I, Porn Star(34)

I stare at Ridge Mathews.

Of all of Clay’s minders, he’s the one that frightens me the most, and most of them are ex-military or mercenaries and pretty damn scary to begin with. They’re supposedly here for our protection, but I’ve seen the way Ridge’s eyes follow me when we cross paths. I suppress a shudder and maintain a neutral expression.

“Clay wants to see you, asap.”

Six words no girl at The Villa wants to hear first thing upon waking up. Or at anytime during a twenty-four-hour cycle.

In the mirrored picture next to the door, I see Lolita’s expression drop from sneer to sympathetic for a split second before she catches my gaze and normal service resumes.

“Oops, has Daddy’s little girl been naughty?” she sniggers.

“Shut up, Lolita,” I throw over my shoulder.

She laughs, drops the towel and walks bare ass naked to her closet. “Come find me after if you need cooling cream for your paddled ass.”

I don’t bother responding to her. To Ridge, whose gaze is fixed on me the whole time with an intensity that is extremely unsettling, I say, “Tell him I’ll be there in twenty minutes. I need a shower.”

He nods, and although his gaze doesn’t skim lower, I feel as if he’s stripped me naked just by looking into my eyes. I step back and shut the door, then continue to the bathroom before Lolita emerges to deliver another dose of envy-laced snark I’m not in the mood for.

I intended to take a bath before work, but I rush through a shower and don a loose sundress and cowboy boots, catch my hair in a ponytail and slide on a touch of lip gloss before I leave the North Wing.

The Villa is a grand residence, despite its soiled reputation. A Pre-Colonial mansion built by a baron with original Deep South roots, the rambling four-story has been revamped with questionable decor but top of the line contemporary amenities, including a security coded elevator that goes straight to the basement, where Clay’s office is located.

I exit to the hum of photocopiers and computers and the occasional ringing of a phone.

Clayton Getty treats whoring like the rest of the legitimate businesses he inherited from his father. No one has the temerity to question him because he owns every single person in Getty Falls, be it through bribery or intimidation.

To my memory, the only person who ever dared to cross him was the man I grew up thinking was my father. And he paid dearly for it.

As if conjured up from my thoughts, Earl Gilbert emerges from the door leading into Clay’s office and slows to a stop when he sees me.

“The fuck you dressed like that for?” he sneers the moment he catches sight of what I’m wearing.

“I don’t start work till two. You’ll just have to contain yourself for a while longer before the slutty-outfit parade comes out, Dad.”

His one functioning eye, the one not gouged out by Clayton Getty in retribution for daring to take what was his, blazes holy hell at me. “I told you not to call me that. You keep giving me lip like that, girl, you’ll see what that gets you—”

“Enough of that, Earl. Bicker with her in your own time. Lucky, get in here.”

For the thousandth time, I puzzle why Earl didn’t leave Getty Falls after what Clayton did to him. I can only conclude that either Clayton spared Earl and turned him into a glorified lackey as an example to others or he believed in the keep your enemies closer mantra.#p#分页标题#e#

I don’t skirt out of arms’ reach the way I normally do when I’m within spitting distance of my father because I know he won’t lash out at me while Clayton’s within earshot. Although he hasn’t done that lately even when Clayton’s not around. Not after seeing the way I handled a drunken client recently. Earl knows I’m not afraid to defend myself.

Still, he eyes me with icy malice as I walk past him and enter Clayton’s office.

“Shut the door, Lucky.”

I obey and turn around, the tendrils of fear I felt in Ridge’s and my father’s presence, giving way to the real, unadulterated McCoy.

Clayton Getty is tall and broad-shouldered, his frame more suitable to a farmer or a bounty hunter than to a brothel boss. His dark brown hair is kept neat and his beard trimmed by a once-a-week stylist.

Although Clayton uses the basement of his ancestral mansion as his office, he’s very much the king in charge of his empire. He swivels his throne-like chair as his gaze sweeps me from head to toe.

“Earl has a point, you know? There’s a standard dress code Entertainers need to abide by, even when they’re off duty.”

“Sorry, Clay. Ridge said it was important,” I slip out the white lie.