fresh inspiration for that. Except there was a notable lack of indoor bathrooms in seventeenth century Scotland.

  “Sure, hon. Call me when you get back, okay? I know this guy’s the answer to your prayers and all, but for all you know, he could be a serial killer. I want to hear that you’re home safe.”

  I don’t know what Logan is yet. He could be God’s gift to baby girls, or he could be just another loser who wants pictures of me peeing. What I do know is nothing’s going to stop me from finding out. Not my P.A., not a blog tour, not the Hateful Internal Monologue.

  “I’ll call,” I tell her. “Thanks, Mitchy.”

  I drop the phone on my bed next to my three open suitcases. There’s the overnight bag I need for the trip into the City tonight, which is mostly packed and just needs my toiletries. It sits between my two big suitcases, which are not at all packed. I’ve started with swimsuits and pool-wear, because I barely have any, so that shouldn’t take long. What I do have is wholly uninspiring: two black tanks I wear for swimming laps, and a white two-piece with boy-short bottoms. Why don’t I own any cute bathing suits?

  Émilee, you wear the one-piece. No one wants to see you in a bikini. No titties and your ribs sticking out. Keep your legs and scars covered.

  Logan didn’t mind my breasts, or my ribs, or my legs, or my scars. He seemed to like everything he saw. Really, really like.

  I toss one black tank into the suitcase, so I can do laps if there’s a pool, and the white two-piece. Surely there’s a pool on a cruise ship? Then I go to find my laptop so I can order some cute swimwear.

  * * *

  Logan’s waiting for me just beyond the security gate. He smiles when he sees me and pushes off the wall he’s leaning against. My breath catches. God, he’s big. Broad chest stretching a black T-shirt. Worn jeans outlining his thighs. His biceps bulge as he reaches out and takes my overnight bag from me. He slides the bag’s strap over his shoulder and offers me his hand.

  I take it. He threads his fingers through mine. I smile up into those dark, deep-set eyes. I love it when my Dom holds my hand. It’s such a little thing, but it’s so important.

  “Trip down okay?” he asks.

  It’s the most banal pleasantry, but it reaches down inside me and squeezes like a command. It’s that deep voice, the gruff undercurrent to every word. My stomach knots.

  “Fine, no problems, sir.”

  “There’s been a little change of plans for tonight. Don’t worry, we’ll still have plenty of time to get to know each other. I just need to escort a client to and from a nightclub. It’s the same place we’re eating dinner.”

  “We’re eating in a nightclub?” I ask.

  He gives me a grin and my heart does a funny two-step. “We’re eating at my club. Nightclub’s in the basement.”

  He guides me through the waiting area. He moves easily, despite the crowd. If I tried to walk through this many people, I’d get bumped a dozen times. Instead, whenever anyone gets near, he draws me closer to his side and shoulders through, turning a little so he shelters me from any contact. At the curb, he holds up two fingers for a cab. He holds open the cab door for me, and my stomach does a flip-flop.

  “You belong to a club?” I ask, as I climb into the cab. “Like a gentlemen’s club? That’s—“

  He puts my bag in the trunk and climbs in on the other side. “Very eighteenth century?”

  “I was going to say cool. I’ve never met anyone who belongs to an actual gentlemen’s club.”

  As we roll away from Penn Station, he reaches across me, buckles my seatbelt, and slides his arm across the back of the seat. I look up into his eyes to make sure I’m not overstepping the bounds as I shift over until the seatbelt clip bites into my hip, as close as I can get to him. He smiles down at me.

  “Well, you can judge for yourself how cool it is in a couple of hours. I’m looking forward to showing you around.”

  “Have you been a member long?” I ask.

  He nods. “About eight years. I started off as a junior member, then I bought a full membership after my parents died.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry, sir.” I look up at him, but he just gives me a gentle smile.

  “It was a while ago.” He shifts in his seat and winds a strand of my hair around his fingers. “You come into the City often?”

  I nod. “A lot of my friends ended up here after college.”

  “Where’d you go?”

  “S.U.N.Y. Albany.”

  “English major?”

  “Journalism. I was going to be a reporter.” I shrug sheepishly. “Like Lois Lane.”

