The Daddy P.I. Casefiles: The First Collection

by Frost, E J

  She’s panicking. Either this is her old trigger about bodily functions or it’s a new one, but either way, letting her try to deal with this on her own is a mistake. I know from painful, past experience.

  I walk into the living room and sit down in my favorite armchair. “Emily, stop what you’re doing, come here, and kneel.”

  “Just a sec—”

  “Now.”

  I hear her start crying audibly. She shuffles through the dining area, into where I’m sitting, wringing her hands, tears trembling on her chin. Head down, she kneels between my feet.

  I give her the hand position for Nadu and she goes into it, spreading her knees and resting her hands on her thighs. I wait a moment for the position, and its associations, to calm her. When the tears stop dripping, I pat my leg. She leans forward and rests her cheek against my thigh.

  “Please, Daddy, d-d-don’t make me take Sable back. I’ll train him, I promise.” She whimpers, a sound that bruises my heart. “This won’t happen a-a-again.”

  “Emily, do you remember when you showed me Peter Aloha Bunny? What did I tell you then?”

  She sniffles, then shakes her head, rubbing her wet face against my shorts. “I’m sorry, Daddy, I d-don’t remember.”

  “I told you that little girls need their lovies and I would never take Peter Aloha Bunny away from you. Not as a punishment. Not for any reason. Sable is your kitty as much as Peter Aloha Bunny is your bunny.”

  “I can keep him?”

  I stroke her hair and feel the tiny tremors running through her. That goddamn woman did this to my little girl, destroying the things that comforted her when she needed them the most. “Always, sweetie. He’s yours.”

  “I’ll train him, Daddy, so he doesn’t make messes.”

  “I don’t care about the mess, my baby. I care about you.”

  She breaks position to wrap her arms around my waist. I don’t reprimand her. She can touch her daddy whenever she needs to.

  I let her hug me, and I stroke her hair, until she’s no longer shaking. When she sits back, I wipe her eyes with the hem of my tee, which is sweaty and going in the laundry anyway.

  “Look at me,” I say gently, and when the big, hazel eyes, still a little tear-stained, lift to me, I stroke my knuckles down the side of her face. “Tell me your mantra.”

  She takes a deep breath before she recites, “I belong to my daddy. Every inch of me. He holds me in his hands. I am safe with my daddy. Always and forever.”

  I can see the mantra calm her. The pinching around her eyes smooths; her breathing slows. As much as my dominance and comfort allay her old fears, the mantra brings her back into the right headspace. Where she knows she’s safe and loved.

  “Good girl. I’ll help you clean up the mess. We’ll move Sable’s litter box into the bathroom. That’s where my mother kept the cat’s litter box when Lizbeth had a cat. Sable might even be able to smell that still.” I stroke her cheek again and hold her eyes. “Then you’re going to come back in here and sit on the floor and put your hand under the couch to let Sable smell you again, so he calms down. You’re Sable’s person, baby doll. You need to relax so he can.”

  She squares her little shoulders. “Sorry, Daddy. You’re right. I need to be calm for Sable. And moving the litter box into the bathroom is a good idea. I don’t know why I didn’t think of that.”

  “Daddy has good ideas occasionally. C’mon, up you come.” I offer her my hand as I push to my feet. She sets the tips of her fingers in my palm but rises on her own. Which is probably a good thing since I’m sore after the physical therapy. Once we have the cat sorted, I’m putting on a game and crashing out on the couch. The Spanish have it right. A siesta is the only way to deal with an August afternoon.

  Now that she’s calm, Emily deals with the pee-puddle efficiently, wiping it up, bagging the paper towels so they don’t stink up the garbage, then mopping the floor with one of her nontoxic, non-fish-killing vinegar mixtures. The smell’s gone by the time she leaves the damp patch to dry. I help her pick a good spot in the bathroom for the litter box, then lead her back into the living room. The cat’s out from under the couch and meowing, but when he sees us, he darts back under the couch.

  “If he feels he made a mess, Sable might be nervous,” I tell her. “If you sit on the floor and offer him your fingers to sniff, that might calm him down.”

