The Daddy P.I. Casefiles: The First Collection

by Frost, E J

  “Mine. Listen, don’t bring Emily, okay? Something I want to run by you.”

  Rick’s been a client longer than he’s been a friend. I’ve done the security systems for both of his houses and run his security team at every major event, including the AVN Awards in Vegas, which are a bigger security nightmare than a Texas motorcade, for the past four years. He hasn’t given me a heads-up about any problems. He’s got a party coming up, but we’ve done dozens of them over the years. I don’t even do the physical security for his parties anymore. My business partner, Manny, handles the one-on-one detail and the building security people follow my plan. Maybe Rick’s looking at another house.

  “No problem,” I say. “Eleven suit you?” That gives me plenty of time to finish breakfast and bathe my little girl before I have to jump on the train.

  “Yeah, see you then.”

  After I end the call, I thumb over into our calendar app and rearrange Emily’s schedule so she has free time while I go to the gym and move our morning playtime to the afternoon. “We’re still going to the park, little love,” I tell her. “It’ll just be after lunch instead of before.”

  “Okay, Daddy. Can I invite some of the littles from my playgroup since we’re going in the afternoon? A couple of them have afternoons free.”

  “Sure.”

  Her phone pings as she’s notified of the update, but she leaves it face down on the table. No checking notifications while we’re eating; that’s the rule, and I know she’ll be on her absolute best behavior this morning after being disciplined.

  “Do you still have time for my bath before you go?” she asks with an anxious frown. “It’s okay if you don’t.”

  “I do.” Pleased she enjoys baths from Daddy so much that she’d worry about losing the treat, I tap the tip of her nose. “Lavender bubbles today, I think, and something pretty to wear to the park, since it’s a nice day.”

  “But, Daddy, I’m a ninja. Ninjas wear black.”

  “They do, huh?”

  My favorite ninja wears red, but I’m not about to encourage Emily to emulate Elektra Natchios. Given what happened to Elektra’s lovers, that’s a recipe for disaster.

  “Yeah. Black plus my vans because I want to skateboard. I’m a skateboarding ninja.”

  I chuckle. “You’re a wild beanie is what you are. You can be a skateboarding ninja so long as you wear your helmet and pads.”

  I’ve seen Emily skateboard a few times. It’s one of her million hobbies. Emily calls it her “scatter.” She hops from hobby to hobby, for just as long as each holds her interest. I think her scatter is adorable and love that she has so many hidden talents, but she’s embarrassed about being a “dabbler” in so many things and a master of so few.

  As with many of her hobbies, she’s not a particularly proficient skateboarder, but she doesn’t try fancy flips or stunts. She’s happy just riding on the smooth concrete paths. Still, even at low speed, a fall off a moving object onto concrete could injure her. For the sake of her wearing protective equipment, I won’t risk it.

  She makes a very un-ninja-like face. “Ninjas don’t wear helmets and pads, Daddy. Helmets and pads mess with cool ninja mojo.”

  “Well, this little ninja wears her helmet and pads no matter what they mess with, or she’ll be a ninja with a very sore bottom.”

  She gives me a scowl that makes her look like an angry koala. Too cute. “Ninjas don’t get paddled, Daddy.”

  “Keep up the attitude, little ninja. You can have a pre-bath paddling, too.”

  Her face screws up tighter. “A true ninja would hide Daddy’s evil paddle where he can never find it.”

  “A true ninja would know that there are much, much worse things than Daddy’s paddle and be careful not to earn them.”

  She peers at me speculatively while she does the plate ritual: stacking my silverware and napkin and tidying up any crumbs around my plate. “Like what? Enquiring ninjas want to know.”

  It’s so hard to keep a straight face when she’s being this cute and playful. Ah, the trials of being a daddy. “Like being dressed up as a puppy and made to crawl to the park on a leash.”

  That gets me peered at out of the other big, hazel eye. “Some ninjas might like that.”

  I can’t control a chuckle. “Would my kinky, little ninja like being dressed like a puppy and taken for a walk?”

