Daddy Shark Read online

  “If you’d asked about my penis, I would have.” Of all the things to come flying out of his mouth.

  Face slowly heating up all over again, Ommin watched while Britney’s eyes got huge and her eyebrows slowly arched all the way up toward her hairline.

  “Um, uh, well,” she stammered. “Those kinds of questions never quite made it onto my list…”

  “I appreciate that.”

  “I’m pretty sure if our situations were reversed, I would too.”

  He liked her for that. He also relaxed a little.

  “Still,” she said, “being as I am so new at this, if you would like your interview to be conducted by someone with more experience and, uh,” she both laughed and flinched as she confessed, “a wider listener base, then I would totally understand. In fact, the station has someone on standby—”

  “No,” Ommin said, surprising both of them with just how fiercely he declined. Clearing his throat, he reined it in, but his tone remained as firm as his rejection of that offer. “No, thank you. You’re going to do fine.”

  And by that, he meant she’d do fine for him. As an interviewer—not as like, say, a girlfriend, or something sleazy. Even though he’d already ogled her breasts and her legs and—ha ha—not that there weren’t plenty of other places in between that deserved a little ogling. But that was creepy and inappropriate behavior, and even socially awkward (not to mention newly-proclaimed) superheroes knew not to cross that line.

  Anyway, that’s how he meant it, and Britney’s already lovely smile blossomed into a grin, and her sea-green eyes sparkled as bright as sunlight on rippling waters. It could have been blinding.

  “Thanks,” she said.

  A crackle snapped through the headphones, followed by a male voice from the control room. “Ready when you guys are.”

  The other guy opened the door long enough to hand them both a cold bottle of water.

  Still beaming, Britney said, “We can break whenever you want to and, um… just in case I forget to tell you later on when it’s all over, thank you very much for giving me this opportunity.”

  “Not a problem.” Outwardly, Ommin shifted in his chair, cleared his throat, and stubbornly avoided looking at her. Inwardly, he might have fallen just a little bit in love. Which was tragic, because she was… oh man, with a box of cookies on the side, and he, well, he had to wait thirty minutes after a sea salt bath before going outside or he scared the tourists.

  The headphones crackled again and the voice said, “And we are recording in five… four… three…”

  Britney visibly braced herself, smoothing both hands over her questionnaire, but even in her obvious nervousness, she still flashed him a reassuring smile, which made her eyes scrunch and the bridge of her nose wrinkle. “You’re going to be great,” she mouthed silently, and God, if he didn’t fall in love all over again.

  “Good evening, folks,” Britney began, launching smoothly into what was obviously a well-rehearsed greeting toward all the non-existent potential callers who wouldn’t even be hearing parts of this tape until who knew when. Still it was everything Ommin could do not to watch the magic of her lips moving as she ran through her spiel, thanking radio sponsors before launching into a rundown of his—to hear her tell it—very heroic actions on the bridge. The next thing he knew, she was saying his name and every muscle in his stomach tightened in the most delicious twitch of sensation. “So please, Mr. Ommin Jones, tell us all about you.”

  His mind went utterly and completely blank. “Okay.” He floundered. “Starting where?”

  “Well, let’s start at the beginning.” Her smile was so beautifully relaxed. Dear God, he was a frog in the presence of a princess. “Where are you from?”

  “Earth,” he said firmly.

  “So, you’re a native San Franciscan?” she asked, her eyes sparkling.

  Jesus. Ommin caught himself before he cringed. Of course, she was asking what city he was from. Only an idiot would think planet. “Yes.” He could have kicked himself. “Born at Zuckerberg’s Hospital, the same as a lot of other perfectly normal babies.”

  He could have kicked himself for that too, especially when she, her smile gentling, next said, “But you’re not ‘perfectly normal,’ are you?”

  Had anyone else said that, he’d have bristled. He expected it. Hell, he waited for it, that slow irritation to crawl up his back and over his shoulders, except… it didn’t.

  “No,” he admitted. “No, I’m… not quite normal.”

