Page 222 of The Daddy P.I. Casefiles: The Second Collection

“You’re killing me.”

“Fruit tart for dessert.”

“Sold. I’ll be here by ten-thirty. Cappa had pain-killers at one, so he can have them again whenever he wakes up.”

Emily nods but she looks devastated, and I don’t think it’s because of my reaction to her dinner menu.

I wrap my arm around her shoulders and hug her tight. “It’s going to be okay. Cappa will heal and we’ll talk and talk and talk him to death until he tells us what’s really going on and we can be sure it doesn’t happen again.”

“Austin said this has happened before.”

What do I say to that? It’s a big, scary world out there, particularly for defectives like us who need to be hurt by those we want to love. Emily’s been shielded from it, mostly, by living in the sticks and by seeking out Daddy Doms who are protectiveby nature. Not all of us have been so lucky, and Cappa definitely hasn’t.

“Talk to your Daddy about it, okay? Don’t carry around your worries all day. I’ve gotta go.”

Emily wipes her eyes quickly. “I’ll call you an Uber.”

“Thanks, hon.”

I end up wearing Mac’s T-shirt to work and doing a quick PT-and-A with a pack of baby wipes that Emily hands me as I’m running out the door, and hoping his warm scent covers up any objectionable smell from underneath. One of the downsides of what I do is how close I get to my clients. I know all about their personal hygiene, and they also know about mine.

I’m reminded of why today would have been a good day to spend a little extra time on my appearance—and get more than a few hours of uninterrupted sleep—when my ex and first Dom walks in on the dot of two.

Edz looks like an underwear model, all sexily spiked hair and cheekbones that could cut glass. He used to give me shit about my dreads, but he’s working the mixed-race look today with bright green contacts that pop against his brown skin. He’s advertising his venue, Edz Muze, on a T-shirt under a leather jacket, and his jeans are just the right amount of distressed.

For the very first time since meeting Edz in a group home a decade ago and thinking he was the coolest person I’d ever met or ever would meet, I find myself preferring craggy features and pinstripes.

“Asshole,” I greet him.

He comes around the counter like he owns the place, grabs the back of my neck, exposed because I’ve put my dreads up in a big bun, and drags me into a hug. “Jizzbucket,” he growls into my ear. His old nickname for me.

I push him away. “No flirting today. I’m on a schedule. Which sketch did you pick?”

He pulls out his phone, which is the latest model smartphone, only the best for Edz since he started earning more than enough to keep himself fed, and thumbs over to the sketches I sent him after our last appointment. His pick is my second favorite of the four I sent. I liked the more subtle shading of one of the others better, but Edz is anything but subtle, so maybe the brighter colors and high contrast of the one he’s picked suit him better.

“This one but can you add some of the orange from the tiger on my trap?”

Only Edz would call his shoulder a trap. I bet his personal trainer has a set of exercises to get him “trap” definition, too. Vain ass.

“Sure.” I take out my own phone, flip to the sketch he’s picked, send it to the thermal-fax, and grab the stencil before I lead Edz back to my station. He strips off and settles into the chair out of long familiarity and sighs as I start prepping his skin.

“You look tired, Bren,” he says.

“I am. I was up all night with Cappa.” Edz has met Cappa several times over the years. If they’ve scened or slept together, which is likely given the two of them, neither has shoved it in my face. “Some asshole ignored his safe word, ripped him up, and then used him as a punching bag for daring to tap out.”

“Anyone we know?” Edz asks.

We don’t move in the same circles anymore, me and Edz. He’s strictly underground clubs while I’ve gone as close to legit with Blunts as a sex club can get. Still, the kink community isn’tthatlarge, even in the Big Apple, so we know a lot of the same players.

“Cappa says no, but I’m not sure I believe him.”

“Because?”

“Because it’s Cappa and he’d protect freaking Ted Bundy if he had a crush on him.”

Edz snorts. “True, that. You get a name, send it to me and I’ll put the word out. Ignoring a safe word is never okay.”

To be fair, Edz never ignored my safe word, so I can’t give him shit about that. Plenty of other things he did to sabotage our relationship—not that he ever called it a relationship—but it’s all very old news and not worth giving him shit about, either. Not when I can so easily get under his skin with other things.