The Daddy P.I. Casefiles: The First Collection

by Frost, E J

  I lift an eyebrow at his slander of Daddy Bruce.

  “You have to admit The Sixth Sense is an exceptional film,” a man across the table, who must have started the conversation while I was surveying the room, says. “As is Unbreakable.”

  Logan shrugs. “Once you know the twist, are they? Would you watch them over and over?”

  “M. Night Shyamalan’s movies are so rich, there’s something new to enjoy on every viewing,” the man insists.

  The Sixth Sense and The Last Airbender are the only films of M. Night Shyamalan’s I’ve seen, but I’m not sure I agree, since I’ve only watched each of them once and The Last Airbender didn’t make any sense, although I liked the premise a lot.

  “Nothing wrong with Die Hard except that it didn’t take place at sea,” the chief says, which gets him chuckles around the table. “Other than that, I can’t say I’ve seen much else with Bruce Willis, or by the Shyamalan guy.”

  “Looper is worth a watch,” Teresa says.

  I smile at her. A physicist who likes time travel movies?

  “Is any of it possible?” I ask.

  “Time travel? They hand-wave the mechanism in the film, but, theoretically, yes, time travel is possible. Besides, I’ve learned as a physicist to never say never. In my own field, topological insulators were discovered less than twenty years ago. They’ve changed the face of my specialty. Who knows what will be discovered tomorrow?” She gives me a smile that would fit perfectly on the Mona Lisa.

  I pass my hand through the air over my head. “Whoosh.”

  She laughs gently. “Would you like a crash course in phases of matter over our entrees?”

  A physics lesson from a physicist? Sign me up.

  I nod eagerly and beside me, Logan chuckles. “You’ve made a friend for life. Emily’s terminally curious.”

  Terminally? Have I done wrong in showing my enthusiasm? Maybe not everyone wants a crash course in phases of matter over dinner. Their loss, but, still, I don’t want to embarrass my Dom. I glance at Logan’s face; he’s smiling at me and rubs his hand up and down my back reassuringly.

  “‘The important thing is not to stop questioning. Curiosity has its own reason for existing,’” Teresa quotes. “Einstein, my favorite philosopher.”

  He instantly becomes mine, too. Anyone who never stopped questioning, and had worse bad hair days than I do, goes to the top of my list.

  “I think Emily will take you up on that,” Logan says. “But we need to excuse ourselves for a minute first. Emmy?”

  Oh, the plug.

  I excuse myself. Logan holds my chair for me and helps me to my feet. As I’m rising, the Shyamalan fan says, “Leaving already, Mr. Logan?”

  There’s an edge of a sneer to his words, and I look at him in surprise. Is he being nasty? Everyone’s been so welcoming.

  “Just an intermission. We’ll be back in time for the main course,” Logan says smoothly, putting his hand on the small of my back, steering me away from the table.

  I look up at him questioningly as we walk out of the dining room to the public bathroom down the corridor.

  “Dan Reyes,” Logan says, in response to my unspoken question. “Head of Security for Pink Pearl. Not my biggest fan and my first interview tomorrow. That should be fun, huh?”

  “Oh.” It’s a sharp reminder that Logan has other things to think about than making me comfortable in a large group of people, or even the plug in my ass. This is work for him. “I’m sorry, Sir. Is there anything I can do?”

  Logan taps the tip of my nose with his finger as he holds the bathroom door open for me. “Nope, just be yourself. You’re already charming the pants off everyone.”

  I wish that were true, but I smile up at him. “Mr. Reyes isn’t wearing a uniform,” I observe, thinking back to the snide man.

  “Pink Pearl security doesn’t except when they’re manning the doors.”

  “Is that legal? Don’t they have to identify themselves?” I ask.

  “Yes, it’s legal. No, they don’t have to identify themselves. Yes, you ask a lot of questions.” When I open my mouth to apologize, he grins. “No, I don’t mind. Bend over and brace yourself against the sink, buttercup.”

  “Yes, Daddy.”

  I position myself as instructed, bending over the sink and propping my elbows between the faucet and handles of the tap. This bathroom isn’t as well designed for butt plug removal as the others we’ve used. I make a mental note to leave the cruise company a comment about their inconvenient bathroom layout at the end of the trip.

