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Nairobia pursed her lips. “Hm. Old lover, no?”
Surprised, Pasha blinked on the other end of the line. “Very close friends. He stood by me during one of the most difficult times of my life. He’s trustworthy.”
Nairobia had sent her a text early this morning wanting leads on hiring a security firm that could handle her security needs, particularly having a bodyguard. She already had security for the club. But she didn’t feel they were adequate enough.
After what’d happened back in Vegas, Nairobia felt it best if she had protection of her own. Sure she’d spent time down at the range and packed a little heat in her purse from time to time. But, now being here in the States, she felt she needed more.
“I like the men around me sexy, my darling. Security or not, I need to be surrounded by mouthwatering men. He is, no?”
Pasha smiled. “Yes. Very.”
“He has all his teeth, no?”
Her stylist laughed. “Yes. All thirty-two.”
“Is he uptight?”
“No, not at all. He’s very laid-back. And very open-minded.”
“Hmm. So far I like. Is he cross-eyed?”
“Nairobia! Ohmygod! You’re hysterical. No, of course not. He doesn’t have a lazy or wandering eye. He’s a very normal-looking guy, and extremely sexy, I might add. I think you’ll be quite pleased.”
Nairobia purred. “If he’s all you say, my love. Then I already am. Where is he?”
“He’s here in L.A. He actually has several clients out here that his firm provides security services to. In fact, I believe you’ve met his partner, Mel. He was here the last time you came to the salon.”
Mel was from New Jersey as well, but had moved out to the West Coast around the same time Pasha’s salon Nappy No More II opened. She’d had her choice of either him or Lamar continuing to work with her, but Pasha had chosen Mel instead, and he’d been more than willing to hold it down for her.
Nairobia thought for a moment. Then realization came in full, vibrant color. She remembered. Oh how she remembered him. The six-foot-seven mountain of muscle with the thick neck, bulging biceps, and golden-brown skin was not someone easily to be forgotten. Nairobia had found the two-hundred-and-seventy-five-pound giant gorgeous to look at. He bore a striking resemblance to her dear friend The Rock—with his deliciously fine self.
“It’s my understanding he’ll be catching the red-eye tonight back to the East Coast,” Pasha said, pulling Nairobia back to the conversation. “I’ll give him your number and have him call you so the two of you can work out all the specifics.”
Nairobia clapped. “Perfect, my darling. I’m looking for someone who can start as soon as possible.”
“Then he’ll be your guy. Hopefully, it’ll all work out.”
Nairobia smiled. “Hopefully, it shall.”
The two women spoke a moment longer, then the call ended.
A sense of relief flowed over Nairobia. She hoped this referral was a good fit for her, and her club. The last thing she needed, or wanted, was someone squeamish or prudish working for her. She’d have to fire them on the spot.
Taking a deep breath, Nairobia glanced at the neatly stacked pile of files on her desk, and decided she would only do what she could until she found herself someone to manage it all for her.
For now, she had a club to run. She had fantasies to fulfill, and orgasms to unleash.
TWELVE
Domineering and commanding, a whip snapped as O.C.A.D’s “Muse” pounded through the hidden speakers. The floor alit with burning candles, the stage flashed with red lights and sweet pussy and ass.
Sexy. Alluring. Five feet, eight inches of coca-brown flesh stood in the center of the stage in a black leather corset, black thong, black leather opera gloves, and six-inch, thigh-high black leather Louboutin boots. Her short sassy cut was hidden beneath a long black wig with blunt-cut bangs.
The sexy Scorpion pumped her pelvis, then swirled her hips in a hypnotic circle, her skin shimmering under the glow of the lights. Hands up over her head, she rolled her hips like that of an erotic dancer, and then sensually strutted the stage while her whip cracked against its floor, licking the wood. She stood at the edge of the stage and looked out into the crowd as if she were looking for someone in particular. Someone worthy. Someone utterly debauched and hungered for the whip.
She looked down.
And there he was right in front of her, gazing up at her. Bare-chested. In nothing more than black boxer briefs and Timberland boots. He was a hazel-eyed man with sideburns that curved along his jawline and a crooked smile, leaning over on the stage and staring directly in her eyes as she slowly moved her hips, the leather of her whip snapping mere centimeters from his handsomely rugged face.