  The unmistakable excitement in her eyes tells me that my kinky ninja would very much like that, even if she works hard to keep her face screwed up and not show her eagerness. “Kinky, ninja puppies bite, Daddy. They’re very bitey.”

  “Wolfy-daddies bite right back, little ninja.” I think I’ll order some supplies for puppy play. Since getting the first demand from the debt collector, I’ve been resisting spending a dime on anything that wasn’t a necessity, given how much I have to pay, but I’m not going to come up with forty-eight thousand dollars in six weeks just by pinching pennies, so it’s time to loosen the purse strings. “If you behave yourself today and wear your helmet and pads, even though you’re a mighty ninja, then we’ll have some fun with puppy play. I’ll let Master Ryan know so you have some puppy and kitty friends to play with.”

  “Ninjas can’t be bribed, Daddy. But they do know a good bargain when they hear one.” She holds out her pinkie finger. “Deal.”

  I shake her pinkie with mine solemnly. “Finish your tea, little ninja, while I wash up.”

  She picks up her cup and takes her final two swallows of tea, but, instead of handing me the empty cup, she grabs the breakfast dishes and scoots towards the sink.

  I turn in my chair to watch her. “Emmy, what are you playing at?”

  “I know you wash up when I’ve cooked, Daddy, but physical therapy was yesterday and I can tell you’re owie from that and standing at the sink when you’re sore’s no good for you, so I’ll do the dishes today. Ninja puppy play’s a good reward for that.” She stops and turns to peer at me again, with her hands full of dirty dishes. “If ninja puppies get orgasms. Do ninja puppies get orgasms?”

  I rub my hand over my mouth as though I’m considering her question, but it’s actually to keep from laughing.

  “I’ll have to research ninja puppies, little girl, but kinky puppies get orgasms, so I don’t see why ninja puppies wouldn’t. However.” I harden my face. “You’re going to be a kinky, ninja puppy on permanent orgasm restriction if you try topping from below like that again. Daddy decides what behavior does and doesn’t get rewarded. And if Daddy’s too sore to take his turn cleaning up, he’ll tell you. Put those dishes in the sink, come back here and kneel.” I point at the floor beside my chair.

  Immediately contrite, Emily practically throws the dishes into the sink, races over, and kneels beside my chair. She takes one look at my face, which I’m keeping stern only with an effort, because it was a minor infraction, and I know she’s only doing it out of concern for me. But I must be doing a pretty decent job with my stone face, because after one look at me, she goes all the way over to press her forehead to the top of my foot.

  “Sorry, Daddy.”

  I bend over, feeling the pull in my damn leg. I put my hand on her head, holding her down, but also connecting with her. “Why is topping from below a problem, little love?”

  “It means I’m not really submitting to you, Daddy. I’m sorry.”

  “That’s right. Do you still want to submit to Daddy?”

  “Yes, Daddy. Always.”

  “Good girl. What needs to happen?”

  “I need to be corrected, even though I was just disciplined.” A sniffle. Someone’s feeling sorry for herself. “But I only did it because I’m worried about you, Daddy.”

  “I know you did, sweetie. But we need to make sure this behavior doesn’t escalate, right?”

  “Yes, Daddy.”

  “I know you were just trying to take care of your daddy, but there are other ways to do it, aren’t there? What should you have done instead?”

  “I should have asked you
if I could please tidy up and wash the dishes today because I know you’re owie after physical therapy yesterday.”

  “That’s right. Why would that have been better?”

  “Because it’s not exerting my will over yours. Daddy makes the decisions.”

  “Smart girl. That’s exactly right. Will you do better next time?”

  “Yes, Daddy. Promise.”

  “That’s my good girl. I want your mantra written out a hundred times by the time I get back from the gym. Handwritten, not printed.” She got me with that two weeks ago when I gave her lines to do. It took her less than two minutes to copy and paste her mantra a hundred times and print it out for me. Not the idea. “Once you’ve given me your lines, correction’s over and you’re forgiven. You may also do the dishes today because Daddy’s not a stubborn-monster about his injury, and, yes, I do know you called me that when you were talking with Lizbeth.”

  She tries to muffle her giggle, but I feel the vibration. “Sorry, Daddy.”

