Page 193 of The Daddy P.I. Casefiles: The Second Collection
I am the manager. The owner. The buck stops with me. But I’ve had enough of this Skinhead-Kevin.
“Nicky,” I call to the back, where Nicky’s still yapping with his last client. They finished a good half-hour ago and have just been shooting the shit since. “Guy out here wants to speak with the manager.”
Yeah, I’m playing into the skinhead’s sexist assumptions, but I’m seriously done. I want to close up shop, run upstairs as fast as my aching feet will carry me, put in my favorite butt plug, and sink into a bubble bath while I wait for Mac to call.
Nicky murmurs to his client before all six-feet-three inches, two hundred-fifty-pounds of him pushes through the curtain closing his station off from the main shop. If the skinhead knew that those six-feet-three inches, two hundred-fifty-pounds will be squeezing into skin-tight sequins, lathering on MAC cosmetics, and strutting his stuff in platform heels at the “It’s Just A Cigar” Diva Review in an hour, he might not be so intimidated.
But the skinhead doesn’t, and Nicky crosses his arms over his barrel chest and glares at the kid like he’s contemplating murder. He looks absolutely capable of it too, even to me, and I see him in drag at least once a week. Not that drag queens can’t be killer. They can. But Nicky’s actually one of the nicest people I know. His outsides just don’t match his insides, as Emily would say.
“Uh, I guess I’ll make an appointment,” the punk mutters.
“It’ll be with me,” Nicky growls.
“Yeah, that’s, um, that’s fine. Tomorrow anytime.”
“Two-thirty,” I say, adding him to the schedule with a couple of taps on the reception tablet. “Don’t be late. Nicky’s only got the one slot open tomorrow.”
That’s not true, sadly. Almost all of Nicky’s afternoon is open, because we’ve had such a drop-off in clients. But the skinhead doesn’t know that.
“Um, no, I won’t.”
I write out the appointment time on one of the cards we keep under the counter, hand it to the kid and give him a big, evil smile. “Don’t forget your ID.”
“Right,” the punk mutters, before he flees.
Nicky leans against the counter and laughs as the front door closes on the kid’s heels. “Bet he doesn’t show, little shit. What’d you need me for? You usually cut his kind a new crapper without any back-up.”
I shrug as I gather up my tablet and stylus. It’s not ten yet, but I’m calling it a day. “I’m not in the mood to deal with any more bullshit. You mind locking up?”
“No problem. I’m done; we were just hanging out. You wanted to close up early, you shoulda said. What’s wrong, Bren? You okay?”
“Yeah, everything’s fine.” And everything is. I’m actually excited about something for the first time in weeks. “I have a phone date.”
Nicky lifts a flaming eyebrow. He had his natural eyebrows lasered and then I inked in lines of blue flames above his brown eyes. He says it’s a ton easier than covering the hair every time he puts on his “face.”
“I thought you didn’t date. You got that club?—”
Nicky knows about Blunts. He knows I’m a sexual submissive and I know he’s super toppy in his own relationships, even though he resists the label of Dom. He lived through my crush on Ten, and then the lesser crush I had on Master Rob last year, without judgment, and he’s aware that I never met either of them outside of the club for so much as a cup of coffee.
“This is different. He’s a friend of a friend. We had a lunch date. He has strong lips. Now we’re having a phone date,” I tell him as I clear off the counter. “I’m hoping for phone sex.”
Nicky snorts at thePretty In Pinkreference, then narrows his eyes. “You’rehopingfor phone sex. Why’s this not a done deal?”
“Nothing’s a done deal with this guy. He took control as soon as I agreed to a date and hasn’t given it up since.” I know Mac was soft-pedalling during lunch, but I felt his dominance all the same. Hard not to when I was sitting there with my bare pussy rubbing against my skirt. “He gives me insane shivers. Ice cubes up the back canal shivers, seriously.”
Nicky holds up a hand even as he chuckles. “TMI.”
“He’s also old enough to be my dad?—”
“Wait, this isn’t the blue-eyed, silver fox Reena was going on about, is it? The guy with the bad fish?”
Remembering that our other tattooist, Fareena, was at reception when Mac came in, I nod. And laugh.
“It’s a mermaid. It’s unbelievably awful. I’ll show you pictures tomorrow.” I lean across the counter and kiss his cheek. “Have a great show.”
“Thanks. Nighty-night. I expect tea over coffee tomorrow morning.”
“You got it.” I wave as I scoot around the counter. I’d take my heels off now, but I haven’t vacuumed, and it’s amazing what ends up on the floors. Seriously, where do staples come from? I don’t think we even have a stapler except back in my office, and I know I don’t go flinging staples around my shop.