  “Ommin,” she said, her smile drifting away, her beautiful oceanic eyes turning almost sad, “were you on that bridge because you were going to jump too?”

  Ommin startled. She looked so concerned for his mental health in that moment, he couldn’t even be upset that someone would jump to such an awful conclusion. He forgot about the headphones, the microphones, and the two guys sitting behind the window in the control room, sipping their coffee and watching them. He forgot everything, except Britney.

  “No. God, no. I’m not suicidal, I’m—” Suddenly realizing what he was about to reveal about himself, Ommin hesitated.

  Facing him instead of the table, Britney scooted her chair in closer. She left her notes in her lap and reached for his nearest hand, taking it in both of hers. Touching him. Comforting him. He couldn’t remember the last time anyone had done that. He liked it.

  He liked her.

  He liked her so much, one minute he was staring into those beautiful sea-mist green eyes of hers, and in the next, he was telling her things he’d never told another living soul. Not even his mother, back when she was still sane and still trying, between medication changes, to be his mother.

  “I was up on the bridge because the ocean, it… it calls to me,” he confessed. “As far back as I remember, it’s always called to me. But, uh… I don’t belong there any more than I belong here. The bridge is as close as I let myself get.”

  “The man you saved, he wasn’t the first, was he?”

  “He was the third.”

  “Ommin, what happened up there on that bridge? If you wouldn’t mind telling us, what was going through your mind?”

  Her fingers squeezed his, offering silent encouragement, and it had been such a long time since anyone had cared enough to ask. So Ommin told her. He told her everything.

  Chapter 2

  “Once again,” Britney said, in that soothing late-night talk radio voice that he was fast growing enamored with, “thank you, Ommin Jones, for your time and for your candor in talking with us tonight.”

  He tipped his head in a nod, before remembering the station’s listeners couldn’t hear that. “Thank you for having me.”

  “For those of you just getting up, good morning! And for all you third-shifters now winding down your day, drive safe if you’re still on the road, get some good sleep today, and I’ll be here for you all tomorrow night, from 2:00 am to 4:00. This is Britney Collins, KJMN San Francisco, signing off.”

  She looked back through the control room window, waiting until one of the guys gave her a brisk thumbs-up before snatching the headphones off her head. “Oh my God!” She erupted off her chair, green eyes dancing as she grinned at him. “That was the best interview I’ve ever done, and I’m not just saying that because it’s also the only interview I’ve ever done. You were fantastic!”

  Her smile made him smile too. He would have demurred on the praise, but she never gave him the chance. Her questionnaire gripped in her hand, she flung herself at him for a quick but exuberant hug that squished her breasts up against his chest and tickled his nose with what few wisps of blonde honeydew-shampoo-scented hair that had escaped her sloppy bun. She smelled good. She felt good.

  Don’t get a woody, he told himself desperately, but it was too late. She was hugging on his neck, which put his arm smack into the valley of her breasts. Like they were embracing him too. Two hugs in one. No amount of self-scolding could hope to counter that, and already he could feel that telltale tingling moving down into
his lower half.

  Both hugs were mercifully brief, but the damage was already done. When she pulled back, it got even worse, because that was when she realized what she’d done and her whole face turned the most beguiling shade of pink. She blushed so hard, it moved down her neck to stain the part of her chest that could be seen above her button-up blouse.

  “I’m so very sorry,” she stammered. “I, um… get excited and sometimes forget it’s a no-no to hug people in the workplace.” After brief consideration, she also added, “And when you’ve only just met them.”

  It was just as big a no-no to reply you can hug me anytime with a semi-hardon just now pushing back against the confines of his jeans.

  “It’s just that I was listening as you talked about your job and your life… your mom. It was all so… so touching, and poignant, and sad, and… and lonely.” Her smile fell and she sank once more into the chair opposite of him. “Oh my God, Ommin. How do you deal with being so lonely?”

  “I don’t mind being alone,” he quickly assured her. “In fact, the more reporters I find camped on my doorstep, the more I’m reminded just how much I’d rather be alone.”