  “Mmm. Not convinced about the sincerity of that apology, little girl.” I stroke her head before I release her. “Up you come. Would you like another cup of tea?”

  I’m not such an invalid that I can’t make tea while she’s cleaning up.

  She rises neatly to her feet, without grabbing the table or my leg for support. I know Emily does Pilates to keep herself flexible, but this is more than that. It’s the grace of a good submissive, trying to please her Dom. I let her see she’s succeeded with a nod and a smile.

  “Daddy, please may I make more tea for both of us?”

  She’s committed to waiting on me this morning, I see. “Yes, you may. Good girl for asking.”

  She gives me a huge grin before she trots off to wash the dishes and boil water for tea.

  Without anything to do, I relax at the table and enjoy my view, for as long as I have it.

  * * *

  Rick’s as little into the exercising part of going to the gym as I remembered, but his sweat-wicking, slim-fit, “Soul Gangsta”-logoed tracksuit could pay off a good bit of my medical bills. I’m tempted to knock his green, probiotic sport smoothie down his front.

  I’m also tempted to ask him for a loan.

  I ignore both temptations. Dumping the smoothie on his poser-wear would be satisfying, but Rick doesn’t take being the butt of jokes well. Asking him for the loan would be humiliating, and realistically, I don’t have any way to pay him off without selling the house anyway. If I’m going to lose the house, I’d rather do it without crucifying my pride.

  Moving to an apartment, or if I want to be brutally realistic, to Emily’s house in Syracuse, isn’t the worst thing. Yes, I’ll miss the City and Blunts and my friends, who rallied around after my injury in ways that I never expected. But Syracuse isn’t a bad place, and there’s the train, so we can still come into the City when we have a free weekend. Rebuilding my business in a new city will keep me occupied, and out of Emily’s hair. There’s nothing like Blunts in Syracuse, or anywhere, if I’m honest, but there are dungeons and private parties. We’ll be fine.

  Or so I tell myself.

  “Are you spotting me or what?” Rick grouses, yanking me out of my thoughts.

  He barely needs spotting since even if the bar dropped on his head it wouldn’t make much of an impression. But I dutifully slide my hands under the bar, take the weight, and settle it back on its props. With a huge sigh, like he’s lifted Atlas’s fucking burden, Rick sits up on the bench, rotating his shoulders.

  I cock a thumb at him. He relinquishes the bench.

  I slide another two plates on the bar before I lie down.

  “Fuck, man, I thought you were in rehab,” Rick says as I begin presses.

  “Physical therapy, not rehab, you git. I was injured, not drunk.”

  “Yeah, right, same thing.” Rick sucks down his smoothie like he’s in desperate need of rehydration.

  It’s really not, but I’m not going to argue with him.

  “It took me a couple of weeks to build back up to where I was,” I say. “But I’m good now.”

  I probably have Emily’s kale smoothies to thank for that, at least in part. I’ve been liberal with her rewards, but I need to do something big to show her how much everything she’s done has meant to me. I’ve been kicking around an idea: a day in bed, watching her favorite movies, and getting orgasms from Daddy. A Lazy Baby Day. If she likes it, we’ll do it every couple of weeks. My undivided attention for a full day is a big reward for her.

  I’m just not sure whether it’s big enough.

  “Then what are you still doing it for?” Rick asks.

  “The physical therapy? Nerve damage in my leg.”

  That’s the simple version. The more complex version has been explained to me several times, both by the neurosurgeon in San Diego and my PT here, but it boils down to the same thing: the area in which my brain was damaged severed the connection to some of nerves in my left leg. Like bad electrical wiring. I’ve gotten a lot of my mobility back in six weeks, but I still have moments of weakness and instability when my leg doesn’t do what I want it to.

  “I want to be able to run again,” I tell him. And climb stairs without a cane, and throw Emily around like she weighs nothing, which she barely does, but I’m still too unstable to pick her up without risking falling and hurting us both, which is pissing me off.

  “You can’t run now?”

  “Not very far,” I admit. I managed two miles on my treadmill three days ago, but I was so stiff and unsteady the next day I could barely get out of bed.

