Page 201 of The Daddy P.I. Casefiles: The Second Collection
“No, but he’ll hate me more than he already does.”
“Daddy doesn’t hate you. You just scare him a little bit.”
“I don’t understand where I get this reputation. I’m totally harmless. The State of New York even trusts me with needles around naked humans. I’m very misunderstood,” I say, as I head into the bathroom to throw on makeup.
Emily’s giggle rings out like Christmas bells.
“So, you think it’s a hard no to sex with Theo?”
“Gold-plated no,” she says.
“Titanium no?”
“Tungsten no.”
“Ugh,” I say, peering into the mirror as I wing my eyeliner. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I think the Emily Voice is right. I’m going to tell Theo no sex.”
“I don’t want to state the obvious, but what about the other Masters? I mean, isn’t it kind of expected you’ll be available for sex if you’re working at the club?”
“I know you’re not calling me a sex worker, but it really, really sounds like you’re calling me a sex worker,” I say flatly, glaring at my reflection in the bathroom mirror like I’m staring through it at Emily.
“Even if I was, which I’m not, there’s nothing wrong with being a sex worker. I just don’t see how you’re going to be able to work at the club and date Master Mac. What if Master Ten asks for a scene? He always has sex with you.”
Ten probably won’t want to scene with me after the disaster on Friday. I shake my head at my reflection and start work on the other eye.
“Sex isn’t mandatory,” I tell Emily. “There have been lots of house subs who didn’t have sex with the club members.”
Not that I can think of any other than Ryan’s wife, and she didn’t even complete her training before Master Ryan got his collar on her.
“In the whole history of the club?” Emily asks, and I know this is a rhetorical question because she’s become the club’s little amateur historian over the last couple of months. Here it comes. “There have been three, one of whom was probably sexually dimorphic, although it was in the nineteen-hundreds, so they didn’t describe it that way. Sex might not be mandatory, but all of the current house subsdohave sex with the members?—”
The sudden blaring of the shop alarm drowns her words and makes me nearly stab my eye out with the mascara wand.
“Fuck, hon, I’ve got to go. Something set off the shop alarm.”
“Bye! See you at six-thirty.”
“See you then. Thanks again for making dinner.”
I hang up, shove the mascara wand back in the tube, and race down the stairs two at a time, thanking whatever Benevolence Bebe J used to pray to I’m not wearing yesterday’s heels. The security door’s still locked. After I key in the code and turn off the alarm, I slow down a little, not wanting to race blindly into a dangerous situation. The shop hasn’t been burgled while I’ve owned it, but the bar on the corner has, twice, and anyone who has been in knows we accept cash as payment. What they don’t know is that I keep cash in a time-lock safe, so they’re not going to get to it by breaking in, unless they bring a shitload of Semtex.
I flick on the lights before I start down the hallway. No wandering around in the dark for this girl. I’ve seen that movie too many times.
I can’t see anything out of place in the hallway or, as I push through the curtain, the front of the shop. The security shutter isstill down, and you’d need a blow torch to get through that bad boy.
I walk by Nicky’s station, grab the brass knuckles with “Lucky” across them that he keeps hanging over the mirror, and slip them over my fingers. They’re my brass knuckles, but I gave them to Nicky as a good luck charm when he was trying out for the drag queen shows. As I retrace my steps down the hallway, I roll my shoulders to warm up my muscles, and wish I had my old sidekick, a Brooklyn Smasher, in my hands.
I move quietly down the hallway, walking on the balls of my feet, fists up and ready. I don’t hear anything, but they could be hiding somewhere, waiting. I push the door to the unisex bathroom open with my toes. Wait to see if anything moves. There’s a whisper of air as the vent fan kicks on in response to the door opening, but there’s nothing else. No sound or movement. The plywood cupboard under the sink that holds extra toilet paper, the first aid kit, and bleach is too small for anyone but a toddler to squeeze into, and I don’t see anyone hiding behind the john. I back out and cross the hallway to the kitchenette. No one hiding behind the coffee pot. I make it to the back door. A rapid series of bangs on the door makes me jump a foot and raise my fists again.
“Bren! You in there?”
Nicky. I tuck the brass knuckles into my pocket and throw the deadbolt.
“Hey, Nicky.”
“Hey, babycakes. What the fuck happened here?”
He gestures. I peer around the door. It looks like someone took my old bat to the outside lock.
