The Daddy P.I. Casefiles: The First Collection by Frost, J (great novels .txt) 📕

had your IUD taken out last September. That was three fucking months before you—”

He goes silent and I cup my hands over my mouth to keep from gasping as the implications of his words sink into my sleep-fuzzy brain. He’s gotten someone pregnant. Of course, he has. I mean, he’s slept with nearly five hundred women. It’s just basic math, isn’t it?

His voice booms again. “You don’t get to make that decision for me! I’ve always been straight with you. I told you I didn’t want to take any risk as long as you were married to Colin. Fuck, I even offered to get a vasectomy just to be safe. And now you might’ve made me a father without my goddamn consent!”

Oh, God. He’s talking to Miranda. He must be. Unless he was sleeping with multiple married women?

“We are not talking about this later!” he roars. “Because I’m not going to see it any other way! You used me. You broke my trust and you used me. That is not okay in a straight relationship, but it is particularly not okay in ours!”

He slams something. The flimsy door rattles. Maybe I should get back in bed? I don’t want him to open the door and catch me eavesdropping. I can’t even imagine the punishment for that.

I’m sliding back towards the bed when I hear him growl, “Sure, Mir. I’m the asshole. You paint it that way. And, yes, I am insisting on a paternity test—or what? Or I will drag you through the fucking courts. I’m not fucking around with you. Your husband is a nutjob who threatened to kill the baby if it’s mine. And you are a fucking liar who stole my goddamn DNA without my consent. You will be getting a paternity test, by a lab of my choosing, so you can’t fuck with the results—that’s right, that’s what we’ve come to. I trust you that little. Goodbye, Mir.”

I stuff my knuckles in my mouth and hesitate half-way between my door and the bed. Should I knock? Go in and try to soothe him? Or does he want to be left alone? I don’t know him well enough to say. I don’t want to make a mistake and make him angry. Angrier. God, he must be furious at her. He sounded it, but Logan’s always contained, always in control, so he probably wasn’t expressing half of his rage.

I want to be left alone when I’m angry, but that’s me. Logan’s not an antisocial troll like my brother always called me. And talking to Logan about my mother actually did make me feel better. And he wanted me with him when he was dealing with all those horrible feelings about his sister. He said I helped. I can at least offer.

Hesitantly, I knock.

Logan can’t have been far away from the door because he opens it immediately. “Emmy? Did I wake you?”

His angry voice could wake the dead, but I don’t say anything about it because he looks so, so tense. Just like at the airport. His shoulders are knotted under his shirt. His forehead is drawn into tight creases and his hair’s spiky like he’s been pushing his hands through it.

What can I do? What will take away his tension and make him feel better? I can’t go through that hollow sex again, but surely he doesn’t need that this time? He’s angry and frustrated, but not dealing with terrible guilt. This is simpler. It’s about trust.

If I show him how much I trust him, how much I want to submit to him, will that help? He said my submission was beautiful.

I drop to my knees, then press my forehead to the carpet between his bare feet and cup my hands around his ankles. “Daddy, can I rub your feet?”

He grunts. “Sure, baby.”

I rise and guide him to the edge of the bed so he can sit, then trot into my bathroom and retrieve a bottle of coconut oil that I use on the dry skin on my elbows and knees. Moving reminds me that I’m still plugged. Stanley is becoming really uncomfortable now, but Logan’s pain is more important than a little butthurt. And my daddy won’t forget. He’ll take Stanley out before the stupid boulder destroys my sphincter.

I hope.

When I return to him, Logan’s sitting with his elbows propped on his thighs, rubbing his fingers over the bridge of his nose. He looks so sad.

I spread a towel between his feet, pour a little oil into my palm, rub my hands together to warm the liquid, and pick up his left foot. I stroke the oil over his skin before I rub, so there’s no uncomfortable friction.

Keeping my eyes on what I’m doing, I say softly, “I couldn’t help but overhear. I’m so sorry. Do you want to talk about it?”

Logan sighs. His warm hand descends, and he strokes my sleep-damp hair. “Not much to talk about, baby doll.”

He doesn’t want to talk about it. That’s fine. I can’t blame him. He just found out his former sub lied to him in a monumental way and might have made him a father. He sounded less than elated at the prospect. He said he’d been willing to get a vasectomy; maybe he doesn’t want kids at all. That would make me sad. I want kids at some point, with the right person. But it’s ridiculous even thinking about kids with a man I’ve only known for a week—even though I already know Logan would be the world’s most amazing father.

I concentrate on rubbing each toe, the pad of his foot, the instep. By the time I reach his heel, the rigid tendons and muscles under my fingers have softened slightly.

“How much did you hear, Emmy?” he asks.

“I heard about an email and her IUD being removed and you maybe being the father and a paternity test,” I say carefully, trying to distill all the pain I heard down to the barest bones.

“Yeah, that’s right.”

He falls silent again.