  “Yes, Daddy.” She gives me a grateful smile before dropping to sit cross-legged on the floor beside the couch.

  I stretch out on the sectional and flick on the telly. It’s a huge flatscreen that my sister and her husband gave me for my first Christmas in the house. I find the test cricket, England versus Australia, which will go on for several hours, and lower the volume so the surround-sound doesn’t scare Sable.

  That allows me to hear Emily’s soft croons as she talks to the cat. “That’s a good boy, Sable. Everything’s okay. Daddy found a better spot for your litter box. He’s not mad. It’s okay.”

  After several iterations of this litany, I hear the cat’s rusty purr.

  I slide pillows behind my back and prop up my leg with others. It’s aching like a bad tooth. The sectional gives me good support, and within a few minutes, my body’s relaxed and my eyelids are drooping despite the game.

  “Emmy,” I say softly. “Come up here.”

  She rises and sits on the edge of the couch, then without being asked, climbs over me and snuggles down on my right side, sandwiched neatly between my body and the backrest. That’s where I want her. I tug down the neckline of her dress and slide off the nipple clamps one by one, rubbing the tips to help soothe the ache as the blood flows back. Once she stops whimpering, I pull her arm across my chest. “I need my beanie blanket.”

  A soft, sleepy giggle. She doesn’t nap every day, but with me breaking up her sleep last night and our trip through the heat today, she’s probably happy to take one with me now. “One beanie blanket, coming up,” she whispers, snuggling.

  The wave of emotion that tightens my chest is uncomfortable in its intensity, but I let it bite deep. This is what it’s all about. This is what I haven’t had with my other bottoms and lovers. This sense of peace and contentment. This is my reward. “Love you, little girl.”

  “I love you, too, Daddy. Ta for everything. You’re the best daddy in the universe.”

  Smiling, I let that thought, and the two hundred and forty runs we’re up over the bastard Aussies, carry me off to sleep.

  * * *

  I’m awakened by warmth on my chest, and the sounds of a motorboat engine in my ears. For a moment, I’m back in the Gulf of Aden, with the hard, African sun trying to fry my brains straight through my helmet and the gun boat bouncing beneath me. Eyes the translucent blue of the water, startling in his deep brown face, turn to me. Seaman Ernest Jones. He shouts and points, and then the side of his head dissolves in a spray of red.

  I blink away the memory and meet a slit-eyed, golden stare. The rumbling gets louder, vibrating through my chest.

  Lifting my hand from Emily’s shoulder, I wipe my sweaty face. With Emily limp against my side and the cat perched on my chest, it’s like sleeping in an oven, despite the breeze from the open French doors.

  I’m not on a boat chasing Somalian pirates. I’m in my living room, in New York, safe and mostly whole, with my baby girl at my side, and her schizophrenic, one-eyed cat on my chest.

  I hold my fingertips out to the cat the way Emily does, and am rewarded with an even narrower glare and a louder, rusty rumble. Deciding that’s a good thing, I reach out tentatively, and am gratified when the cat closes its eye and lets me stroke its forehead.

  Emily shifts and yawns into my shoulder, then whispers, “Good, Sable. Good boy.”

  I don’t say anything and neither does the cat, which is reassuring. You never know with cats. Sable lets me pet him for a minute, then unfolds his paws from that weird position cats sit in and sinks what feels like a hundred needles into my chest.

  “
Ow,” I say mildly.

  “No, Sable, no. That’s not nice.”

  Sable gives a creaky trill and thumps the tip of his tail against my chest but doesn’t move.

  “Your cat’s trying to top me, little girl.”

  She giggles.

  Sable’s ears go back at the sound, then he starts purring again and kneading my chest. Feels like a lot more than five claws at a time.

  “You picked a sadistic cat, Emmy.”

  “I think all cats are sadists, Daddy. Is he hurting you?”

  “Little bit. But it’s okay, as long as he’s getting comfortable with us.”

  “When he’s settled in, I’ll trim his claws so they’re not so prickly.”

  “That’d be good. This is like getting a massage from a cactus.”

