Page 92 of Dirty Discipline, Vol. 2

Marco

Marco

The day had been long and filled with annoyance. Usually, I enjoyed my job as a partner in a small but prestigious law firm. Usually I did not question my choice of careers, but every so often, one thing after another, each more irritating or unnecessarily difficult, piled up and had to be dealt with. Today was that day. I’d made not one but three trips to the court because of lost filings or other issues caused by the new clerk who meant well and was very sweet, but who was going to single-handedly be responsible for someone with a parking ticket going to death row if they didn’t learn their job soon. One trip was to get a pro bono client released as ordered by the court when there were no signs of movement within the system to do so. A non pro bono client wanted an immediate appointment—as in today—and since their business helped keep our doors open, by the time I was ready to leave, I was stick-a-fork-in-me done.

Not usually one for takeout, I made an exception and a left turn into the Fish Shanty’s drive-through, ready to treat myself to some greasy, delicious fish and chips. I could run an extra mile tomorrow, if the rain let up, but for tonight, I deserved the comfort food. With that in mind, I added a bowl of chowder at the pickup window. The car smelled amazing, and I snuck a fry as I pulled into my parking spot at the rear of the building.

Before getting out of the car, I studied the back of the structure. The dumpster provided a scenic view, but it wasn’t the real problem. My great-uncle had tried to keep things up, but in his later years, he’d let some maintenance go, and the place was going to need some work as soon as I could arrange it.

If I kept it. When I learned the old man had left it to me, my first thought had been to turn it over as quickly as possible, until a realtor friend advised me otherwise. She said that the repairs and upgrades would be far exceeded by the profit I could make selling it after doing those things. Also, that once it was in good shape, maybe I’d want to keep it. With an on-site manager, it would be nearly passive income.

For now, the on-site manager was me. And nearly every day when I came home, there was something needing attention. As I darted across the alley and into the back entrance, I muttered a prayer that today would be the rare one when nobody needed anything. My day job was not physically strenuous, but mentally it could wear me out.

I arrived at my door, my great-uncle’s former unit, to find a tenant already waiting there. A wet tenant. And one who brightened my day every time he said hello. “Didn’t we already meet this way? Have you been out in the rain again? Fred needs to get quicker—you’re soaked to the skin.”

He perched his hands on his hips and let out a huff of air. “This is not Fred’s fault. Or the rain.”

“No, but then…” Oh hell. “Is there a leak somewhere?” Because, of course, there was. I didn’t really have to ask to know. I raised a hand in surrender. “Show me.” I normally would have taken time to change into jeans and a T-shirt, but judging by the sheer soakedness of my favorite tenant, time might be of the essence here. I could always change once I got a look at the disaster. Because it had to be a disaster. Nobody got that way from a teensy drip from a faucet.

Riggs’ sneakers squished and squeaked as we crossed the hall, and no sooner had he opened his door than I could hear it.

“Is your shower on?”

“Only the one from the ceiling.” He was nearly vibrating with upset, and I couldn’t blame him. Nobody wanted to be soaked with water coming from above. Who even knew what kind of water it was? Toilets had been known to overflow after all.

I waved at Fred who lay in his bed, bone dry and utterly undisturbed by whatever had happened to his master. I looked in the bathroom and could see the problem immediately. Or at least enough to determine it wasn’t an overflowing sanitary problem at least. “Mrs. Jones must have left her water running in the sink or tub.” She was at least ninety and a little absent-minded, but so far nothing like this had happened.

“Oh.” Every bit of anger or irritation was gone. “I hadn’t thought of that. I was so shocked. Do you think she’s all right? We need to go check on her.” And he was gone, squishy sneakers pounding up the stairs.

Riggs was my favorite for a good reason. Of course, he paid his rent on time, but so did most of the others. No, this man was known throughout the building for his kindness. I set my bag of takeout down on the desk and darted after him, stopping only long enough to grab my pass keys in case Mrs. Jones was in distress and unable to get to the door.

Ten minutes later, we were on our way back downstairs, and I already had my cell phone out making calls. Mrs. Jones had answered the door puzzled by Riggs’ pounding and couldn’t have been sorrier for all the upset when she realized what had happened. “I was going to take a bath, and then my granddaughter called. You know the one? Cynthia? She’s finishing up her PhD at…”

I left him listening while I dashed into the bathroom and turned off the faucets, opened the drain, and grabbed all the towels I could find to sop up as much of the water as possible. My realtor friend had hooked me up with lots of useful services, one of which I called now to deal with the mess and bring in big fans and all the things they knew to do that I wouldn’t have had the time or knowledge for.

Mrs. Jones had two bathrooms and promised not to use this one until the people came to dry it out, and I believed her. Younger people than her had forgotten they’d left a tub running. Back downstairs, I helped Riggs do as much cleanup as possible. The ceiling had not caved in or even been in danger of it, so far as I could determine, but the service people would check that as well as finish the drying process.

Having done what I could, I left Riggs wringing out the last of the towels and stopped to grab my no-doubt cold and greasy dinner when I noticed a composition book open on the desk. I will be a good boy. I will be a good boy.

I hadn’t been a daddy all my adult life without recognizing lines when I saw them. A glance up showed rows of the same type of books, all with different covers, on the shelves. I didn’t touch them, but I didn’t need to.

He emerged from the bathroom with an armload of wet towels and saw me standing there. I couldn’t hide what I’d seen, pretend I hadn’t. Or I might have, but I didn’t want to. The shy man, my favorite tenant, the person who made me smile every time I ran into him…he needed a daddy.

And I just happened to be one. One who wanted to make him smile, too.

Chapter 3

Riggs

Arms laden with towels, I stepped out of the bathroom. “I cleaned up as best as I could with what I had but…” My gaze fell to the book he was looking at, and my stomach dropped. He wasn’t supposed to see that. Nobody was. Nobody who wasn’t my daddy.

And since I didn’t have one…

“Can you help me with these?” I wanted to distract him from my lines…to make him forget he ever saw them.

Marco’s presence cried out daddy. Everything about him shouted it from the way he held himself, to the way he showed his approval with a single glance, to the way he didn’t freak out at the woman who made my bathroom rain. But he was my landlord and, even if he was a daddy, he liked women. How did I know this? Because I paid attention—probably too much so.

“Sure. Where do you want them?” he asked without skipping a beat, crossing the room to take them from my arms. He was so close, and yet I was unable to smell his aftershave, thanks to the stupid wet towels. “The basement?”

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