CHAPTER FIVE

Riggs

“Let’s discuss new bookings,” Duane Wilkes announced from the front of the weight room the next morning. His rough voice was thick this morning, clearly after a night of drinking.

However, the British owner of the Knights of Texas Agency didn’t party that much. The sole purpose of drinking was to merely match a potential new client, according to Duane. Part of the wine-and-dine schmoozing game he played very well.

“Need a cough drop?” Roarke Andrews asked from the weight bench. As a former trainer, he was the largest of all the Knights, both in height and bicep circumference. Like a minotaur, with only slightly less scruff on his face.

“Nah, he needs a hair of the dog,” Riggs answered. “Bloody Mary, ol' chap?”

The boss winced. “Every Englishman just rolled over in his grave on that ghastly attempt. Stick with your hick tongue.”

“Hey,” Riggs tossed his empty water bottle in the recycling bin. “Southern is not hick.”

Bennett Jacobs smirked. “He’s right, Duane,” he said in his own British accent. “Just like cockney versus London.”

Duane glared at Ben. “I’m trying to get through the bloody meeting.”

“Sorry.” Ben went back to stretching his arms.

Their boss had brought the thin and relatively quiet man over from England when the Knights first started. Despite his wiry physique and ridiculously clean appearance, he was the only one with a history in competitive mixed martial arts. The few medals he’d won and the scarred knuckles proved it.

The man of the hour pinched the bridge of his nose. The harsh effects of losing so many Knights back to back had started to take its toll. His job looked more difficult now.

The ranks had thinned the last two years. Three Knights had quit recently, after finding long-term romantic relationships. Renner had actually walked down the aisle, now living the good life with his wife and new stepson. Vaughn had moved away with his significant other-slash-professional thief. Dorian was still around, though committed to his lady with high-profile, philanthropic ventures.

Riggs was happy for his friends, but he missed the camaraderie between them, the tight-knit unit they used to be.

“I have some pain-killers in my bag, if you need them,” he offered.

“No, thanks, I’m good.” Duane took a deep breath. “We have a request from a new client tonight, looking for the southern cowboy. Riggs, you’re up.”

He shook his head. “I already have an appointment tonight.”

Duane speared him with a look. “It’s not on the schedule. Oh, wait…the sister booking?”

Riggs nodded.

His boss frowned. “That was for three outings?”

“Yep. This is the second.”

“You better turn her into a permanent client.” He turned away. “Roarke, you’re the only other who can play the country boy bumpkin.”

“Since when?” The big guy chuckled. “What happened to the promise of authentic and genuine?”

“You can pull it off. The lack of accent won’t matter once she gets a look at your physique.”

“If you’re that attracted to him, just ask him out,” Ben called. “No judgments”"

Duane glared. “I’ll send you right back to Salisbury, Bennett.”

“Sorry,” the fellow Brit replied. He scraped his chin, then popped a few knuckles.

“Something wrong, Duane?” Riggs asked.

The man was a lot more touchy than usual.

“Thanks to some of our former brethren, we’re not pulling in enough money. We need to find a way to boost sales. To do that, I need to recruit more Knights.”

Riggs refrained from rolling his eyes.

Always the Duke of Drama.

“I’ve had lots of requests over the years to join our team, but you all know I’m picky.”

This time, there was no holding back a snort.

“Problem, Riggs?” His glare might as well have had Excalibur behind it, piercing the silence. “Need a tissue for that bullshit?”

“Yes, please.” Riggs mocked. Grabbed a few tissues from the bench nearby, blew his nose, and crumpled it in his hand.

A few guys hid their snickers behind their fists or in a towel.

“I’ve invited a few of the top escorts from Los Angeles, Miami, and New York to come and audition. Trial run, if you will. I expect you all to treat them if they were permanent members.”

“What makes them pass muster?” Ben asked.

“Customer feedback, your impressions, and of course the same standards I hold you all to. Clean, sober, minimal drama.”

“Then why the hell did you hire Ben?” Roarke twirled his towel, and smacked Bennett’s leg.

The Brit didn’t flinch. He grabbed the towel and yanked it away, glaring at Roarke.

Riggs didn’t join in on this banter. He wanted no part of the beef those two men shared.

“Enough waggin' off,” Duane snapped. “Finish your workout, then get back to filling your calendars with clients.”