8. Chapter 8
H e was going to kill Travis.
Jeff knelt by the tub, carefully rinsing the soap from her hair.
It was their second bath. The water had turned nasty the first time he'd washed her—all the dirt, burrs and twigs that she'd picked up from working the illegal pot farm, not to mention the long walk she'd ended her day on, having colored the water beyond what anyone could get clean in.
Her clothes were in the wash. The doctor had come and gone, and although she had broken down crying all over again when Doc announced he was starting her antibiotics routine with a shot of the good stuff to her hip, her fussing had been more like that of any Little faced with having to bare her bottom for a shot.
"She's beyond tired," Jeff had told Doc Johnson, even as he'd pulled her up out of the newly drawn fresh water.
With a towel laid over his lap, he lay her over his knees, catching her wrist and pinning it to her waist when she tried to protest. She was too exhausted—too broken in body and spirit—to offer any kind of effective fight.
Shaking his head, Doc gave her the shirt before pinning Jeff with a knowing look.
"You say that as if you think I don't know what kind of kinky fuckery you get up to.
You forget, I took care of Sheila when she fell off that ladder back when you two were still together. I saw the marks you put on her ass."
Heat touched his cheeks, but it wasn't the Doc's fault that he wasn't in the mood for even the slightest bit of teasing.
"She knew better. Ladders are my job, especially when I’m with a little girl who could trip over sunbeams."
"Lord knows I've been tempted to wallop my wife's sitter a time or two, but you're lucky I know you so well. If I'd thought for a second you'd walloped Sheila without… what do these young people call it, consent?"
"You'd have socked me one?" Jeff guessed.
"I wouldn't have stopped until I had your badge and you were in jail," the older man corrected, then pointed at her feet. "So, who did that?"
"Travis," he returned. "You going to stop before he’s in jail?"
Gathering his things, Doc handed him a short stack of prescriptions to get filled. "Call me. Because I will testify."
That had been, what… Jeff looked at his watch… fifteen minutes ago? He was definitely going to include Doc's statement when he arrested Travis, but that was for tomorrow. Tonight, he had more important things to worry about.
Making sure all the soap and shampoo was out of her hair, he pulled the plug so the tub could drain and reached for a towel.
Sitting on the closed toilet lid, he lay it across his lap and pulled her up, dripping and all, to sit on his knees.
He dried her with another towel, squeezing the extra drops from her hair before gently running a brush through the tangles.
Making sure there were no burrs hidden in her tresses, he wiped her face one more time, then looked at her.
She remained silent and withdrawn, but unlike before, his confidence that at least she was aware of him was growing. She was ignoring him, but at least she was aware.
It was also strange, because although seemingly determined not to engage with him, she was making no effort at all to hide her suddenly all too apparent Little side.
Her head was down, and her thumb in her mouth. She didn't look at him or move in any way to hide her nakedness as he dried her.
"Are you hungry?" he asked.
She nodded without taking her thumb out of her mouth.
Grilled cheese, applesauce… he didn't know if he had any cookies. Sheila had loved frosted animal crackers with sprinkles. Once upon a time, he used to have a cupboard full of them, but not so much since they'd parted ways.
He might have some Oreos somewhere.
Wrapping the towel around her, he carried her out to the living room couch. Turning on the TV, he handed her the remote. "I'll be right back with your jammies."
She didn't answer.
"Will you be okay until I get back?"
She sucked her thumb.
He hesitated, but the Daddy in him knew exactly how he should proceed.
"I'll be right back." He didn't think she'd wait until he was out of the room before making an attempt at escape, but better safe than sorry.
"Don't move from this spot or—“ He almost said ‘or Daddy's going to be cross with you,’ but stopped himself in time.
She'd carried that particular burden long enough.
"Daddy doesn't want to have to punish his good little girl," he said instead. "Stay right here."
She didn't acknowledge him, but she didn't move either.
He didn't feel good about leaving her on her own, so he made it as quick as he could.
Sheila had taken pretty much everything when they’d amicably parted, but he still had a few things and he found the best of them almost right away—a brand-new binky in a beat-up package that he had no problem ripping apart.
