Page 234 of The Daddy P.I. Casefiles: The Second Collection
“Maybe I should place a standing order, because this isn’t going to be the last time I lose it if she keeps doing scenes with the Doms here.” I puff on the cigar then rub the bridge of my nose with my thumb. “I think about her walking out of that room after fucking him?—”
“Don’t go there in your head, sir,” Logan interjects. “That’s a bad, bad place. If you’re thinking of DirtyGurl as yours ... if Emily ... just don’t.”
I nod and take a sip of bourbon to wash away the bitter taste of jealousy and regret. “I shouldn’t have left. The other morning, I shouldn’t have left.”
He rubs his palms over his knees, which is another of Logan’s tells. He’s about to say something I won’t want to hear. “Emily mentioned that you’d left DirtyGurl plugged. That bothered her. I don’t know, Mac. Brenna’s a tough nut. Do you think it made a difference?”
“She said she’d take it out herself and that she’d be fine. I let her convince me because I was worried about Naomi and knew it would take me hours to get to her campus and track her down. But I should have taken the time to do it myself. I should have checked that she was okay and given her rules while I was gone so she felt my control. I feel like she’s stepped back from me, and that’s my own fault.”
Logan pats my leg. “Good thing women are forgiving creatures.”
“Are they? That hasn’t been my experience.”
My experience has been so, so much the opposite.
“That’s because your experience is with Amy. Fuck, Mac, don’t project any of that on DirtyGurl. There couldn’t be two more different people.”
“I know that here.” I point at my head with the cigar. “It’s just knowing it here that’s the problem.” I point at my heart.
“Look, Brenna’s not perfect. God knows, I couldn’t top her. She’d drive me around the twist. But she’ll never pull the shit that Amy pulled. She’s loyal, and under the hair and the tattoos and the attitude, she’s pure platinum.”
“I like her hair. And her tattoos. And her attitude,” I growl.
“Good thing, you have to put up with them. Mac, Amy only ever tried to divide and conquer. She pitted Naomi against you. She manipulated your friends, your own fucking C.O. DirtyGurl will never, ever do that.”
“No,” I agree. I know that in my gut. Brenna’s nothing like Amy. Which makes me all the more desperate to get her back. “You really think flowers, huh?”
Logan nods. “They work for me.”
I puff on my cigar and pray they work for me, too.
seven
BRENNA
I glanceat the coffee-shop window and give my reflection the once-over.
My dreads are bound up with the silver, skull clips. The wing on my eyeliner is sharp enough to cut glass. Between the lack of sleep and heartache, my cheekbones are prominent enough that I don’t need any contour, but I’ve highlighted them anyway. My matte purple lipstick screams badass, as does my spiked dog-collar, my leather trench coat, open over a sheer, lace halter, and my oxblood leather pants. Am I way over the top for a morning coffee with my friend? You bet. But no one is going to see past the shiny surface to the pile of quivering, raw meat I am inside.
From here on, all anyone gets is shiny Brenna.
Except that Ruby knows me too fucking well and by the time we’ve gotten our coffees and muffins, my eyes are burning and I’m wiping my nose with my freshly-manicured fingers because of her perceptive questions.
“And he just let you walk away?” Ruby asks, pushing a wave of deep magenta hair over her shoulder. Ruby’s not her real name. It’s what we called her at Mother Kay’s because of hermane of frizzy, red hair and that stupid song by Kaiser Chiefs. She grew into it, taming the frizz and turning it this arresting shade of purple-red that she’s worn like a fucking boss for the last decade. Nothing hurts this girl. She turns her imperfections into strengths and wears them like fucking body armor. I’ve wanted to be her every day since we met. “He hasn’t called or anything since?”
“No.” I swipe at my nose again before taking a sip of too-hot coffee and sucking on my cheeks to try to relieve the burn.
“Fuck him, then,” she says.
“Right,” I say, with zero conviction.
She tips her head and gives me a soft look with her deep brown eyes.
“You still want to fuck him.”
“Because I’m a fucktard.”
“Because he showed you there’s something more behind door number two,” she says gently, reminding me of when we used to watch old game shows together late at night on the ratty couch in Mother Kay’s common room. “You’ve had a run of Doms who were just dialing it in with you, girlfriend. And now you’ve found a good one?—”
