The Auction (Club Indulgence Duet, #1)(23)

I clear my throat and ask, "When did you get all those?"

He glances at his forearm and shrugs. "Over the years. I got my first one when I was sixteen." He points to the big swell on his arm.

I trace my finger over it, questioning, "Did you always surf?"

"I stole a board when I was thirteen. Been obsessed ever since," he confesses.

I laugh. "You stole it?"

He nods. "Yep."

"Why didn't you just have your parents buy one for you?" I ask.

His face darkens. He answers, "They weren't into surfing." He turns and grabs his keys off the counter.

I point out, "You've never shown your tattoos when you were at my parents' house. You've always worn long sleeves, even when it was hot. Why is that?"

He grunts. "Your father looks down upon them. He believes that the people we deal with look down on tattoos. He claims they don't give off the impression we should make. When we started our business, I agreed to always keep them covered during events or business meetings."

I mutter, "Sounds like my father."

"You know him well," Riggs says with disgust in his voice, making me wonder again how my father screwed him over. Riggs tosses a notepad and pen on the table, then points to the contract. "You're to spend all day going through this. Do you understand, Blakely?"

I roll my eyes. "Yes."

"Don't do that when I tell you to do something," he warns.

"You've told me several times," I remind him.

He ignores my statement, demanding, "Sit down."

His tone annoys me but also gives me butterflies. It happens every time he orders me around. I don't understand why I like it, but something in me does. So I oblige him and sit down.

Riggs asks, "What do you need to work on your music?"

Surprised he's asking, I recover and tap the notepad. "Only this."

He peers at me, then asks, "That's it? Didn't you used to play the piano? You need an instrument or something, don't you?"

A wave of frustration passes inside me as I think of the grand piano my parents bought only for looks. It wasn't meant to be played, except at high-end parties when my father hired what he referred to as "the talent." I question, "How do you know I used to play the piano?"

Riggs admits, "Your mother told me."

I shift on my feet. "I only played it when no one was home. She caught me a few times. My father didn't like me using it. He claimed it encouraged me to keep my head in the clouds."

Riggs stares silently for a moment with a look of disapproval on his face. He finally asks, "What have you been using to create your music since you left home?"

I admit, "A keyboard I bought at a resale shop. It's not perfect, but it works. A few of the keys are damaged, but I manage to make it work for what I need. I'd ask you to get it for me, but I don't think you should go near my apartment. I'm sure my father's men are watching it, and if you go in, they'll see you. So I'm fine with just a notepad."

Another emotion passes across Riggs's face, but I'm not sure what it is. I'm about to ask him when he says, "No music today, Blakely. Your entire focus is on this contract. Do you understand?"

I give him a tiny salute. "You've already made it clear, boss."

His lips twitch. He states, "It's Sir. But you'll see that in the contract." He winks.

I arch my eyebrows. Last night, I didn't worry about what the thick stack of papers said. Now, I'm getting a bit curious. He's making it sound detailed, which isn't something I ever thought people were, regarding sex. In my experience, you just get at it, and within a few minutes, things are over.

Not that I've had any mind-blowing encounters. My past boyfriends were okay. I enjoyed them, but even last night showed me Riggs is on a different level, and we haven't even had sex yet.

Not that I ever doubted he would be different. Even at eighteen, I knew it.

He asserts, "Help yourself to anything in the kitchen. I'll be back soon."

He's almost to the door, when I call out, "Wait!"

He spins, inquiring, "What's wrong?"

Something about not having access to him panics me. I fret, "How do I get ahold of you if I need to?"

He stares at me for a moment.

I add, "I also need to call work and the lounge."

A flash of nervousness appears on his face but quickly disappears, so I think I imagined it. He goes into the bedroom. Several minutes pass, then he comes out with a throw-away phone. He reiterates, "Read the contract. If you're good with the terms, call work and tell them you quit. My number is programmed on this. You're only allowed to use this to call them to quit or to contact me. That's it. You don't call anyone else, Blakely. If your father's men are looking for you, it's extra important no one knows you're here."

I don't know who I would call, although I could tell my roommates or a couple of my friends I'm not dead. But Riggs is right. I also don't want anybody to find out where I am. What if I told them and my father's men tried to interrogate them?

Yet my stomach flips at the thought of quitting. I argue, "It was hard to find work and earn a recurring spot to sing. Can I keep my gig at the lounge? I promise it won't interfere with whatever you want me to do here."