Page 204 of The Daddy P.I. Casefiles: The Second Collection

I have a decent flow of clients through the afternoon and am beginning to regret agreeing to dinner and a scene tonight when I have to turn away two walk-ins. One schedules an appointment with me but the other walks out in a huff. While I’m brooding at the counter, Nicky finishes with a client, leans on the counter, and holds out his phone.

“Did you see this shit? Twenty bucks it was that skinhead.”

“Hmm?” I peer at the screen. It shows the name of my shop, a rating of 2.5 stars, and a one-star review posted three hours ago by someone called Patriot Warrior 99. “What the hell?”

“He says we refused to give him the tattoo he wanted, forced him to accept something else, and today it’s infected.”

“That’s bullshit.” I grab his phone and read the review, which says exactly what Nicky’s reported. No one this month has asked for a design I wouldn’t do, other than the skinhead. He didn’t even show up for his appointment, so we didn’t end up inking the little shit. I scroll down past a five-star review from a lady I did a sleeve for last week, complete with a picture of the luminous koi and waterlilies and find three more one-star reviews. Phil T. Sir Tatsalot. Regina Leona. I don’t recognize any of their names. All complain that they had bad service, that their tattoo looks terrible, and they got infections afterward. There are no pictures. Their reviews are almost word-for-word identical. I can’t think of a client in years who has complained aboutinfection. I’msofucking careful to go through aftercare and give them the instruction card.

“Nick, have you seen these?” I show him the reviews. “Do you remember any of these?”

“Naw. Haven’t done anyone by those names. Maybe Reena has.”

I pull out the tablet we keep our appointment calendar on and thumb through it. “Not in the last couple of months. That Phil T. review is from last week. That’s absolute bullshit. How do I get rid of these?”

“I don’t think you can, Bren.” Nicky takes the phone back and thumbs for a minute. “No, you can’t delete them. Only the person who posted them can.”

“Great.” I slap my hand on the counter. “More crap on this craptastic day. I’ve got to go.”

“Yeah, no problem. I’ll lock up. Have a good time with Old Blue Eyes.”

I roll my own eyes at him and tuck the tablet back under the counter before I grab my bag and head out.

I steam the whole six blocks to Logan’s. So anyone and their lying, skinhead friend can put up a bullshit review on the business I’ve spent five years building and there’s nothing I can do about it? What fuckery is that?

When Emily answers the door, she takes one look at my face and drags me inside. “What happened?”

A glance at her and I realize I shouldn’t have bothered with the hourglass shirt because we’re clearly having a naked dinner. I blow my breath out, trying to calm down, as I start shedding my clothes.

“It’s nothing,” I tell her.

“Uh-huh. Is your belly-button piercing still infected?”

“You know it’s not,” I say, as I pause to unscrew the barbell I have in. Mac told me to take out all my piercings except thetongue stud before our scene. “You cleaned it out for me six times over the weekend.”

“Right, then you have no excuse for not telling me what’s bothering you.”

“How does your daddy deal with you? You’re like one of those horseflies that just keeps buzzing and buzzing around while you try to swat it until it finally finds an opening and bites your ass.”

Emily grins. “Consider yourself bitten. Now tell me what’s wrong. If you go through with that face on.” She nods at the closed door into the great room. “Daddy and Master Mac are both going to know something’s wrong and they’ll make you tell them, so you might as well get it off your chest.”

“Fuck.” I tuck my phone and a piece of paper with my three fantasies on it under my arm before I hand her my clothes and wait while she puts them on the coat rack by the front door. “A bunch of people who never even got tattoos at my place have put up one-star reviews on Google. Evidently, there’s nothing I can do about it. It’s just pissing me off, that’s all.”

Emily slips her soft hand into mine and squeezes. “There’s definitely stuff you can do about it. Let’s talk to Daddy. I’m pretty sure he’ll have Max fix it, but if not, I know how to report it to Google. If it’s a fake review, they should remove it. It’ll be okay, Bren.”

I lean in and kiss the top of her head. “I’m a cranky bitch, but I actually do like you, you know.”

“I know.” She opens the door and leads me into the great room.

Logan and Mac are standing at the far end of the long, open space, at the dining table set in front of the French doors that lead out into the back yard. They’re looking at a pile of papers spread on the table. Mac’s wearing a white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up to show his strong forearms. He’s paired the shirt with pin-striped, black dress slacks that showcase his tightass. I have to swallow hard to avoid drooling. Whew, Master Mac can dress. Both men lift their heads; Mac’s eyes sweep over me from dreads to toes. His nostrils flare like he’s smelling something good and his eyesblaze.

It’s a fight to hold that incendiary gaze. My instinct is to lower my eyes. Submit. But I fight it. I want to see the appreciation in my Dom’s eyes. It makes my heart race, my core muscles tighten deliciously. His obvious desire puts an extra sway in my hips. I swing the hand I still have linked with Emily’s so my breasts bob. Mac’s eyes follow the motion.

“Stop,” he says. Both Emily and I freeze. “Crawl the rest of the way.”

“You, too, Emmy,” Logan says.

“Yes, Daddy,” she chirps. She gives my fingers a squeeze before she releases them and folds down to her hands and knees. I feel a pinch of jealousy at how graceful she is. I’ve always gone for strength. I want my movements to have focus and power. But maybe I need to swap out a kickboxing class for yoga once a week, because there’s no way I can copy Emily’s motion, and damn if she didn’t look good doing it.