Page 202 of The Daddy P.I. Casefiles: The Second Collection
“Fuck.” I’m going to have to get that replaced. “And don’t call me babycakes. It’s sexist.”
Nicky snorts. “I’m a sexy guy.”
“I said sexist.”
“I heard you just fine, babycakes. Any idea what happened here?”
Ugh, he’s such a Dom, even if he keeps refusing the title.
“No. Alarm went off about five minutes ago. I was on the phone and had music playing so someone could have taken a jackhammer to it and I probably wouldn’t have heard anything.”
“Kinda looks like someone did take a jackhammer to it.” Nicky runs his thumb over the dented metal.
“Yeah, I’ll call a locksmith.” I turn back into the store to head into the office. “You wanna put the coffee pot on? And why are you here an hour early?”
“Peter-tingle.”
“Your what is tingling? Nicky, man, get that checked.”
He swats me on the ass and yelps when he encounters the metal in my pocket. “Fuck, Bren, what’re you wearing, ass armor?”
Chuckling, I fish out the brass knuckles and hand them to him. “I borrowed these. But ass armor isn’t a bad idea.”
“Like Old Blue Eyes would let you wear armor in his scene.”
“Oh, no. No, no, no. It’s bad enough he disintegrates the panties he won’t let me wear every time he looks at me, but you cannot call him Old Blue Eyes. My gram-gram used to call Paul Newman that and the idea of being topped by Paul Newman, ugh, no, I’m not going there.”
“Liar, liar, leather pants on fire. If Paul Newman showed up right now and smiled at you with those blue eyes, you’d let him top you any way he wanted. Including up the ass.”
“Agh.” I wave my hands over my head. “Paul Newman died at least ten years ago, so you’re talking about necrophilia anal.BeforeI’ve even had coffee. Gross, Nicky.”
He chuckles all the way into the kitchen.
In my cubbyhole of an office, I finger-walk through the business cards in my desk drawer. I haven’t needed a locksmithsince I refitted the shop, and I don’t think I have a card for one. I might have to resort to Google, which always makes me nervous. My fingers pause on a plain cream card with black lettering. “James Logan, Personal and Property Security.”
Emily’s daddy installed the shop’s CCTV system, way back when. Unfortunately, all the cameras are in the front, so I don’t have any footage of whoever tried to nuke my lock.
I pull out my phone, flip over to the contacts file I have for all the Blunts Doms, and scroll down to Logan’s number. I hesitate for a moment. Even though he’s being nice to me at the moment, Logan really doesn’t like me. Do I want to call him for this? Fuck it, I trust him more than Google.
He answers on the first ring. “Problem, Bren?”
“Hi, sir, I was just wondering if you could recommend a locksmith?”
“I can probably do whatever you need. What do you need?”
“The lock on my back door replaced.”
“What happened to the old one?” he asks.
“Someone tried to smash it.”
“Remind me, it’s a key and a deadbolt, right?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Give me two hours. Did you get them on tape?”
“No, the cameras are all in the front.”
