Page 297 of The Daddy P.I. Casefiles: The Second Collection
“Did I remember to give you back the mermaid, girl?” I ask as she locks the front door behind us.
“You did, Sir. It’s back in the book, along with one of the designs you didn’t pick. I hope you don’t mind.”
“Not at all.” I pull the leash out of my jacket pocket, clip it to her collar, and loop it around so it doesn’t strangle her when I drape my arm over her shoulders. She shoots me a glance that’s equal parts chagrined and aroused. “Glad you’re getting use out of it.”
“Would you like to do some more work on your mermaid today, Sir?”
“No, my plan for the day would be precluded by fresh ink, but if you have time when you’re back at work on Tuesday, I’ll take you up on that.”
“Do I get to know the plan?”
“Depends, what do I get for letting you in on it?”
Bren screws up her face at me. “The pleasure of a subbie who’s appropriately dressed for the occasion.”
“Eh. How about the pleasure of a subbie who goes without another orgasm until bedtime?”
“Not seeing how this is pleasurable, Sir.”
I squeeze her shoulders and try not to laugh at her chagrin. “Very pleasurable for me, girl.”
“Sir.” She huffs out a breath. “Lunch-time.”
Her grudging submission is its own pleasure. “That’s a deal, girl. Hope you don’t mind a late lunch.” I chuckle when she elbows me. “How about a swimming lesson?”
Her eyebrows shoot to the brim of a black beanie she’s pulled over her dreads. “You’re going to teach me to swim?”
“That’s the plan, girl.”
She slides her arm around my waist and tucks tight to my side as we walk through the already-busy morning streets. “Good plan, Sir.”
Logan’s given me keyless access to his house. In case he and Emmy have decided to sleep in, or are otherwise engaged, I let us in without ringing the bell. The cat greets us at the door. While Bren strips down to a T-shirt, it meows like it’s starving to death then runs through the great room towards the kitchen. As we follow, I notice a nose-wrinkling, gassy, overripe-fruit smell. Very at odds with Emily’s housekeeping.
“Eww,” Bren says behind me. “Something’s gone off.”
It’s the cat, as it turns out. When we reach the kitchen, we find a half-chewed banana on the floor. The cat flops next to it, showing off its creamy belly, and more of the gassy smell fills the air.
“Sable,” Bren scolds. “You stinky kitty.”
The cat stretches hugely and purrs.
“I don’t think bananas are kitty chow,” I tell the cat, scooping the half-eaten banana off the floor.
“Bloody hell—” Logan’s footsteps thump across the hardwood behind us. “Please tell me that’s not your cooking, Mac.”
I shoot him the bird over my shoulder as the cat perfumes the air again.
“Fuck.”
“Can cats even digest bananas?” Bren asks, giving the cat a wide berth as she heads to the refrigerator.
“Not without difficulty,” I say.
“Daddy? Omi—gosh. Is that the garbage?” Emily asks as her light footsteps patter across the floor.
Bren snickers. “It’s your dumpster of a cat.”
“What? Oh, Sable, are you sick, boy?” Emily kneels next to her cat and rubs his tummy soothingly, which causes the stink to thicken.
