Lag (The boys of RDA #2)(77)
In my thirty years on this planet, I don’t think I’ve ever met a single woman who knew who my father was. Men, on the other hand, gape in awe when they find out my lineage. I guess it just goes with the territory of being the son of a heavy-weight champ, and one who died the way he did.
She takes a step closer to me, bending down slightly to get closer look at the photo. “Holy shit! I can’t believe you are ‘The Savage’s’ son! Of course I know who he is. My dad was a huge boxing fan. I grew up watching your dad’s fights from my old man’s lap.”
“That’s great.” And very unexpected. I’m not quite sure what to say. Talking about my father is always bittersweet.
Her smile and astonishment fade and she glances at me apologetically. “Shit, I’m sorry…” Before she finishes her thought, she seems to realize she’s been sidetracked from her intended purpose. She straightens herself, squares her shoulders, and I can tell she’s ready to get back to business.
“Well, Savage,” she says my name like it’s a four-letter word, “I would very much appreciate it if you kept your sleazy hands off my baby sister.”
Bingo!
She isn’t the first, and she certainly won’t be the last, person to find their way into my office on their high horse, accusing me of taking advantage of some innocent little sister, cousin, or friend.
“And who is your baby sister?”
Her face scrunches in disgust at my inability to immediately make the familial connection.
“Nora Eriksson, she started shaking her ass and tits for you almost three weeks ago.”
The way she throws the words “ass and tits” at me, I have to cover my mouth with my hand to hide my grin. This woman is all attitude and it is sexy as f*ck, although I have no idea why. She definitely isn’t my usual type, although, I’m not sure if I even know what my type is anymore. Certainly, she’s about as far from Becca as one can get, yet my cock is still straining against my pants.
I clear my throat before responding, hoping to give myself a second to regain my composure. “Ah, yes, Nora. My manager, Byron, hired her. I’ve only had the pleasure of meeting her on one occasion, but I can assure you, Ms. Eriksson, she was in no way ‘tricked’ into taking her position here.”
She glowers at me and her hands ball into tight fists at her sides. “I know my sister, Savage, and there is no way in hell she just up and decided she wanted to be a f*cking stripper. She was tricked, or forced…”
I barely manage to contain an eye-roll. “If I didn’t have such thick skin, I might be insulted by the way you throw your words at me like daggers,” I retort, enjoying watching her distress at my ability to maintain my cool. The color in her cheeks flares and her blue eyes flash at me.
Who knew angry could be such a f*cking turn on?
***
My blood is boiling and this man—Savage Hawke—has grated my last nerve. I can barely contain my desire to climb across his desk and smack him across his handsome, smug face for acting so high and mighty. He is a * peddler. A goddamn sleazebag who preys on young, impressionable, desperate girls in order to make a quick buck.
Savage Hawke.
He even has a porn star name. It wouldn’t surprise me if he was shooting them in some back room.
It’s too bad he’s so f*cking gorgeous. He runs a hand back through his thick, wavy black hair and focuses his Caribbean-blue eyes on me with a calm that makes me want to throw my purse at him.
My traitorous body reacted to him instantly, heat churning deep in my belly the moment I walked into his office and saw him dominating the space behind his large, wooden desk.
The longer we talk, the worse it gets, and I have to press my thighs together to stop the dull ache there.
Damn, it has been way too long since I had a good f*ck. What? Twelve days?
I’m so busy fuming and trying to rein in my runaway sex drive, I completely forget to respond to him.
“Ms. Eriksson,” he continues, giving me a smug smile, “I have a very rigorous interview process established to ensure none of my employees begin work here under any duress…”
I lift my brow in speculation and to ensure he’s aware of my disbelief. Bullshit! I bet their “interview process” involves lap dances and blowjobs in the champagne room.
“…Byron conducts a very thorough interview with each girl, including a complete background check to determine if they are under any serious financial strains. If I find they are, I typically offer them a personal loan, to be repaid at standard interest rates, to ensure they aren’t tempted to engage in pursuits some of the other clubs are often known for. We also do weekly drug testing and nightly breathalyzers, as our girls are forbidden from engaging in any illicit drug use and cannot perform while under the influence of any alcoholic beverages.”
I don’t believe him for a second. No damn strip club operates like that. He must think I’m some dumb, na?ve, bimbo blonde to think I’ll fall for his line of horseshit.
He reclines back in his chair and waits for me to say something.
What does he expect me to believe? That he’s a * peddler with a heart of gold?
“Surprised I’m not a total scumbag?” His amusement is evident in the slight turn at the corner of his luscious mouth. “There are a hundred trashy strip clubs in New Orleans a man can go to if that’s what he’s looking for—drugs and easy women. I wanted to offer something different. People are always a bit shocked to learn how I run my business. But when I built The Hawkeye Club, I wanted it to be an upscale and supremely classy gentleman’s club, and established a very strict set of rules and regulations to ensure that both my reputation, and the reputation of my girls, remains pristine.”