Seven Sons

Chapter Four

He is somehow less frightening than I remember him, and I have to remind myself that I'm taller and stronger than I was when I was fifteen. Back then, I was still so young. Plus, I'm wearing ridiculous heels which make me even taller. Dornan sits behind a desk – my father's old desk – and sifts through paperwork, seemingly oblivious to the fact that I'm standing there. I use the time to take in my surroundings. Nothing special – a generic particle-board desk, a dead pot plant, a couple of tall metal filing cabinets behind the desk. The only item that looks expensive is the painting on the wall, a beach scene that looks like it's from Hawaii or someplace equally beautiful. It doesn't fit in with the room at all, and I wonder if it once belonged to my father.

"Looking for the safe, sweetheart?"

I snap my attention back to Dornan, who is smirking as he pounds numbers into a calculator with his long, thick fingers.

"Looking for the stage," I say, trying to lighten the mood. My entire plan hinges on him hiring me as a dancer for the club. If he doesn't, I'll have to go to plan B. Which I haven't thought of yet.

He leans back in his chair and surveys me properly for the first time. I wait patiently, knowing that I tick all of his boxes – brunette, tanned, big tits and young enough to fuck and employ without getting arrested for employing a minor in the club. I bat my eyelashes and study his face. He is older now, but still bears the strong features that made each of his seven sons unmistakably his. He had no daughters, and that could only be a small mercy fate had delivered.

"What's your name, darlin'?" he asks finally, apparently satisfied with my looks. He is still just as blatantly attractive as he was six years ago. Black hair. Wide, sensual lips. Three days growth on his face that makes him look tough and rugged, but not unattractively so. My stomach sinks as I realize that I was wrong, that he and Jase are actually strikingly similar in looks.

"Astrid," I answer, feeling like my heart is about to pound out of my chest.

"Not your stage name," he says, looking irritated. "Your real name."

"Samantha. Sammi."

He looks unimpressed. "You twenty-one?"

I nod. "Twenty-two, actually."

"You got ID to prove that?"

I nod, sliding my fake ID out of my back pocket and handing it to him. I fight back the urge to flee as my fingers brush against his.

He leans back in his chair and studies the small rectangular card. I know he is looking for signs it's a fake. He holds it up to the light, turns it over in his palm, and scrapes his thumbnail along the edge.

"It's real," I say. He doesn't respond.

"What'd you say your name was, again?"

"Sammi. Samantha Peyton."

"Two first names?" he says dubiously. "Who has two first names?"

I smile. "I don't know, Mr. Ross. It is a little strange."

He smirks, the closest thing to a smile he's cracked since he called me up here. "Well, Sammi two-first-names Peyton, what kind of job are you looking for?"

I can't believe I'm saying this. "What kind of job do you want me to do?"

He drops the smile. "I'm a busy man. Let's cut to the chase. You dance?"

I nod.

"You do private dances?"

I nod.

"You do anything else that sets you apart from the other hundred girls who come here each week looking for a job?"