  “Do you want me to take him off you?”

  “No, it’s good he’s come out of hiding. Let’s let him do his thing for a little while.”

  Emily shifts back against the couch cushions and lifts her arm from around my waist to stroke the cat. Sable squints and rumbles and kneads. My chest is going to look like a pincushion before he’s done.

  Happily, the cat tires of puncturing me before I bleed out. He stands, stretches, and sinks twenty claws into me, before he jumps down and ambles off into the kitchen, meowing.

  “He hasn’t eaten anything. Maybe I should feed him.” Emily sits up and watches the cat as he twines through the legs of the three barstools at the kitchen island.

  “I thought I saw some dry food in his dish.”

  “I did. I mean, I put out some dry food, but maybe he doesn’t like it.”

  “Britney said he eats both. Let’s wait and feed him some wet food at dinner time. If he’s hungry now, he can have the dry food.”

  “Okay, Daddy.” As we watch, the cat flops onto his side in a patch of sunlight. Only a cat could want to lie in the sun when it’s nearly a hundred degrees. Once she’s confident the cat’s not in imminent danger of starvation, Emily snuggles back down. “Did you get a good nap?”

  “Uh-huh.” I check my phone. Three missed calls. One from a California number. That’s the fucking debt collector. One from an unknown mobile, which is probably one of the Fire Island party guests returning my call. And one from Miranda.

  I let the phone flop face down on my chest. I might as well bite that bullet.

  “Emmy, I need to call Miranda back. I’m pretty sure she’s calling about the paternity test.”

  My little girl lifts her head, then starts to push up from the couch. “The results?” she asks.

  “No, she hasn’t taken the court-ordered test yet.”

  “Oh.” Emily sits back on her heels, somehow fitting into the narrow space between my thigh and the couch-back. She’s such a little thing. “Do you want me to go upstairs?”

  “No, I want you to lie back down and put your hand over my heart and keep me grounded. It’s going to be a challenge for me to have this conversation without shouting at her.”

  Emily already knows that because she was with me in the hospital when I discovered Miranda was flying out to San Diego to “help” Emily take care of me, against my very express wishes. To say I lost my shit at Miranda is a vast understatement. Since that transatlantic shouting match, I’ve let my lawyer in Manchester handle communications, which have all been in the form of legal briefs and court orders. That Miranda’s contacting me directly after six weeks of silence tells me she’s either going to try to convince me not to pursue the court order, or she’s flying to New York to take the test. Or both.

  However it goes, it’s unlikely to be a pleasant conversation.

  I could shield my little girl from the unpleasantness. If it seems like Emily’s getting upset, I will. But until it begins to distress her, I want Emily with me; her touch will help keep me calm. And I want her to know I’m not hiding anything from her.

  Emily stretches out beside me and nestles her hand over my heart. She doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t offer any false platitudes. Just gives me her soft, sweet comfort. A pet and a day in bed giving her orgasms don’t really begin to repay her for everything she gives me.

  I pick up my phone and thumb it to return Miranda’s call. It rings several times and it occurs to me that it might be too late to call. I check the time. Sixteen-thirty. There’s a five-hour time difference. She should answer, unless she’s on shift.

  “Lo,” she says as she picks up after the sixth ring. No greeting. I suppose I shouldn’t expect one after turning her husband over to the police and dragging her into court.

  “Mir. I’m returning your call.”

  “Yes, thank you.” She blows out a breath. “I suppose you’ve seen the court order?”

  “I have. Did my solicitor give you the list of labs?”

  “Yes, she did. Darling, this is so unnecessary, don’t you think? A lab here is perfectly competent to do a routine paternity test. Can’t we just agree on one in London?”

  “No,” I say flatly. Miranda’s a doctor herself, although her specialty is oncology. Still, she’s seriously plugged in to the British medical community. Every time I visited, she dragged me to another dinner or charity event where she fawned all over the administrators of every major hospital in London. So, no, I’m not letting her have the paternity test where she might be able to influence the results.

  Surprisingly, the British judge agreed with me.