  “Yes, but that’s reporters,” she said, casting that aside with a dismissive wave. “Replace every single one of those jerks with screaming, cheering, bounce-happy girls, every one of whom can’t wait to get their hands on Daddy’s shark-y bits, and I’ll bet being alone no longer has quite the same appeal.”

  Ommin blinked twice. “Daddy’s shark-y bits?”

  As if just realizing what she’d said, Britney’s blush deepened. “Did I say that out loud?”

  She cupped the side of her hot pink face, her jacket sleeve falling down just far enough for him to once more catch a glimpse of her tattoo. Not one word, but two—written in the loops and swirls of beautifully penned calligraphy—it quite simply read: Daddy’s Little.

  Daddy’s Little, what? He had no idea, but there was too big a gap of bare pale skin below the ‘little’ for there to be another word hidden beneath her sleeve.

  A knock interrupted them. Excusing herself, Britney went to stick her head out the door they’d entered through, holding a quiet conversation while Ommin ran through a very brief mental list of what he thought ‘Daddy’s Little’ might mean. ‘Daddy’s Little Monster’ was the first that sprang to mind, but if she was a Harley Quinn and Joker fan, then she hadn’t spelled it correctly. ‘Daddy’s Little Girl,’ except why had ‘girl’ been left off?

  His train of thought became utterly derailed, however, when Britney tapped him on the shoulder and softly said, “One of the station executives brought his kids in and they were wondering, if it’s not too big of an imposition, would you mind signing their autograph books?”

  All thoughts of ‘Daddy’s Little’ went straight out of his head, not to be seen or heard from again until long after he left the studio. Signing autographs was at once the most unnerving and yet exhilarating thing he’d ever experienced. Easing himself out of his chair, he approached that recording room door like a condemned man walking into his place of execution. It felt weird, to go from being someone who did everything he could to hide himself from public scrutiny, to being the guy two little girls—ages nine and eleven—stared wide-eyed and hopefully up at, while hugging their autograph books to their chests.

  He towered over them. Hoping to make himself less intimidating, he lowered to one knee, coming down to their level, and quietly took the first book offered to him. Britney provided him with a pen; he was so not prepared for this.

  “Stay in school,” he told the eleven-year-old. To the nine-year-old, his sage advice was, “Don’t do drugs,” and he mentally cringed as he said it, because literally the last time he’d talked to a child (apart from the first who’d asked for his autograph on the bus), he’d been one.

  “Can I touch your cheek?” the younger girl asked. Her dark hair done up in pigtails, and the way her big brown eyes stared up at him was strongly reminiscent of Britney, for some reason.

  He allowed it, turning his face so both could stroke him with their fingers.

  “It’s smooth,” the older said, looking up at her father.

  “I need saltwater to change,” Ommin told her.

  “There’s sea salt in the breakroom,” Britney suggested, and it was hard to tell who brightened up at the prospect more. Her, or the two little girls. “Would that work?”

  He’d never tried it, so he had no idea. But while he probably could have said no to the little girls, when Britney beamed that hopeful smile, there was no saying no to that. Which was how he found himself standing in the breakroom while she mixed water and sea salt in a paper cup.

  “How do we do this?” she asked once she was done. Uncertain, she offered it to him. “Do you need it all over, or…”

  Ommin didn’t take the cup. Instead, he dipped the tips of two fingers into the water. The change came over him like a ripple on a still pond, moving from the point of contact to roughen the back of his hand, spreading up his burly arm and across his shoulders, into his face and down across the rest of his body to the accompanying rasp of his scales scuffing the inside of his clothes.

  “Cool,” the little girls breathed in awe-filled unison.

  Taking his hand from the cup, he once more got down on one knee and offered his cheek. The little girls took turns, running their fingers on his sandpaper skin before, thanking him, and promising ice cream on the way home, the executive (officially now Dad of the Hour) took his girls and left. Leaving Ommin and Britney alone together in the station’s breakroom.

  “May I?” she all but whispered in her excitement.

