Page 341 of The Daddy P.I. Casefiles: The Second Collection

“I’ll come there.”

“Not sure if you should bring Taco or not. Emily might not have enough food in the entire house to feed the black hole.”

Bren laughs. “Probably not. He’s gone out anyway. I think to find food.”

“Okay, my girl. See you at two-thirty. If you get too needy between then and now, call me.”

“Thank you, Sir. And thank you for the text this morning. It made me smile. Ugh, that’s sappy, isn’t it?”

I grin into the phone even though she can’t see it, because I still can’t get the hang of this video-calling thing. “I like your sap, girl. See you in a couple of hours.”

“See you then, Sir.”

nineteen

BRENNA

It’sthe moments of distraction that get you.

I’m seriously freaking distracted as I walk the six blocks to Logan and Emily’s. It’s the best kind of distraction: my head is filled with thoughts of Mac. Even though our first meeting was a little rough, introducing me to his daughter is a huge step. It’s even better because it feels like Naomi and I could actually be friends. We spoke last night, and I took her on a virtual tour of my shop this morning while I was setting up. When she’s not running on the treadmill, Naomi’s funny and chill to talk to. It’s an awesome display of Mac’s trust that he’s introduced me to her when we’re still so new, but it’s not the only one. He keeps fitting his life to mine in ways I never imagined I’d want.

I don’t just want them; Ineedthem.

I’m strolling, casually batting at the flyers on a plywood construction wall closing off a brick building three blocks from my place that’s been under renovation for-fucking-ever, while I think about Mac and let the warm feeling spread all through me. I’m not in a hurry. Although she was an absolute trooper, several hours of pain finally got on top of the lady I’ve beenworking on all morning and she tapped out a half-hour early. I’ve got plenty of time to get to Logan’s townhouse before our late lunch. The day’s cool but not cold. There’s no bite in the air yet, but there is a hint of woodsmoke among the usual city smells of asphalt, exhaust fumes, and garbage. I have no idea where woodsmoke comes from, here in the concrete jungle; it’s one of those idiosyncrasies of living in the City.

Ahead of me, two-story scaffolding scales the building under construction and overhangs the sidewalk. I step towards the street to go around it out of habit, smiling a little to myself at the memory of Bebe J’s superstition about walking under a ladder, when a man appears in the shadows of the scaffolding.

I startle and give myself a shake. I know better than to daydream when I’m walking in the City. Yes, it’s the middle of the afternoon and I should be safe enough, but assholes don’t really care what time it is. I didn’t see him and I should have. I take another step towards the street to give him space to pass me on the sidewalk.

Two more men appear in the overhang of the scaffolding. As I get closer, I realize why I didn’t see them: they’re wearing black sweats and as they move towards me, they’re pulling ski masks down over their faces.

This is not good.

I back up to get the stupid construction wall behind me. A hard hit will break the damn thing, but it’s better than having one of them flank me. I don’t see any weapons, but they could have anything tucked into their sweats. I’m not waiting to find out. I shrug off my leather jacket, which is too tight to fight in and let it drop to the ground. I don’t carry any weapons, not even a can of pepper spray, because I know from experience how easy it is to have a weapon turned against you, but, man, I’m missing my Smasher right about now. I shake myself. I have my hands and my feet and several years of training. Thanking theBenevolence that I’m wearing my Docs instead of heels, I bounce on my toes before I settle into a fighting stance, guard high, weight on my back foot.

“Time to put you outta business, bitch,” Black Mask One says. He takes a step forward, pulling his right fist back to swing at me. He lets his other arm dangle at his side, and I wish for a fleeting second that I had Kru’s pool noodle to whap him on the nose for not keeping his guard up.

Instead, I hit him with a left jab that lands solidly in his eye, which I feel squelch against my knuckles, and follow it up with front kick straight between his legs. I’m not sparring with these fuckers. I’m putting them on the ground so I can run the fuck away.

Black Mask One drops to his knees, clutching his junk, with a scream that would do a Belieber proud.

I take several deep breaths to pump my brain and muscles full of oxygen, and on an exhale scream “Help!” as loud as I can. I don’t actually care if anyone hears me, because I’m not sticking around. The streets are quiet this time of day. There’s no one else on this block and even if there were, this city isn’t the kind of place you wait for a rescue. Native New Yorkers don’t like to get involved. But I figure screaming might startle Black Mask Two and Three, and it does.

Black Mask Two stumbles to a stop, looking torn between coming at me and helping his buddy on the ground. Black Mask Three recovers faster and pulls what looks like a flashlight out of his pocket. Then he snaps it open and I realize it’s a baton.

I donotwant to be hit with that thing. It could easily break a bone. I dance back, staying out of range, and shift my weight back and forth to loosen up my hip. Kicking him keeps my body better out of range than a punch. The asshole feints right and left, swishing his baton around like it’s a sword and he’s a fucking Musketeer, but he doesn’t actually raise it to hitme. While he’s screwing around, I line up and the next time he pretends to zig when he’s actually zagging, I go in at his stomach with my right knee and when he hunches forward to protect his gut, snap a roundhouse kick to the side of his head.

His ski mask goes flying into the gutter and he goes down in a spray of blood out of his ear, with a thud that rattlesmydamn teeth. I hope it breaks a few of his.

Black Mask Three collapsing seems to galvanize Black Mask Two. He screams “Bitch!” and charges me.

I dance back to stay out of range of his flailing fists. As he windmills at me, I see the tattoo on his knuckles.

“Hi, Kevin,” I hiss at him. “Wanna talk to the manager?”

“Bitch!”

Very limited vocabulary these dickheads have.