  Logan runs his hand down my back and over my bottom, which presses the plug a little deeper and makes me squirm. When he runs his hand back up, he lifts my skirt. I hear him snap on a glove, then he pulls my panties down and rubs my cheeks with his bare hand. “How’s Morris feel?”

  “Okay, Daddy.”

  “Mm-hmm. You’re not as aroused as last time.”

  “The conversation’s not as stimulating,” I say, deadpan.

  Logan chuckles. “Things got pretty heated last time you wore Morris, didn’t they? Tomorrow, we’ll do something sexier with Morris, but for today, you’ve done very well, so let’s take him out. Push down, baby.”

  I stretch my hips to tip up my ass. The shift of the plug as I stretch feels good—that’s something to remember—I push down when I feel Logan’s latex-covered fingers grasp the plug’s base. He slides it free, and I hear a crinkle of plastic. Then he wipes my bottom with something cool and damp. Another crinkle of plastic and a snap of his glove and he’s helping me stand. No cramping, and my body settles instantly.

  I look around. His hands are empty. Where did the plug go?

  “Daddy, do you want me to wash Morris?”

  “Did I tell you to?” His words are stern, but his eyes are warm.

  Am I topping from below? Matthew always warned me against doing that.

  “No, Daddy. I’m just offering.”

  He pulls me to him and kisses my forehead, then drops a gentle kiss that tastes of butter and brine across my lips. “I’ll take care of Morris. When we get to them, I’ll show you the sex toys you’re responsible for.”

  “Ta very much, Daddy.”

  “Come on, we don’t want our dinner to get cold.”

  I follow him back to the table. He takes off his jacket and hangs it on the back of his chair, and I realize where Morris went, and why he kept his jacket on during the first part of the meal. He really does think of everything.

  Our entrees are waiting at the table, and Teresa is waiting to give me my crash course in quantum physics. I settle into my seat, wait for Logan to put the napkin back on my lap, and then cut up my sea bream, while Teresa launches into what I’m sure is a hugely dumbed-down explanation of phases of matter. Most of it still goes over my head, especially when she tries to explain spin states, but what I take away from it, while I enjoy the pan-seared fish with its zesty salsa, is that I need a quantum computer, because that’s what topological insulators are used for, and they sound extremely cool.

  The way Teresa talks about the potential uses of quantum computers, they could write my books for me, as well as get humans to Mars.

  “When will the little people be able to buy these things, quantum computers?” Logan asks while I’m chewing a mouthful of fish.

  “Radio Shack should stock them in time for Christmas,” Teresa says with a wink.

  “Perfect. Now I know what to get Emily.”

  “Ah, lucky man,” Dr. Lehmann interjects. “To know the perfect gift for your darling so far in advance.” He picks up his wife’s hand and kisses her knuckles. “After twenty-five years together, I’ve run out of ideas.”

  They’ve been together for twenty-five years? Wow.

  “Now, now.” Teresa pats her husband’s cheek affectionately. “You know I adore those gift cards to Ann Summers you give me every year.”

  Everyone laughs.

  “Twenty-five years. Congratulations.” Logan toasts them with his
water glass. He’s not drinking, and I wonder if that’s because he’s working. “How did you meet?”

  Teresa and her husband give us a double-sided version of their courtship. I try to remember every word, because I definitely want to use it in a book. Through a series of mishaps, Michael stole Teresa’s bicycle from the rack between the labs where they were doing their respective postdocs. She saw him ride it away. By the time he realized his mistake, she’d called the police and reported the theft. He tried to return it, only to be arrested. They had their first date while he was in the back of a UCLA campus police cruiser. The “arresting” officer was Michael’s best man when they got married ten months later.

  Throughout the story, they smile and touch each other. They’re quiet about it, none of the flashy possessiveness and aching tenderness of Niall and Vashi, but I can see Teresa and Michael are still very much in love.

  I lean a little into Logan and he slips his arm around me.

  I’m so caught up in their story, and the warm glow of touching my Dom, that I almost miss it when the waiters start removing the empty dinner plates.

