Page 101 of The Daddy P.I. Casefiles: The Second Collection
“Huh.”
“Are you just curious or is this going somewhere?”
De Leon scratches his chin. “I like learning new things.”
“I’m not a science experiment, okay? Don’t poke and prod me for your amusement. This is my life.”
De Leon nods. His hair is down tonight, brushing his shoulders. His face is relaxed. He could pass for human, except there’s still absolutely no expression in his eyes, which he keeps trained on the fire.
“Why is it your life, Max?”
I toss back the rest of my beer for courage. “Because there was a hole inside me. A big, ugly, raw hole. And I didn’t even know it until I met Emily. And then I knew what I needed to fill that hole.”
De Leon lifts an eyebrow. “Logan’s girl. You got a thing for her?”
“I’ve got a thing for what she is.”
“Huh.”
I need something stronger than beer for this conversation.
“I’m getting a whisky. You want another soda?”
De Leon shakes his head. “I try to limit caffeine at night. And no whisky for you. Two beer limit’s probably a good idea as well. If we have to leave suddenly, you need to be sharp.”
I sigh and look down into my empty glass. “Then stop with the questions.”
“No problem,” De Leon says.
He gives me a reprieve that night but is back at it over the cholesterol fest he calls a “full English” breakfast. “Do you think littles are a subset of submissives or actually their own thing?”
I scratch under my chin with the back of my fork. “Not something I’ve given any thought to. Logan’s probably the best man to ask. He only became a daddy when he met Emily. Buthe’s been a dominant for a long time. I’m coming to it from the other direction. I’m only really interested in being a daddy.”
“Only? But you need the control, too, right?”
“Yes,” I admit. “I need that.”
“I’d need that,” De Leon says, wolfing down more of the revolting thing that he calls “black pudding.” Looks like a horse turd.
“So, this is more than academic interest?” I ask, finally understanding the interrogation.
“Uh-huh. When we get back, I’m gonna ask Logan to let me come to that playgroup.”
“No,” I say firmly.
He finally looks up and meets my eyes. “No?”
“No. Go get about fifty years of therapy and then ask.”
He puts his utensils down on the edge of his plate. “What’re you saying, Max?”
“I’m saying that you shouldn’t be around littles. You’re one bad day away from killing lots of people. Littles can be extremely vulnerable. Be honest with yourself. Should you be around someone extremely vulnerable?”
His eyes ice. “You don’t know me, Max. You got no idea about me. Don’t presume you do.”
“I’m not presuming anything. I’m telling you, straight out.”
“That’s fucking cold.”
