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

“Look at me,” I say gently, and when the big, hazel eyes, still a little tear-stained, lift to me, I stroke my knuckles down the side of her face. “Tell me your mantra.”

She takes a deep breath before she recites, “I belong to my daddy. Every inch of me. He holds me in his hands. I am safe with my daddy. Always and forever.”

I can see the mantra calm her. The pinching around her eyes smooths; her breathing slows. As much as my dominance and comfort allay her old fears, the mantra brings her back into the right headspace. Where she knows she’s safe and loved.

“Good girl. I’ll help you clean up the mess. We’ll move Sable’s litter box into the bathroom. That’s where my mother kept the cat’s litter box when Lizbeth had a cat. Sable might even be able to smell that still.” I stroke her cheek again and hold her eyes. “Then you’re going to come back in here and sit on the floor and put your hand under the couch to let Sable smell you again, so he calms down. You’re Sable’s person, baby doll. You need to relax so he can.”

She squares her little shoulders. “Sorry, Daddy. You’re right. I need to be calm for Sable. And moving the litter box into the bathroom is a good idea. I don’t know why I didn’t think of that.”

“Daddy has good ideas occasionally. C’mon, up you come.” I offer her my hand as I push to my feet. She sets the tips of her fingers in my palm but rises on her own. Which is probably a good thing since I’m sore after the physical therapy. Once we have the cat sorted, I’m putting on a game and crashing out on the couch. The Spanish have it right. A siesta is the only way to deal with an August afternoon.

Now that she’s calm, Emily deals with the pee-puddle efficiently, wiping it up, bagging the paper towels so they don’t stink up the garbage, then mopping the floor with one of her nontoxic, non-fish-killing vinegar mixtures. The smell’s gone by the time she leaves the damp patch to dry. I help her pick a good spot in the bathroom for the litter box, then lead her back into the living room. The cat’s out from under the couch and meowing, but when he sees us, he darts back under the couch.

“If he feels he made a mess, Sable might be nervous,” I tell her. “If you sit on the floor and offer him your fingers to sniff, that might calm him down.”

“Yes, Daddy.” She gives me a grateful smile before dropping to sit cross-legged on the floor beside the couch.

I stretch out on the sectional and flick on the telly. It’s a huge flatscreen that my sister and her husband gave me for my first Christmas in the house. I find the test cricket, England versus Australia, which will go on for several hours, and lower the volume so the surround-sound doesn’t scare Sable.

That allows me to hear Emily’s soft croons as she talks to the cat. “That’s a good boy, Sable. Everything’s okay. Daddy found a better spot for your litter box. He’s not mad. It’s okay.”

After several iterations of this litany, I hear the cat’s rusty purr.

I slide pillows behind my back and prop up my leg with others. It’s aching like a bad tooth. The sectional gives me good support, and within a few minutes, my body’s relaxed and my eyelids are drooping despite the game.

“Emmy,” I say softly. “Come up here.”

She rises and sits on the edge of the couch, then without being asked, climbs over me and snuggles down on my right side, sandwiched neatly between my body and the backrest. That’s where I want her. I tug down the neckline of her dress and slide off the nipple clamps one by one, rubbing the tips to help soothe the ache as the blood flows back. Once she stops whimpering, I pull her arm across my chest. “I need my beanie blanket.”

A soft, sleepy giggle. She doesn’t nap every day, but with me breaking up her sleep last night and our trip through the heat today, she’s probably happy to take one with me now. “One beanie blanket, coming up,” she whispers, snuggling.

The wave of emotion that tightens my chest is uncomfortable in its intensity, but I let it bite deep. This is what it’s all about. This is what I haven’t had with my other bottoms and lovers. This sense of peace and contentment. This is my reward. “Love you, little girl.”

“I love you, too, Daddy. Ta for everything. You’re the best daddy in the universe.”

Smiling, I let that thought, and the two hundred and forty runs we’re up over the bastard Aussies, carry me off to sleep.

* * *

I’m awakened by warmth on my chest, and the sounds of a motorboat engine in my ears. For a moment, I’m back in the Gulf of Aden, with the hard, African sun trying to fry my brains straight through my helmet and the gun boat bouncing beneath me. Eyes the translucent blue of the water, startling in his deep brown face, turn to me. Seaman Ernest Jones. He shouts and points, and then the side of his head dissolves in a spray of red.

I blink away the memory and meet a slit-eyed, golden stare. The rumbling gets louder, vibrating through my chest.

Lifting my hand from Emily’s shoulder, I wipe my sweaty face. With Emily limp against my side and the cat perched on my chest, it’s like sleeping in an oven, despite the breeze from the open French doors.

I’m not on a boat chasing Somalian pirates. I’m in my living room, in New York, safe and mostly whole, with my baby girl at my side, and her schizophrenic, one-eyed cat on my chest.

I hold my fingertips out to the cat the way Emily does, and