  Before they reach Logan, I gather up his silverware and side plate and stack them on his dinner plate. I take the napkin off his lap, fold it, and pile it on top of the dishes. When a waiter moves behind Logan, I hand him the plates, and Logan’s empty glass. Once the plates are gone, I carefully gather up all the crumbs from in front of him—there aren’t many, Logan’s a neat eater for a man—and lick them off my thumb.

  Logan smooths his hand over my hair when I finish and murmurs, “Good girl.”

  I flush with the praise and feel a distinct pulse between my legs. If he bent me over the dinner table right now, he’d find me ready. That thought makes me throb, and blush, harder.

  “We’ll stay for a few minutes to be polite,” he continues in his deep whisper, close to my ear. “Then we’ll go watch some scenes.”

  “Yes, Sir,” I say, sitting back and letting the waiter clear my dishes. Logan didn’t tell me to clear my own place, and I know from my own stint waitressing in college that most waiters prefer to collect dirty dishes off the table rather than having things handed to them. Logan’s probably never been a waiter. The thought of Daddy bussing tables in a pink thong makes me bite my lips to stifle a giggle.

  “I hope you’ll come to the dancing after dinner,” Teresa says to me.

  “Oh, is there dancing?”

  Of course, there’s dancing. There’s everything on this insanely fancy ship. I’m much less interested in dancing than watching scenes, though. I send a pleading look at Logan.

  “Sorry, we’ll have to take a rain-check on dancing,” he says. “We’ve signed up for a scene and then it’s an early night. We’re still adjusting to the time change.”

  “Of course,” Teresa demurs. “Make time for the nightclub, though, while you’re aboard. Master Miki, the D.J., is fantastic. So much better than the clubs Michael tries to drag me to in L.A.”

  Her husband protests. “I have never dragged you to a club in L.A.”

  “True. I usually drag you,” Teresa admits with a grin. “But if you did, Master Miki would still be better. Admit it, darling, your taste is dated. Music ended for you in the eighties.”

  Dr. Lehmann holds up his hands. “Music ended for everyone in the eighties. There’s been absolutely nothing worth listening to since Lennon died.”

  I glance at Logan and giggle. He gives me an indulgent smile and waves off the waiter who is taking dessert and drinks orders. I finish my water and fold up my napkin, so Logan knows I’m ready to leave whenever he is.

  “Looks like you’re staging a retreat, Mr. Logan,” the snide man, Dan Reyes, says from across the table, and it’s definitely not a question. He hasn’t been obtrusive about it, but he’s been watching Logan and me while we listened to the Lehmanns’ stories.

  “East Coast time,” Logan says easily. “Besides, I need to be well-rested for tomorrow. I don’t want to miss a thing.”

  Teresa starts to say something about the activities on the boat during sea days, but I tune her out as I feel the tension between Logan and Dan Reyes rise. It’s snapping, electric. Like the air before a dog fight.

  “Not worth your time, son,” Chief Licence murmurs to Logan.

  Logan claps him on the shoulder. “A cigar? I’d love one.”

  “Cuban?” The chief’s blue irises disappear in his squint.

  “Sounds good to me,” Logan says. He rises and extends his hand to me. I take it and he holds my chair as I rise, before he turns to Captain Lopez. “Captain, thank you so much for having us.”

  She turns from her conversation with the gay couple across the table. “Logan and Emily, such a pleasure, I hope you enjoy your cruise and don’t be strangers. I have a captain’s lunch after the shore-day in Cabo. I’d be delighted if you both joined me.”

  “Thank you, ma’am, we’ll see you there,” Logan says. I smile at the captain. She’s not a friend-in-the-making like Vashi and Teresa, but I like her unassuming authority a great deal.

  As Logan collects his jacket from the back of his chair, I squeeze his hand. “Sir, may I see if Teresa’s free tomorrow?”

  Logan chuckles. “Am I arranging another girly date, baby doll?”

  “Please, Sir.”

  “Teresa, Michael, if you’re not doing anything for lunch tomorrow, we’ll be at the two o’clock seating and would love to see you,” he says to them.

  Dr. Lehmann, who is still watching Dan Reyes as though he expects the man to leap out of his chair and lunge at Logan, nods. “See you then. Enjoy your evening.”