  “Good. Treadmill next.”

  Prick. Even straight out of the hospital, I could still take him.

  “Sure,” I say.

  “How are you doing scenes with Emily if you’re still in rehab?”

  For starters, I don’t need to run miles to top my little girl.

  “It’s physical therapy and there are plenty of things I can do without straining my leg. Besides, topping’s ninety percent mental.”

  “Fifty percent at best,” Rick says.

  That’s because he’s doing it wrong, but I don’t bother to correct him. He’s an international porn star. He tops beautiful women on and off the set every week. Why would he listen to me?

  “What’s this thing you wanted my input on?” I ask to shift the topic of conversation.

  Rick’s face creases. Not as adorably as Emily’s when she’s doing her angry-koala impression, either.

  “I’ve been holding off getting you involved until you got better. And, well, for a while, Glory thought it was good publicity. The hits on my site went through the roof. But . . . it’s fucked, man. I can’t stand to go online anymore, and a couple of producers are pissed-off. Daisy canceled a shoot on me yesterday. She says she’ll make it up to me once the shit’s died down, but you know what it’s like. Lose momentum now and I may never get it back. I’m not getting any fucking younger.”

  “Or better looking,” I agree.

  “Screw you, man.”

  Chuckling, I finish my set. Rick doesn’t want another turn on the bench, so we hit the treadmills. I program a hill walk that will really stretch my leg, which is what the PT says will give me back stability and strength.

  Rick jogs for less than five minutes before he drops to a walk and paces beside me.

  “It started a couple of weeks ago with some bullshit on Twitter,” he tells me. He keeps his voice low, but there’s no one close enough to hear, particularly not over the electronic techno bullshit the gym’s blasting. “A hashtag called RespectABitch.”

  I’m not sure how that’s respectful. I’ve never been able to call a woman a bitch, even during scenes. My mum would have taken a wooden spoon to me if she’d ever heard me use that word, and not to my ass, either. Some of the women I’ve been with have wanted me to call them bitches, but I’ve had to disappoint them. Verbal humiliation isn’t a problem; I can dole it out when it’s needed. But not that word.

  “There we
re some tweets aimed at me. RespectABitch’s safe word. RespectABitch when she tells you no. RespectABitch’s ass. That sort of shit. It was coming from a couple of different accounts. I didn’t recognize any of them. I ignored it at the beginning, but then I responded saying I always RespectABitch. It was fucking gasoline on a bonfire, man. Pretty soon each thread had hundreds of comments and they kept getting uglier and uglier. They were posting stills and clips from some of my hard-core flicks, and, yeah, when they’re taken out of context, they look bad. I blocked a couple of accounts, but Glory told me not to do anything to de-escalate it because it was driving so much traffic to my damn site.”

  He pauses to fuck with his treadmill’s settings and rehydrate like we’re crossing the Sahara.

  “Just when it looked like it was dying down on Twitter, it kicked off on the other platforms. They were using the same hashtag and commenting everywhere, putting up stills and clips as fast as they were banned. Commenting on all my videos on the porn sites. Glory shut down the comment function on my site, but just keeping up with deleting comments everywhere else is a fucking full-time job.”

  I listen and nod but honestly, this just sounds like a troll attack. I can recommend an IT guy if Rick’s manager, Glory, can’t keep up, but so far, it’s nothing I can help with.

  Rick scratches his head. “I need to show you the rest of it. I mean, it was ugly already, but then someone calling herself EvonneBringsTheTruth started posting and what I’d thought was a forest fire became a fucking nuclear meltdown.”

  “Okay, let’s go.” I’m not getting anything out of this workout that I can’t get from playing with Emily at the park, and I don’t want Rick to say any more where we might be overheard. This is his gym. I don’t want to get him banned.

  We cab it back to his place, because ten blocks are evidently too far for Rick to walk, despite his five hundred dollar running shoes. He’s in the fifth-floor penthouse of a soulless low-rise in Murray Hill, and evidently five flights of stairs are too much effort, too, because he heads straight to the elevator. I don’t argue only because stairs can still be a challenge.