Page 246 of The Daddy P.I. Casefiles: The Second Collection
“Yes, sir.”
“Emmy will want to feed us, but I have a hankering for cholesterol this morning. Any chance you know a greasy spoon we can sneak off to?”
She laughs into my shoulder. “I know just the one, sir.” She lifts her head and looks at me, her eyes bright. “Thank you, sir.”
“You’re welcome, girl. Gimme some feedback. How am I doing this morning?”
“Do you want a Dom-rating, sir? Zero to ten?”
“Navy usually rates one to five. It’s a government thing.”
“Four point nine five, sir.”
I chuckle. There’s the sass. “Where’d I lose point oh five, girl?”
“No blow job at the end of the real talk, sir. I think that should be a ritual.”
“I’ll have my test results today and then we can talk about what I want and when, but I’ll tell you now that I’ll usually want your ass after real talk. Offering it before I tell you to bend over will earn you orgasm privileges.”
I feel the shiver that runs through her. “I know I have to earn sex, sir. Do I have to earn orgasms, too?”
“Anal orgasms. Your kitty can come as often as you can manage, but you won’t be coming when I’m in that greedy ass without earning it.”
She shudders, gripping me tightly. “You’re killing me, sir.”
“Gotta keep you on your toes, bold girl.”
“Tippy-top, sir.”
I chuckle and pull her out of the tangle of covers as I rise off the bed.
Amy always wore suits. Two-piece for casual wear. Three-piece when she wanted to impress. Skirt suits. Pants suits. Always suits. After we married, I never saw her in anything that wasn’t perfectly tailored. After her hair grew back, she wore it in a straight, black curtain to her shoulders. Never a hair out of place. She rarely ate in front of me, even though we had family dinners every night I was home.
Bren’s wearing the oxblood leather pants that seem to be a staple of her wardrobe and one of my Navy sweatshirts. Herdreads are up in a sloppy bun, a few stray rattails sticking out behind her left ear. Her lips are swollen. Her neck’s decorated with bite marks above the leather circle of her day collar. She’s not wearing an ounce of makeup. She’s shoveling ketchup-soaked eggs into her mouth and chasing them down with black coffee. She gets more gorgeous every time I look at her.
“Nice to see you enjoying your food, girl,” I say around a bite of my own eggs and hash browns.
She swallows and wipes her mouth before she says, “Thank you for suggesting this. Sometimes a granola bar just doesn’t cut it.”
“Breakfast’s the most important meal of the day. I’m not interested in controlling what and when you eat, girl, but when we’re together, you’ll eat a good breakfast.”
She toasts me with her coffee cup. “No argument from me. I love big breakfasts. It doesn’t make sense to make a production out of it when I’m cooking for myself, but if it’s not just me, only way you’ll keep me out of the kitchen is this.” She gestures with her fork to the spread between us.
I should have guessed from the pancakes that she’s a fellow breakfast-eater. Girl after my own heart.
“Tell me more about Bebe J. I know she could cook.”
Brenna’s face splits into a grin of incredible fondness. “Better than all those cooking-show chefs put together. I’ll make you her jerk pork and red beans. You’ll never want to eat anything else.”
I tap my coffee cup against hers. “I’ll hold you to that. I know she didn’t get custody of you when you were a kid. You ever live with her?”
Bren nods. “After I aged out of care, I went and lived with her for a year. My hip was still messed up and I needed a lot of help. She was on a walker herself, but she still got me up every morning and chased me around her apartment with her cane when I was feeling sorry for myself. By the end of the year,I could run and dance again. I came back to New York hoping to go to school.” She shrugs. “It didn’t work out and I wish I’d stayed with her. She hid how sick she was from me. I only got to visit her once more, at Christmas, then she was gone.”
I put down my fork, reach across the table, and take her hand. “Sorry, bold girl.”
She gives me a brave smile. “I wish I’d had more time with her. But I remember her all the time. Every bird I draw, it’s for her. She loved birds. She used to put seed on all the windowsills. Sugar water for the hummingbirds ...”
She trails off and I can see she’s getting lost in the memories. I let her mind wander for a minute before I squeeze her fingers.