  I smile at them and Teresa gives me a broad smile back as Logan leads me away.

  Chief Licence falls in on my other side as we cross the dining room. “May she?” he asks Logan, holding his elbow out for me.

  Logan nods and I take the chief’s arm. He’s not as big as Logan, but he’s probably six feet and not too far off Logan’s weight, although some of it has settled around his middle. Even in my platform sandals, I’m a head shorter than the two men, and feel like a Skipper doll sandwiched between two G.I. Joes.

  It’s not the worst feeling.

  They escort me out to the deck. I’m surprised to see the ocean all around us, instead of the busy port. The boat’s gotten underway without me even noticing. There’s none of the rocking I associated with being out at sea; in fact, I wouldn’t know we were moving if it wasn’t for the breeze and the swishy sound of the waves against the hull. People stroll past us, enjoying the balmy breeze and azure sky. They’re all wearing clothes. I guess we’re not in international waters yet. Or maybe it’s too cool with the breeze to streak outside.

  The men stop at the ship’s polished wooden rail. Logan reaches into his breast pocket and takes out a silver case. When he pops it open, there are four cigars nestled within, along with a funny little metal thing that looks like could be used for cutting off toes, and a box of wooden matches.

  Fascinated, I watch Logan prepare the cigar. I’ve read about cigar smoking, of course, because it was an obsession for eighteenth-century gentlemen. But I’ve never seen it done. Logan cuts off the end with the toe-cutter-thingy, then offers the cut cigar to Chief Licence, who takes it with a smile, puts it to his mouth and holds it, not in the classic cigarette pose, but between his thumb and second finger. I wish I had a notebook with me; there’s so much about tonight I want to remember in detail.

  Logan cuts his own cigar, then lights a match, and holds it first to the chief’s cigar, until the tip glows red and he puffs out a breath of blue smoke. Logan lights his own cigar before he tosses the match overboard, tucks the silver case away, and gestures to me.

  I go to him. He twirls his finger in the air. I turn around and when he murmurs “wrists,” cross my wrists in the small of my back. Even before he touches me, I feel the pulsing low in my belly, the dreamy calm fuzzing my thoughts. His fingers close around my wrists, restraining me firmly. I relax my shoulders and when
he tucks me against his side, lean into his warmth.

  “La Corona,” Chief Licence says, his tone appreciative. His words wash over me like the lapping of the water against the boat’s sides.

  “Uh-huh,” Logan responds. “I went to Havana last year on vacation and brought back as many cigars as I could stuff into my luggage. But I’m already halfway through them. They’re too tempting. Congress really needs to end the embargo.”

  The chief chuckles. “While you’re in Mexico, give Te Amo a try. I know it has a bad reputation, but it’s actually a very pleasant smoke. And it’s hard to beat on price.” He blows out a blue cloud, which the breeze whips away.

  “Thanks, I will,” Logan replies, releasing his own blue cloud.

  They smoke in silence for a minute, then Chief Licence says, “Dan’s not a bad man.”

  “I’m sure he’s not,” Logan responds.

  “He feels responsible, of course.” The chief blows out another smoke cloud. “We all do.”

  “I’m not sure why you should. People like to gamble with their lives. That doesn’t make you responsible when they lose.”

  Chief Licence grunts. “We’re responsible for the safety of all our passengers from the time they step on the boat to the time they step off. That makes us feel responsible, whether we are or not.”

  “There’s a difference between making sure a passenger ends up on the right lifeboat and preventing a passenger from taking illegal drugs. Black wasn’t doped. He knew what he was doing.”

  I look up at Logan blearily, surprised by how harsh his tone has become. He takes his cigar out of his mouth, smiles at me, and says, “Head down, baby doll.”

  I drop my head forward. My eyelids feel weighted and thick. I let them droop until all I can see are my sandals and a white strip of deck. I drift again.

  “Hypnotic flush,” the chief says. His voice sounds distant, and I don’t try to focus on it. I just let everything wash over me while I watch my toes.

  “Uh-huh, she dropped straight into a waxy trance,” Logan responds. “Do you have any training?”

  “Yes. We do a class on erotic hypnosis during the trip. Judy DaCosta runs it. You should meet her, even though it looks like you don’t need the class.”