  Rising to his feet, Ommin towered over her. Don’t get a woody again, he told himself, over and over as he offered her his cheek. One might just as well have commanded the sun not to rise, the earth not to turn, or the sea not to lap against the shore for all the good his self-censorship did him.

  From the moment her small hand cupped the side of his face, he was lost. The sensation was every bit as seductive as the ocean. It filled him, invigorated him; he closed his eyes, marveling at the caress of her fingers every bit as much as she seemed to marvel at the roughness of his sharkskin. As consumed as she was by her own full-body shiver when she took her hand away, she probably didn’t notice his.

  “It’s very different,” she said diplomatically, but she was smiling and he didn’t for a second think she was repulsed by him. Or scared. Or horrified. Her eyes stayed locked on his and she looked at him just as if he were like everyone else. Just a perfectly normal guy.

  Albeit with Daddy shark-y bits.

  “Thank you again,” she said. “For the interview.”

  “Thank you, again, for having me,” he replied, and because he didn’t want things to get awkward, he went ahead and left. He took two buses and walked four blocks, but the whole way home all he kept thinking about was Britney—how sweet she smelled, how good she felt, the caress of her hand as she explored his skin, and, of course, Daddy’s Little.

  There was a camp of three reporters, their accompanying cameramen, and what felt like thirty paparazzi but which was probably more like thirteen, waiting for him when he got home. Halfway to his third-floor apartment, he developed a special sympathy for every celebrity who’d ever slapped a camera out of some overzealous asshole’s hand. He was mobbed the entire way to his front door, and the only reason he didn’t join the ranks of those like Britney Spears, Adam Lambert and Woody Harrelson, was because sure as shit, for every one he swatted, there’d be fourteen others snapping pictures of it. He’d probably be the only person in history who made the ten o’clock news twice in the same night, but for vastly different reasons.

  Our top stories in the news tonight: New details surface in our investigation of Ommin Jones, the Sharkman who saved the lives of two suicidal jumpers off the Golden Gate Bridge. Immediately followed by: Sharkman Ommin Jones slapped the shit out of several pushy photographers outside his San Francisco apartment today.
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  Who knew, maybe Britney would want another interview for that.

  Probably not. So Ommin held on to his temper, squeezed past everyone and made it into his apartment. He had to shove everyone back to get the door closed, but after a few minutes of leaning against it, the question-shouting and door-pounding finally stopped. He liked the quiet. It let him think, and of course, the first thing that popped into his head was the puzzle of Britney’s tattoo.

  Well, God invented Google for a reason, didn’t He?

  Ommin headed to his laptop by way of the kitchen, where he got a bottle of water from the fridge and made himself a sandwich. He then sat down to see if he couldn’t figure out what Daddy’s Little might be short for. He surfed through the first few pages, munching on bites of sandwich and scrolling ever downward. Somehow, he didn’t think her tattoo had anything to do with the movies or books (or Harley Quinn) that Google suggested first. By the third page, they became a little more sexualized. Slightly pornographic, even. He began pulling up books from authors like Allysa Hart, Rayanna Jamison, Maggie Ryan, and Maren Smith. He even found a book by the exact title as her tattoo, and that’s when he put down his sandwich and began to take careful notes.

  ‘Daddy’s Little’ wasn’t short for something so much as it seemed to be a kind of subtle code. He pulled up book after book with Daddy in the title. In every one, Daddy was short for Daddy Dom and the Little was his submissive.

  Sandwich forgotten, Ommin stared at his laptop, reading one story description after another about Daddies who were loving, caring, nurturing, and mentoring. Daddies who fixed meals, provided toys and things called ‘stuffies,’ braided hair, picked out what clothes their Littles would wear, and who, basically, took care of their submissive’s every intimate need on a day-to-day basis. Daddies who said things like ‘good girl’ and ‘young lady, what did I just tell you’ and who grabbed hold of nipples, butt cheeks, and sometimes the ‘princess parts’ right between their Little’s legs before growling, ‘Who owns this?’ The answer in every sample he read was always ‘You do, Daddy.’