This would be better for her teeth than her thumb, and certainly better for her blisters.
He dug around until he found two more sippy cups and a set of Little Mermaid dishes, complete with plastic utensils.
He also found a bottle, a partial package of diapers, and a bunny hat with long paws that dangled past the shoulders and ears that flapped when the paws were pulled.
Sheila's old crib was half buried under storage boxes in the backroom, which would make it difficult to get ready for tonight.
He'd sleep on the couch, he decided, and put her to sleep in his bed.
His arms laden with a bunch of Little things he wasn't even sure she'd want, much less need, he headed for the living room to find the couch empty.
Because, of course it was.
He found her in the kitchen, sitting bare naked on the floor in front of a wide-open fridge, his mostly empty jug of milk resting between her splayed legs.
That she'd drunk straight from it was as clear as the frothy mustache on her upper lip.
When she saw him, she wrapped her arms around the jug and hugged it to her stomach.
Dropping his armload on the counter, he bent to hook two fingers in the handle and lightly pulled. She didn't let go.
"Let Daddy have the milk and I'll pour you some."
He pulled again, gently increasing pressure until she reluctantly let go. She sniffled.
"Hang on," he soothed as she folded in on herself, hugging her legs now and rocking slightly as her breathing turned to crying.
He had nothing with which to make her a bottle.
What he did have, however, were a few oatmeal-flavored protein drinks.
These made quick convenient lunches when he didn't have time for breaks in the day.
They also were better than just plain milk when it came to little girls and any current lack of their nutritional needs.
Rinsing out the bottle and washing the lid, he poured the protein drink into it. Recapping, he shook it once, and then held it out to her.
The look she gave it was as mutinous as they came. She was tired, she was hurt, and he was more than willing to draw on all his stores of patience until she became more like herself again.
She didn't know what she was doing, he reasoned. For sure, she didn't know what she was doing to him.
Stop looking at her like this, he told himself sternly. The last thing he needed to have was an erection right before he picked her up. Or worse, the last thing he needed was for her to notice he had one.
She wasn't his. She was a victim. A member of society that he had sworn to protect and serve.
The protecting part wasn't going to be hard.
It was burning, raging inside him, the need to protect, forced onto a back burner for the moment.
Serving wasn't hard either, not when his Daddy Dom side was roused like this.
That's the part that was going to hurt him.
This didn't feel like a job. Try though he did, he couldn’t make himself adhere to the rules of professionalism.
Not when he stood holding a bottle out to Tabby, already at least ten years his junior, and yet lost right now in a headspace that was so much younger.
I didn't know the car was stolen…
And for that, her father had walked away and left her to deal with the world entirely on her own?
"Drink your bottle," he cajoled, but she wouldn't take it.
She looked at the milk and whimpered.
"You can have all the milk you want after you drink your bottle."
In a flash, the whimper was gone and mutiny once more darkened her eyes. She scowled, her hands flopping into her lap.
She glowered up at him. She didn’t say a word, but nuances of 'no’ were all over her face when he offered the bottle. She turned away.
His palm itched to deliver a well-placed swat.
In the headspace she was in, she would accept it.
She might even want it, but she had already endured so much today.
What she needed most right now were cuddles, not spanks.
He could be patient while she acted out her pain and frustration.
Needs of all kinds came always before wants.
Setting the bottle on the counter, he bent to pick her up.
She whined again, but didn't fight him. Wrapping her legs around his waist and her arms around his shoulders, she held on, even dropping her head to rest on his shoulder before popping her thumb in her mouth to suck. The doctor had bandaged both her hands in a lot of white tape and gauze. The last thing she needed was to get it all wet or to suck out the antibiotics he’d put on her popped blisters.
Humming a soft lullabye, he carried her to the living room couch, setting her down in the center before placing the bottle on the end table and gathering her into his arms. He turned her on her bottom so her back was to him, then drew her down to lie half in his lap while he cradled her.
This time when he offered her the bottle, he did it with her in a comfortable feeding position and he was no longer interested in her holding it for herself.