  He chuckles, laugh lines bracketing his mouth. I still haven’t decided if Logan’s handsome or not. His features are maybe too rugged, his nose broken too many times, his jaw too sharp. Not classic good looks, although his face has a ton of character. If I were writing him, I’d make his nose an aristocratic blade, and give him a lantern jaw. But I couldn’t improve on his voice, and I could never invent his eyes. They’re deep brown and fathomless, and when he was belting me, they went absolutely savage. His mouth’s wide, with a full lower lip, and he smiles easily. His face is smooth today: he’s shaved off the dark brown stubble that scraped my chin when he kissed me goodbye. His shave has revealed the strong angle of his jaw. Would he let me kiss it, that warm hollow under the joint?

  He thumbs my lower lip, making me aware I was biting it.

  I scoot up against the seat belt until I can whisper right in his ear. “Could I kiss your neck, sir?”

  He turns his head and rubs the tip of his nose against mine. His breath smells of spearmint. So much nicer than coffee. “Yes, baby doll. Good girl for asking.”

  His words—the pet-name and the praise—make my head spin. I tuck my face into his neck. His skin’s warm and firm. The scent of skin and sandalwood fills my nose. I press my lips into that hollow and feel the rumble of pleasure he makes.

  He reaches up and cups my cheek. He presses my face into his throat for a long moment, then murmurs, “Sit back and behave yourself.”

  I do as I’m told, feeling a glow well inside me, totally out of proportion with our little interaction. But it feels so good to be with a Dom again, even if Logan’s barely more than a stranger.

  “So why aren’t you working for The Daily Planet, Kitty?”

  Oh, no. I’m going to have to tell him my real name soon. Definitely before I give him my passport. And I don’t think he’ll be happy with me when he finds out I lied to him, particularly when he’s given me such a cute nickname.

  “There aren’t many jobs in journalism anymore. I started my first novel while I was job hunting, and I got lucky and was able to make a career of it. I still use my journalism skills, though, doing research for my books.” I scoot up against him again. “Sir, there’s something I need to tell you when we’re alone.”

  “Whisper it to me now,” he says. His arm slides around me and draws me tight against him.

  “I didn’t tell you the truth yesterday. My name’s Emily. Emily Martin. Kathryn’s another of my pen names. I’m sorry, sir. I’m so sorry.”

  He remains still for a moment, his head tucked down so his cheek touches mine. Then he stretches his legs out in the cab’s foot well and rubs his fingertips up an
d down my bare arm.

  “Why’d you lie to me?”

  I don’t have anything like a good reason. HIM was screaming in my ears not to trust him. He was auditioning me for the role of his sexual submissive by making me strip naked in a public bathroom. If it didn’t work out, did I want him to know my real name? “I was afraid.”

  “But you’re not now?”

  “I’m afraid.” I’m always afraid. “But you said trust had to start somewhere. This is where it starts for me.”

  He grunts. “That’s good, but you know you’re going to have to be disciplined for lying. Good girls don’t lie.”

  “I know.” The knowledge both thrills and terrifies me.

  He traces a fingertip down my cheek. “Naughty, lying girls don’t get orgasms.”

  That’s my punishment? I’d be lucky to have one tonight anyway. I don’t know what magic trick he pulled yesterday, but miracles rarely happen twice in a row. “Yes, sir.”

  “Naughty, lying girls don’t get to sleep in their daddy’s bed, either. All last night, when I was lying there alone, I thought about having you with me tonight. I want you in my bed, Emily. But you’ll have to earn it.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “No more lying. Not about anything.”

  “No more lying, sir.”

  “We’ll see,” he grunts and looks away from me, out of the window, giving me that sharp jaw, a well-shaped ear and the thick, dark shag of his hair, buzzed military-close to this head. The back of his neck is flushed an angry red. Okay, this is a big thing for him. No lying. In a way, I’m glad, even though I can tell he’s disappointed in me. I’ve had enough of lying, too.

  I wait for him to speak, and after he doesn’t for several minutes, I get worried he’s giving me the silent treatment. Ashley used to do that kind of passive-aggressive shit, too, and I really hated it.

  “Sir?” I finally whisper to him.

  “Yeah, baby doll?”

  Not the silent treatment. Maybe he’s just thinking, or watching Washington Square Park roll by. “You said you were escorting a client to and from a nightclub. I was just wondering, what is it you do?”