Lag (The boys of RDA #2)(76)
Why are people so f*cking lazy these days? What happened to work ethic?
My parents made damn well sure all their children understood the importance of a hard-day’s work and always giving it one hundred percent. I guess that kind of thing just isn’t instilled in people anymore. It shouldn’t surprise me really, the degradation of society, not when I see the degenerates who always manage to find their way in here, despite my best efforts to keep the club clientele upscale.
Byron and the vendor move to the back of the truck and start unloading several handcarts-full of cases of beer at a time. At least I can always rely on Byron to get the job done.
I return to the paperwork on my desk but barely have time to regain my train of thought before my office door flies open, slamming against the wall.
Instinctively, I reach under my desk, wrapping my hand around the grip of the Sig Sauer 1911 Scorpion I keep mounted there. I look up, expecting to find one of Domenico Abello’s thugs, because, surely, that would be the only person capable of making it past both Gabe and Byron to end up in my office unannounced.
My breath catches in my throat when, instead of a burly threat, my eyes land on what I can only describe as a Victoria’s Secret model. An enraged one.
She is furious—the fire in her stormy blue eyes and her scowling red lips are a dead giveaway. With a toss of her long, wavy blonde hair behind her shoulder, she thunders into my office as if she owns the place.
I track her progress across the room, taking in her polished appearance—from her French-manicured nails, thousand-dollar bag, and Burberry trench down to the four-inch Louboutin stilettos that make her long, elegant legs extend beyond comprehension as she clicks across the wood floor with purpose.
My cock hardens instantly and, despite my surprise at my body’s reaction to her, I steel my expression and shift uncomfortably in my chair.
Damn. This woman is livid, and hot as f*cking hell.
I doubt she’s a threat, though—to anything but my libido—so, I remove my hand from the gun and surreptitiously slide it to my crotch to adjust my erection before reclining and watching her speculatively. Despite this being my office, my domain, I wait patiently for her to say something. I see a hint of uncertainty and maybe discomfort beneath her diamond-hard demeanor.
“Are you the owner?”
She stops several feet short of my desk, props her hands on her shapely hips and huffs in defiance. Her voice is level and steady when she asks the question, but her eyes give her away. They roam over me with blatant interest and the slight flush on her neck and cheeks only confirm my suspicion—she’s checking me out.
I relax in my chair and school my features, trying to hide my amusement. I answer her question with a nod. “I am, and you might be?”
“Danika Eriksson.” She tosses her name at me like a poison dart and her bravado impresses me despite my uncertainty about her purpose here.
Do I know her? Should I be recognizing her name? No, I would remember a woman like her.
Movement in the open door catches my eye and I see Gabe, my best friend, right-hand man, and business partner eyeing Ms. Eriksson with concern. I wave him off with a look and he nods his understanding before disappearing down the hall. “What can I do for you, Ms. Eriksson?”
She crosses her arms over her chest in a huff, which only succeeds in pushing her abundant breasts higher on her chest.
Not helping the raging hard-on situation, lady.
“You can tell me where the hell you get off tricking young, innocent girls into selling themselves like slabs of beef in your disgusting club.” She spits the words at me, completely, unabashedly unafraid to insult me and my business, while standing right in front of me and looking me in the eye.
I struggle to withhold a grin at her audacity as I lean forward, resting my elbows on the edge of the desk.
“I can assure you, Ms. Eriksson, that none of my employees are ‘tricked’ into doing anything.”
She scoffs and shifts her weight, drawing my attention back to her impossibly long, shapely legs. The woman must be at least five foot seven without those heels on. With them, she towers over me in all her elegant glory.
“Bullshit…” She searches my desk for a nameplate, then looks at me again when she doesn’t find one.
The corner of my mouth quirks up before I can stop it. “Savage, Savage Hawke. But please, call me Savage, and just what is it you think you know about my employees?”
“Savage?” Her eyes narrow and then she rolls them. “Your parents honestly named you Savage Hawke?”
This isn’t the first time someone has questioned my name, or that my name has left me the butt of some joke. “Yes, they did. It’s a family name.” My gaze naturally drifts to the framed photo on the corner of my desk. It was my father’s second-to-last fight. He’s standing in the center of the ring in Madison Square Garden, the WBA heavy-weight championship belt around his waist, and I’m hoisted above his head, both of us smiling in his victory. I was ten.
She follows my stare and when she sees the photo, her eyebrows pop up in recognition. “Wait, your father is Sam ‘The Savage’ Hawke?”
Stunned doesn’t even begin to describe how I feel, hearing my dad’s name from her. It takes me a moment to shake off my surprise, but eventually, I manage a smile and nod. “I’m surprised you recognize him.” I lean forward to grab the photo and turn it around so she can see it more clearly.