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

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Rick’s as little into the exercising part of going to the gym as I remembered, but his sweat-wicking, slim-fit, “Soul Gangsta”-logoed tracksuit could pay off a good bit of my medical bills. I’m tempted to knock his green, probiotic sport smoothie down his front.

I’m also tempted to ask him for a loan.

I ignore both temptations. Dumping the smoothie on his poser-wear would be satisfying, but Rick doesn’t take being the butt of jokes well. Asking him for the loan would be humiliating, and realistically, I don’t have any way to pay him off without selling the house anyway. If I’m going to lose the house, I’d rather do it without crucifying my pride.

Moving to an apartment, or if I want to be brutally realistic, to Emily’s house in Syracuse, isn’t the worst thing. Yes, I’ll miss the City and Blunts and my friends, who rallied around after my injury in ways that I never expected. But Syracuse isn’t a bad place, and there’s the train, so we can still come into the City when we have a free weekend. Rebuilding my business in a new city will keep me occupied, and out of Emily’s hair. There’s nothing like Blunts in Syracuse, or anywhere, if I’m honest, but there are dungeons and private parties. We’ll be fine.

Or so I tell myself.

“Are you spotting me or what?” Rick grouses, yanking me out of my thoughts.

He barely needs spotting since even if the bar dropped on his head it wouldn’t make much of an impression. But I dutifully slide my hands under the bar, take the weight, and settle it back on its props. With a huge sigh, like he’s lifted Atlas’s fucking burden, Rick sits up on the bench, rotating his shoulders.

I cock a thumb at him. He relinquishes the bench.

I slide another two plates on the bar before I lie down.

“Fuck, man, I thought you were in rehab,” Rick says as I begin presses.

“Physical therapy, not rehab, you git. I was injured, not drunk.”

“Yeah, right, same thing.” Rick sucks down his smoothie like he’s in desperate need of rehydration.

It’s really not, but I’m not going to argue with him.

“It took me a couple of weeks to build back up to where I was,” I say. “But I’m good now.”

I probably have Emily’s kale smoothies to thank for that, at least in part. I’ve been liberal with her rewards, but I need to do something big to show her how much everything she’s done has meant to me. I’ve been kicking around an idea: a day in bed, watching her favorite movies, and getting orgasms from Daddy. A Lazy Baby Day. If she likes it, we’ll do it every couple of weeks. My undivided attention for a full day is a big reward for her.

I’m just not sure whether it’s big enough.

“Then what are you still doing it for?” Rick asks.

“The physical therapy? Nerve damage in my leg.”

That’s the simple version. The more complex version has been explained to me several times, both by the neurosurgeon in San Diego and my PT here, but it boils down to the same thing: the area in which my brain was damaged severed the connection to some of nerves in my left leg. Like bad electrical wiring. I’ve gotten a lot of my mobility back in six weeks, but I still have moments of weakness and instability when my leg doesn’t do what I want it to.

“I want to be able to run again,” I tell him. And climb stairs without a cane, and throw Emily around like she weighs nothing, which she barely does, but I’m still too unstable to pick her up without risking falling and hurting us both, which is pissing me off.

“You can’t run now?”

“Not very far,” I admit. I managed two miles on my treadmill three days ago, but I was so stiff and unsteady the next day I could barely get out of bed.

“Good. Treadmill next.”

Prick. Even straight out of the hospital, I could still take him.

“Sure,” I say.

“How are you doing scenes with Emily if you’re still in rehab?”

For starters, I don’t need to run miles to top my little girl.

“It’s physical therapy and there are plenty of things I can do without straining my leg. Besides, topping’s ninety percent mental.”

“Fifty percent at best,” Rick says.

That’s because he’s doing it wrong, but I don’t bother to correct him. He’s an international porn star. He tops beautiful women on and off the set every week. Why would he listen to me?

“What’s this thing you wanted my input on?” I ask to shift the topic of conversation.

Rick’s face creases. Not as adorably as Emily’s when she’s doing her angry-koala impression, either.

“I’ve been holding off getting you involved until you got better. And, well, for a while, Glory thought it was good publicity. The hits on my site went through the roof. But . . . it’s fucked, man. I can’t stand to go online anymore, and a couple of producers are pissed-off. Daisy canceled a shoot on me yesterday. She says she’ll make it up to me once the shit’s died down, but you know what it’s like. Lose momentum now and I may never get it back. I’m not getting any fucking younger.”

“Or better looking,” I agree.

“Screw you, man.”

Chuckling, I finish my set. Rick doesn’t want another turn on the bench, so we hit the treadmills. I program a hill walk that will really stretch my leg, which is what the PT says will give me back stability and strength.

Rick jogs for less than five minutes before he drops to a walk and paces beside me.

“It started a couple of weeks ago with some bullshit on Twitter,” he tells me. He keeps his voice low, but there’s no one close enough to hear, particularly not over the electronic techno bullshit the gym’s blasting. “A hashtag called RespectABitch.”

I’m not sure how that’s respectful. I’ve never been able to call a woman a bitch, even during scenes. My