Page 12 of Resist

I close my eyes and shake off the frustration of the day. The mad dash to find a new girl who was available and who fit Ryker’s criteria. The phone calls to a few of my current girls asking them if they could cancel their plans with regulars and take up a new client in their place. Their refusals because existing customers mean steady income while a new one could mean a one-time-and-done situation . . . even though I explained to them that the unnamed client might be lucrative in the long run.

Then the resignation that I was going to let Ryker down and all of the connections that come with him. I shouldn’t have offered him Saxony. I should have just said no.

And losing his connections is not something I can afford right now as I try to grow my clientele. A larger clientele means I can make money faster so I can pay down my debt and get out of this business as soon as possible.

Add to that Ryker’s words ghosting through my mind every chance they had, sowing doubt about my abilities as a boss and making me wonder why I couldn’t step in for Lola and save my own ass instead of relying on someone else to.

His challenge settled in my craw and baited me to go against my hard-and-fast rule.

“It’s just sex,” I murmur as I sweep the wand of mascara over my eyelashes. “In. Out. Done.”

An act.

It’s not like it’s ever done anything for me before. Maybe my cold heart and ability to remain impassive will serve me well in this endeavor.

Because screw Ryker Lockhart. Literally. I’m a good boss. I can do what my girls do and do it damn well if need be.

And I can do it without forgetting my name, as he so claimed.

Screw the rule . . . just this once.

Your stubborn streak always did get you into trouble. I can hear my sister’s voice clear as day in my head, and I close my eyes and smile bittersweetly, thinking about what she would say to me right now if she knew what I was about to do.

When I open them back up, I force myself to look in the mirror. Wash away the guilt. The doubt. The holy shit, this is stupid. And then get prepared.

Gone is the jet-black wig my girls know me in. Gone is the all-black ensemble I typically dress in when they have met me: black pencil skirt, black jacket with lace camisole underneath. No black Jimmy Choos. No lace stockings with the seam running down the back of my legs. No dark and sophisticated red lipstick.

Instead, I’m me.

Soft blonde hair set in curls falling a bit below my shoulder blades. Natural makeup—nude lips, light blush—with a smoky eye.

I look like me. And that almost makes this even harder to do—to face—because I don’t have my facade, any armor, in place to hide behind.

Tonight there will be no hiding.

I’m meeting Ryker as myself, not Madam Vee, because I can’t take the chance that one of the few people in my very small “escort” world would see Vee with him tonight and approach us.

I’m meeting Ryker as myself because the obstinance in me stupidly wants to prove him wrong and in turn break every parameter I set for myself when creating this business.

But a boss has to do what a boss has to do.

“Deep breath, Vaughn,” I mutter to myself as I smooth down the burgundy dress I have on. “Here goes nothing.”

The lobby is elegant, with its large chandeliers, but they’re kept dim so as to allow each of its patrons some privacy. Almost as if they know I’m trying to hide some from the rest of the room for a bit. Soft classical music flows from the overhead speakers as people mill about in evening wear. There are hugs given among people, and laughs echo off the walls and marble floors.

I stand in the corner, surveying the crowd as nerves I don’t want to admit to run a riotous act within, and my mind tries to grapple for the nth time with what I’m about to do.

You’re keeping your reputation intact.

That’s how I have to look at this. That’s how I have to justify this.

Just like that, my breath catches when Ryker Lockhart waltzes into the lobby. I’m rarely affected by a man—sure, I can say one is handsome or sexy or gorgeous, but rarely does a man really catch my eye. Seldom does one make me wonder if there’s something wrong with me since sex isn’t the be-all and end-all for me.

But there he is . . . standing in the middle of the lobby, surveying everyone around him, making my pulse race.

This is a bad idea.

He’s tall, his shoulders are broad, and there’s an air about him that screams authority while a magnetism about him makes people look his way.