Claiming Menace (Ruthless Sinners MC 5)

“Nothing,” she lied. “It’s just time for me to make a change.”

“Hmm. Your other buddies said the same thing.” I leaned back in my chair and crossed my arms as I pushed, “I’m not buying, so why don’t you tell me what’s really going on, or we can end this thing right here and now.”

The young redhead let out a defeated sigh, then said, “It’s Gary. He’s the manager, and I guess you could say he’s been abusing his power.”

“How’s that?”

“He has full control of our schedules, so if we want a good shift or any kind of change to the schedule, we have to provide him with certain services.” She sat there in her cropped tank top and barely there skirt, and a look of innocence crossed her face as she admitted, “For some girls, it isn’t a big deal, but for me, it’s a really big deal.”

“Sounds like Gary is a fucking tool.”

“Gary is a huge fucking tool, but he’s my boss. I’m kind of stuck with him unless I can find another job.”

“Well, you and your friends won’t have to worry about that shit anymore.” I placed her application with the other possible candidates, then said, “You can tell the others to be expecting a call back.”

“Really?”

“No guarantees, but I’ll do my best to find a place for you all. If not here, somewhere that will do you right.”

“Thank you so much, Mister—”

“The name’s Menace, and no need to thank me. At least, not yet.”

“Well, I appreciate you trying to help.” She grabbed her purse, then skirted over to the door. “I’ll look forward to your call.”

I was feeling pretty good about things when she walked out of my office. Between Mazie and her other friends from the Pink Pony, we had the shifts covered and were in good shape. I was about to tell Marlowe we could call it a day when a woman appeared in my doorway, and not just any woman. This one wasn’t anything like the girls who’d come in before her. She had the deepest blue eyes, soft porcelain skin, and hair so white it made her look like an angel. She was wearing jeans, a white lace top, and sandals—not the kind of thing you’d expect a woman to wear to a stripper interview. Red flag.

“Excuse me. The girl out front told me to come see you about the position you have for the… um... the str-dancer position.”

She couldn’t even say the word stripper. Red flag.

“By dancer, I hope you mean stripper because this is a strip club.”

A bright red blush crept over her face the second I said stripper. Red flag.

“Oh, yes. Of course.” She tried to recover by adding, “That’s what I meant.”

“Mm-hmm. You got a name?”

“Yes.” She smiled bashfully and tucked a strand of her silky hair behind her ear as she answered, “Aubrey. Aubrey… um... Cash.”

There was no way in hell that was her real name. Yet another Red flag.

I should’ve sent her packing right then and there, but I didn’t. There was something about this chick that had me thinking about Mallory. I’d tried to reach out to my sister many times over the years, but she’d made it clear that she had no interest in reuniting as brother and sister—I simply brought too many memories to the table. Even though she wanted nothing to do with the memories or me, I tried to keep an eye on her. I knew she bounced around from job to job, so I’d put money in her account from time to time. I couldn’t help but wonder if she’d ever considered working in a strip club, and if so, had she come face to face with a guy like me. If so, I hoped the guy would give her a chance to see it through. It was that very thought that kept me from sending this Aubrey chick on her way. Doing my best to play along with her charade, I asked, “So, you’re here about a job?”

“Yes.” She stepped over to my desk and offered me her application. “I was hoping to interview for the opening you posted.”

“Do you have any experience?”

“No, but I’ve been told I’m an okay dancer, and I’m a quick learner.”

“Being a quick learner isn’t going to get you very far in a place like this.”

Her eyes skirted to the floor as she inhaled a deep breath. It was as if she was trying to muster the courage to say whatever was on her mind. After several minutes, she looked up at me and said, "Peter Brant suggested that I come here if I ever needed a job.”

“Peter Brant?” I didn’t know the Brants all that well—just that they were Lynch’s grandparents who owned a diner out in Colorado. They’d come down when Lynch was patched in. It was easy to see they were both good people who loved their grandson, which made it that much harder on Lynch when they were murdered during a burglary at their diner. “He and his wife were killed over six months ago.”