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

therapist says it’s helping me recover, and, since I’m weeks ahead of where the PT expected me to be, I’m not going to argue, even if I have to hold my nose to choke down some of Emily’s concoctions.

But I draw the line at dry, whole-wheat toast. At least put some bloody marmalade on it.

Emily chews ten times before she smiles at me. Such a good girl. She’s not holding a grudge over the discipline, or the orgasm denial afterwards. She never does. Which makes Rachel’s continued antagonism all the more aggravating. If Rachel had just once extended the olive branch, Emily would have taken it. They might never have been friends, but I wouldn’t need to exile Rachel and her master to bloody Jersey.

The drone of bees draws my attention back outside. Just like when Mum was alive. I love that Emily’s brought the bees back. I love this place. Full of memories, good and bad, but mostly good. And, with Emily here, we’re layering good memory on top of good memory.

It’s going to fuck me up if I have to sell this place to pay off the vultures. But I don’t see any other way.

My phone, face down on the table next to Emily’s, rings. Remembering the call from the bastard debt collector yesterday, I check the caller ID first.

Rick Errol.

I wipe crumbs off my fingers and accept the call. “Hey, mate.”

“Hey. How’s it going?”

“Better every day. Barely using the cane anymore. How’s things at your end?”

“All good. You sound strong, man,” he says.

“Yeah, I’m feeling good. What’s up?”

“If you’re feeling that much better, how ’bout we meet up at the gym today?”

Rick’s more of a poser than a lifter, but I don’t mind a low-key workout after yesterday’s physical therapy session. And it’ll get me thinking about something other than losing my parents’ house. “Sure, yours or mine?”

“Mine. Listen, don’t bring Emily, okay? Something I want to run by you.”

Rick’s been a client longer than he’s been a friend. I’ve done the security systems for both of his houses and run his security team at every major event, including the AVN Awards in Vegas, which are a bigger security nightmare than a Texas motorcade, for the past four years. He hasn’t given me a heads-up about any problems. He’s got a party coming up, but we’ve done dozens of them over the years. I don’t even do the physical security for his parties anymore. My business partner, Manny, handles the one-on-one detail and the building security people follow my plan. Maybe Rick’s looking at another house.

“No problem,” I say. “Eleven suit you?” That gives me plenty of time to finish breakfast and bathe my little girl before I have to jump on the train.

“Yeah, see you then.”

After I end the call, I thumb over into our calendar app and rearrange Emily’s schedule so she has free time while I go to the gym and move our morning playtime to the afternoon. “We’re still going to the park, little love,” I tell her. “It’ll just be after lunch instead of before.”

“Okay, Daddy. Can I invite some of the littles from my playgroup since we’re going in the afternoon? A couple of them have afternoons free.”

“Sure.”

Her phone pings as she’s notified of the update, but she leaves it face down on the table. No checking notifications while we’re eating; that’s the rule, and I know she’ll be on her absolute best behavior this morning after being disciplined.

“Do you still have time for my bath before you go?” she asks with an anxious frown. “It’s okay if you don’t.”

“I do.” Pleased she enjoys baths from Daddy so much that she’d worry about losing the treat, I tap the tip of her nose. “Lavender bubbles today, I think, and something pretty to wear to the park, since it’s a nice day.”

“But, Daddy, I’m a ninja. Ninjas wear black.”

“They do, huh?”

My favorite ninja wears red, but I’m not about to encourage Emily to emulate Elektra Natchios. Given what happened to Elektra’s lovers, that’s a recipe for disaster.

“Yeah. Black plus my vans because I want to skateboard. I’m a skateboarding ninja.”

I chuckle. “You’re a wild beanie is what you are. You can be a skateboarding ninja so long as you wear your helmet and pads.”

I’ve seen Emily skateboard a few times. It’s one of her million hobbies. Emily calls it her “scatter.” She hops from hobby to hobby, for just as long as each holds her interest. I think her scatter is adorable and love that she has so many hidden talents, but she’s embarrassed about being a “dabbler” in so many things and a master of so few.

As with many of her hobbies, she’s not a particularly proficient skateboarder, but she doesn’t try fancy flips or stunts. She’s happy just riding on the smooth concrete paths. Still, even at low speed, a fall off a moving object onto concrete could injure her. For the sake of her wearing protective equipment, I won’t risk it.

She makes a very un-ninja-like face. “Ninjas don’t wear helmets and pads, Daddy. Helmets and pads mess with cool ninja mojo.”

“Well, this little ninja wears her helmet and pads no matter what they mess with, or she’ll be a ninja with a very sore bottom.”

She gives me a scowl that makes her look like an angry koala. Too cute. “Ninjas don’t get paddled, Daddy.”

“Keep up the attitude, little ninja. You can have a pre-bath paddling, too.”

Her face screws up tighter. “A true ninja would hide Daddy’s evil paddle where he can never find it.”

“A true ninja would know that there are much, much worse things than Daddy’s paddle and be careful not to earn them.”

She peers at me speculatively while she does the plate ritual: stacking my silverware and napkin and tidying up any crumbs around my plate. “Like what? Enquiring ninjas want to know.”

It’s so hard to keep a straight face when she’s being this cute and playful. Ah, the trials of being a daddy. “Like being dressed