The prospect of food made the blond look up.
“If they’ve been kneeling here for three hours, they’re probably hungry. Don’t you feed your slaves?”
“Sure. I just—it wasn’t lunchtime yet.”
Ben looked at his watch. “It’s past noon. Get them something to eat.”
Jake stared at him in disbelief. Ben could tell he wasn’t making any friends ordering Jake about, but he wasn’t interested in being the guy’s brah.
“You are the host,” Ben added.
With a discontented snort, Jake walked over to the expansive Tuscan-inspired kitchen, opened up the well-stocked refrigerator and pulled out a brand-new jar of pickles. Walking back, he set the jar on the coffee table near the women.
Ben crossed his arms. “Open it.”
“They’re not incompetent.” Jake nodded to the blond. “Help yourself to some pickles, slut.”
The blond reached for the jar and tried to twist the cap off. Jake had already stalked off to the bar, so Ben took the jar from the blond and twisted the cap off for her. She reached in eagerly for a pickle.
“Just Slut #1,” Jake called from the bar. “I’m not happy with the other one.”
Ben looked at the second woman, expecting her to hang her head in disappointment. Her stomach had rumbled, too. Instead, she seemed to expect Jake’s response. Her jaw tightened and her eyes flashed.
“How come?” Ben inquired.
“She wouldn’t eat her breakfast.” Jake smiled as if listening to some silent inside joke.
Ben looked at her cheek again. Though her skin was darker than what Ben was used to assessing, the discoloration in her cheek was definitely the beginning of a bruise. “So you hit her?”
“I didn’t hit her. What do you mean?”
“Her cheek.” Dipshit.
“What about her cheek?”
“It looks swollen.”
Jake shrugged his shoulders. “I didn’t notice anything. I’m gonna go see if Vince went to pick up some lunch.”
After Jake had left and while the blond was finishing off her third pickle, Ben turned to the older woman. She looked to be in her mid-twenties. She also looked intelligent. He had noticed her studying him, sizing him up. He sensed she was a little on edge but didn’t want to show it. Only when his gaze dropped to her naked body—he couldn’t help but look at those inviting curves—did she show any discomfort. When his gaze went back to her eyes, he read their message loud and clear.
Fuck you, they said.
“Just got a text from Derek that they’re almost here,” Jake announced upon returning.
“How much for her?” Ben asked. The words were out of his mouth before he could think on them.
“What’s that?”
“How much? I want to buy her.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Kimani blinked in disbelief. She wasn’t sure if she should be glad or not that the tall guy who didn’t like to be called Benji wanted her. If it had been a different place, a different situation, she would have found the guy hella good-looking with his wide brow, piercing black eyes, and strong jawline. But since he was a friend or associate of Master Asshole, she wasn’t about to give him credit for anything.
“She’s not for sale,” replied Jake.
She had heard him introduce himself on the call to Tyrell. Now that she had a first name and knew that he was involved in the sports profession, she could probably figure out who he really was. But she didn’t just want to embarrass him by writing an expose. Even with the #MeToo movement happening, a guy like him would probably just get off with a slap on the hand.