  She huffs into the phone. “Don’t you think you’re being a little unreasonable?”

  “Slightly less unreasonable than you having your IUD removed three months before you bothered telling me,” I growl.

  Emily makes a small noise. She rubs my pec.

  “What was that?” Miranda asks. “Do you have me on speaker?”

  I could lie to her, but I don’t see the point. “Yes,” I say.

  “Who is listening?” Her voice sharpens. For a bottom, Miranda has good command-voice.

  “Me, Emily, and Sable.”

  “Emily, Sable, and I,” she snaps. “Who is Sable? I thought your solicitor’s name was Sutton.”

  I roll my eyes and Emily puts her hand over her mouth to stifle a giggle. Not very successfully. “Sable’s the cat.”

  “Since when do you have a cat?”

  Since today, but I don’t enlighten her. “It’s Emily’s cat. What do you want, Mir? You’ve got the names of the labs. Pick one. Get the test done. Judge gave you thirty days.”

  “Logan, for God’s sake, take me off speaker. We need to talk about this privately.”

  “No, we don’t,” I tell her. “I don’t have any secrets from Emily and the cat’s hardly going to tell anyone. Pick a lab and let’s get this over with.”

  Miranda’s silent for a moment, then she sighs. “We don’t need to go through the formality of a paternity test. I know who the father is.”

  “You told me that two months ago. I don’t believe you. Your husband didn’t, either, or he wouldn’t have sent me that email.”

  The email that started this particular boulder crashing downhill through all our lives.

  “Ex-husband,” Miranda says softly. “Colin’s filed for divorce. I’m not contesting it.”

  I grit my teeth. For a long time, that was what I wanted to hear. But that was years ago and now there’s no victory to it. She didn’t choose me, and I’m long past choosing her. “I’m sorry about that but I’d actually feel better if he doesn’t have any contact with the baby.”

  “Oh, darling, you must know he didn’t mean any of the things he said. They were odious, but it was all the heat of the moment. He was enraged—”

  “Why was he enraged, Mir?”

  She chokes herself off.

  “I know you lied to him about us,” I say. “What’d he find out that enraged him, Mir? Simple question.”

  “Nothing about this is simple.” Her growl puts Sable’s to shame. “You have to understand—"

  “No, I don’t understand a single fucking thing—”

 
Emily reaches up and puts her soft hand over my mouth. I take a deep breath and when I let it out, kiss my baby doll’s palm. She slides her hand back down to cover my heart.

  “I’m thirty-six,” Miranda says, biting out each word. “All my friends have children. My little sister has two. I’m running out of time.”

  “Uh-huh. You had a perfectly good husband to father your children. Why use me?”

  Miranda’s breath breaks. That’s a sound I’ve heard many times. I used to think of it as the roll of timpani before the big finale. The sound of my success in reaching her true emotions. “You were my Master.”

  “So that gives you motherfucking carte blanche to my sperm? Tops have hard limits, too, Mir. You knew what mine were.”

  She cries quietly. “You don’t understand.”

  “No, I fucking don’t,” I agree. “Which lab, Mir?”

  “Stop being so heartless!”

  Fuck this. I’m already sick of being the villain of this piece. “Fine, Mir. Call me back when you’ve decided.”

  “Stop it. Just stop it! Why are you doing this to me?”

  “To you? Why am I doing this to you? Don’t you have that backward? Why the hell would you do this to me? What the bloody hell were you thinking?”

  Emily’s hand steals over my mouth again. I blow out a hard breath through her fingers, then tip my head back until I can catch her index finger in my teeth and give it a nip. She stifles a squeak in my shoulder.

  “I made an appointment,” Miranda says, sniffling. “Tuesday afternoon. At that diagnostics center near you, Starla Labs. If you won’t give this up, I can fly in on Monday. You won’t give this up?”

  “No, I won’t give it up.”

  There’s a long silence. I let her sweat it out.

  Finally, she says, “I’ll text you the flight details. Will you meet me at the airport?” Her voice has gone small. She always used to do this after a blowout. She’d act lost and vulnerable and I’d rush in to reassure her.