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

to shoot him down. Tell him all the reasons I can’t spend my day in a police station.”

Glory gives Rick a crimson-edged grin. “No such luck, cariño. But let’s talk about what you’re going to say.”

Manny returns while we’re strategizing. He gives me a quick head shake that tells me everything I need to know about the interview with the Castillos. He’ll send around a full report later and I’ll see if there’s anything I can tease out of it. I bring him up to speed on the decision to involve the police. As we’re falling back into strategizing, the alarm on my phone goes off, telling me I have to leave for the airport.

After ordering two Ubers, we say goodbye to Rick, Glory, and Manny. We aren’t alone in the elevator, so I have to settle for hugging my baby doll and whispering in her ear, rather than pinning her against the elevator wall the way I want. I release her from High Protocol, praise her, and savor the last few moments of peace.

On the street, I put our bags in Emily’s Uber, help her into her seat, and fasten her seat-belt for her. I linger, cupping her face in my hand, looking into those bright eyes, until the driver gets restless. Then I let her go and climb into my own car. After giving the driver the terminal number, I lean back in my seat and close my eyes. The first images on the back of my eyelids are the horror-show from that box, but I push those images aside, and call up the memory of Emily’s eyes, glittering with beautiful tears, as she looked up at me last night while she held my cock down her throat for a count of thirty. I hold that image close as the car heads towards the Midtown Tunnel.

* * *

I’m early. I always give myself an extra half-hour when I’m going to the airport. You never know what the traffic’s going to be like. I’ve got forty-five minutes to kill when I get to the International Arrivals lounge. I text Emily, email Max, fuck around on my phone, and go back to that wonderful image of Emily, all while a count-down ticks in my ears. It’s like tinnitus. Only this is a definite ticking. Tick-tick-tick. It’s not in time to my heartbeat or my breathing or anything else. It reminds me of that old Christmas Band Aid song where Bono sings about the clanging chimes of doom. The chimes of doom are ticking away in the back of my head, counting down the minutes until Miranda walks through the security doors.

It’s anti-climactic when she actually does. She’s moving slowly, weighed down by her belly and the suitcase rolling in her wake. Despite the belly, a lot of eyes in the crowd linger on her. Even off a long flight, and very, very pregnant, she looks like a movie star. Not one of Rick’s heavily augmented friends, but a blonde bombshell from the Golden Age of Hollywood: Bridget Bardot or Lana Turner.

Too bad her beauty was only ever skin deep.

I hold my hand out for her luggage, but when she leans in to try to kiss me, I step back.

Her face freezes, blue eyes chill.

“I haven’t seen you in seven months and I don’t even get a kiss?” she asks. She’s got her let’s-spend-the-day-in-bed voice going already.

“No, you don’t.” I want to make my boundaries very clear, even if I have to do it in the airport.

She reaches up and runs her fingers through the short shag of my hair. My skin should crawl at her touch, but it doesn’t. Only my conscience recoils.

“At least this has grown back,” she says. “I hated seeing you shorn.” Her fingertips slip down and linger on the long scar on my forehead. “My poor darling.”

Miranda always could make me self-conscious. I move away from her touch and the reminder of my injury.

“I’m fine. Come on, we’ll take a cab to your hotel.”

“My hotel?” She laughs, high and false. “Darling, surely you don’t expect me to stay in a hotel?”

“Yes, I do.” I take the handle of her luggage and turn towards the exit. She slips her arm through mine. I stop.

“Miranda, stop touching me. I mean it.”

She sidles a step away. “Are you going to be this unreasonable the whole time I’m here?”

I’m tempted to simply snap “yes” at her and walk away, but I’m afraid that would just encourage her to chase me harder.

“You want to do this here? Okay. Let me lay it out. I am not your lover anymore. I am not your Master. I’m not even your friend. As far as I’m concerned, you’re a liar and a thief and a rapist, and I don’t want a liar, thief, and rapist touching me. Is that clear enough?”

Her chin trembles, but her eye stay dry. She doesn’t even flush. Reaching Miranda’s true emotions always was like digging for gold. Nothing’s changed.

“I can’t believe you just said that,” she stage-whispers.

There is so fucking much more I could say.

“Ready for that taxi now, or is there other dirty laundry you’d like to air?” I sweep my free arm around at the crowd, most of whom are ignoring us, but there are a couple of curious stares.

“Taxi,” she says, her mouth a tight, white line that she has to force the word through.

“Good.” I move towards the exit, taking shorter strides than I’d like because my leg has seized from the tension and I didn’t bring my damn cane. Miranda keeps pace beside me, smoothing her hands over the prominent baby bump under her floral maxi-dress. Trust Miranda to look chic even in her third trimester.

The taxi rank is mercifully full and we’re in the back seat of a cab with the air-conditioning blasting at us before I have a chance to sweat through my shirt. Miranda has already wilted. She dabs at her temples before misting herself with a little spray