Page 236 of The Daddy P.I. Casefiles: The Second Collection
I squeeze the fingers she still has wrapped around mine. “Thank you, Red Sonja.”
We didn’t have expensive video games or Blu-ray at Mother Kay’s. We had old board games, a set of Dungeons and Dragonsbooks, and stacks of VCR tapes. Ruby loved the old Red Sonja movie with Arnold Schwarzenegger and named her D&D character after her. I played a girl berserker I named John, just to piss everyone off.
“You’re welcome, baby sis. Now that we’ve solved all of your problems, you have to listen to mine.”
I laugh, because Ruby’s taken a huge weight off my shoulders, and because Ruby’s problems are usually of the “I have too many men begging to lick my boots” variety. “Okay, tell me all your problems, Mistress R.”
With a grin and a wink, she launches in and I listen, and laugh, because Ruby’s fucking funny when she gets going. But this time, maybe for the first time ever, I realize that behind all the bootlicking, and testicle-crushing, and too many men begging for her attention, my big sis might want a man who calls her goddess because he actually thinks she is, and who brings her a beer afterwards, and holds her all night even if she doesn’t get much sleep.
When I tell her this, she grins wryly at me. “Well, if your Mac has a sissy brother or two, send them to me. I’m still building my harem.”
I laugh harder because she’s probably not joking. “Even if they’re twenty years older?”
“Girlfriend, all cocks look the same in the dark.”
Because she’s right, I chuckle.
Even though I’m in substantially the same position I was in when I went into Spill the Beans: overdressed, overtired, and without any resolution between me and Mac, I’m happier when I make my way into my shop. I bring a paper tray full ofcoffees and distribute them to Nicky, Jules, the piercer who rents a chair at the shop, and Spike, our high school apprentice, who has made one of his rare appearances. Once I get Spike going decorating the shop for Halloween, Nicky gives me with the news that the bullshit reviews have been taken off Google. Between that and watching Spike hanging little ghost lights in the front window, my mood lifts even more. Emily must have told Logan, who fixed it without even asking me about it, in the high-handed way that Doms do.
I’ve never felt more grateful for the high-handedness of Doms as I am this morning. My mood lifts even higher when Nicky shows me the appointment calendar. We’ve got solid bookings all the way to the weekend. I’ve got two first-time tattoos tomorrow which are probably my favorites. There’s nothing like a blank canvas to work on and the amazement in a first-timer’s eyes when they see the finished piece glowing at them in the mirror is better than every birthday and Christmas rolled into one.
I take a walk-in who wants a redesign of a faded heart with his mother’s name. The design we work up together—of his mother’s favorite peace lilies with her name, her kids’ names, and his two children’s’ names—really fires me up. I love doing memorials, and I sink into it for two happy hours, working drop shadows and highlighting into the lettering so the piece really pops. The guy’s so happy with it that he hugs me when he sees it in the mirror. I’m still grinning after I ring him up and wave him out the door with the aftercare card in his hand.
Nicky, leaning against the counter and watching the guy go, says, “Let’s print something on the back of the aftercare cards asking people to leave us a Google review.”
I snap my fingers and cock my first finger and thumb at him like a gun. “Good thinking, firecracker. You call the printer while I wipe down my station.”
“Don’t call me firecracker,” Nicky grumbles, but he pulls out the tablet from under the counter to find the printer’s information.
I’ve just about finished cleaning up when Nicky calls me back to the desk. Thinking he can’t find the printer’s number, I open my mouth to give him shit, because we’ve been using the same guy down the street for five years. Then I see a bike messenger standing in the reception area. He’s holding a thin, white box and goggling his head around at the sketches that line the walls.
“Delivery for you,” Nicky says.
I’m not expecting anything.
“S’up?” I ask the messenger.
He hands me the box over the counter without even looking at me, much less getting me to sign for it. I don’t think being a messenger is this guy’s calling. He points at one of Nicky’s skulls and roses designs and asks, “Can you put that on me?”
I roll my eyes at Nicky and let him handle the kid while I open the box.
Inside, there’s white tissue paper printed with a silver logo I don’t recognize. When I part the layers of paper, a single, perfect, blue rose lies underneath. My eyes blur as I touch one of the skin-soft petals. Tucked behind the rose is a card. I pull it out and read the masculine handwriting.
Bold girl,
I’m sorry.
I didn’t know you were dropping. If I’d known, I’d have come back immediately and dealt with Naomi some other way.
You’re important to me. I don’t want us to end like this. Make some time for me. Please.
Mac
I bite my lip to keep from whimpering. I don’t whimper in public. Not even when soft-hearted sadists send me beautiful apologies.
I blink hard as I pull out my phone and text him.
Thank you for the rose. I’m sorry, too. I overreacted. It felt like you were judging me.
