Page 95 of The Heartbreaker

The manager crossed his arms over his chest. “Why?”

“Unless you want me to out you in front of your employee”—I nodded toward the young woman who was standing at the register—“and your patrons”—I nodded toward the group of men who had just come in—“then I suggest we go somewhere private.”

The manager looked me over like I was scum. “Who the fuck do you think you are?”

I smiled.

I didn’t get this question a lot. But when I did, the gratification felt so good.

“Ridge Cole, an owner of Cole and Spade Hotels. That’s who I am.”

The manager and bodyguard looked at one another.

I didn’t need to mention that my name came with power, that my pockets were deep enough to buy this strip club, the building, and to pay the salary of every employee here for the rest of their lives.

They knew.

Which was only confirmed by their expressions.

“Follow me,” the manager said.

He led me to the section of the club where the private rooms were located. Rather than go to the right—a hallway I’d walked down enough times since Addison brought me into one of those rooms during each of my visits—he took me to the left, past the cashier, and into a tiny office.

There were two folding chairs. The bodyguard took one, and I took the other. The manager sat behind his cheap, small desk.

“I’m assuming Addy is your girlfriend?—”

“Addison,” I corrected. “If you’re going to talk about her, you need to address her properly.”

“Addison,” he said.

Before he could utter another word, I voiced, “What Addison and I are is none of your business and irrelevant to this conversation.” I leaned closer to the desk. “When I found her this evening, she had just run out of a private room, where one of your customers had sexually assaulted her. What’s the purpose of having cameras in those rooms if no one is watching the footage to ensureyouremployees are kept safe?”

“We have a security guard stationed?—”

I pounded my fist on the fake wood. “I don’t give a fuck where he’s stationed. He clearly wasn’t close enough to intervene or do anything to help her.”

“Mr. Cole, I think you’re getting confused by what our employees do here and what these private rooms are for.”

“Confused”—my brows rose—“is the last thing I am. Addison sets boundaries in those rooms. I know because I’ve been inthere with her multiple times. If those lines weren’t defined, that would be one thing. But they are, and one of your customers crossed that boundary.”

“Define ‘crossed,’” the manager said, using air quotes.

“He forcefully grabbed her chest and wouldn’t let her go. To the point where she had to take matters into her own hands and protect herself.”

“He touched her tits,” the bodyguard said. “That’s it?”

I didn’t like his tone.

I also didn’t like how he was downplaying the incident as though her tits were open to the fucking public.

My neck swiveled so I could take in the sorry excuse of a man. “It’s a boundary. He crossed it.” My stare returned to the manager, and I pointed at his computer. “Why don’t you pull up the feed so we can see exactly what he did?”

“Not an option,” the manager said.

My anger fueled me to chuckle. “Why?”

“Because you’re not an employee.”