Ty observed Zahíno from across the bar, occasionally glancing at me out of the corner of his eye. “You’re not seriously considering letting him join, are you?” he asked. “You know what a fucking mess he was. I don’t trust the guy. You sure he’s not a damn rat? Maybe he’s with the Sons and shit.”
“He’s not,” I said.
“The break-in at Eric’s shop. It all seems mighty sketch if you ask me.”
“I don’t need to fucking explain myself to you or anybody else, Ty. If I didn’t think he’d be a good fit for us, he wouldn’t fucking be here.”
Ty was unfazed by my anger. He slid onto the stool next to mine. “Somebody’s in a pissy mood.”
“Yeah. Because I don’t like being fucking questioned about who I let in my club. Ralphie already beat you to it. I don’t need it a fucking second time.”
Ty pursed his lips and fell silent. I knew my outburst probably wasn’t necessary, but I was pissed off and in no mood to spare anybody’s feelings.
I took the drink that was handed to me, downed it all in one go, then stood. “I’m going home. I suggest you do the same. Don’t keep my sister up late waiting.”
Without another glance at him, I walked away.
It was late.
I didn’t want to deal with anybody else’s shit. I just wanted to get home, take a hot shower, and pass out.
After doing one final sweep around the place, I checked in with Marlene to make sure she didn’t need anything else before heading out through the back. When I stepped out into the parking lot, I heard the sound of somebody trying to start their car.
Mandy was hunched over the steering wheel of a rusty-looking old pink Camry, swearing as the engine refused to turn on.
“Having some trouble?” I rapped my knuckles against her half-open driver-side window.
“Ugh, this stupid thing keeps breaking down!” She hit the steering wheel before sinking back in defeat.
“Maybe you should get a new one then.”
Mandy laughed and removed the key. “Easier said than done. I don’t have enough saved for that.”
I patted the roof. “Come on, I’ll take you home.”
She sighed in relief, giving me a grateful smile. “Thanks, boss.”
“Anytime. You know I’ll always look out for you.”
I helped her out of the car and led her over to my bike. She seemed hesitant at first, but once I climbed on and patted the seat behind me, she followed my lead.
“You ever ride a bike before?” I asked, handing her my helmet to wear.
“Sure have. Plenty of times.”
“Well, then, hold on tight, doll face.”
I revved the engine to life, and once I felt Mandy’s arms wrap tightly around my middle, pressing her body against my back—probably more than necessary—I peeled out of the parking lot.
5
April
As soon as I left the office, I immediately went online and filled out a job application to the Sinner’s Lounge. I knew it could take some time before somebody reached out to me, but I was confident enough to know it would happen eventually. Until then, I figured I would enjoy some much-needed time away from the office.
So, I was quite surprised when I received an email the next morning asking to come in for an interview at noon. Not wanting to waste time, I sent them a confirmation that I would be there and proceeded to spend the entire morning psyching myself up.
Which was how I wound up with the contents of my closet spread out over my bed: blouses, tops, shirts, pants, leggings, skirts, jeans. Normally, dressing for a job interview wasn’t a big deal for me. I had been to plenty of them in my working life to have it down: long pencil skirt, nicely pressed blouse, black pumps, and hair slicked back. But that was for an office job.
This was different. This was a waitressing job at a highly popular strip club. Of course, there was nothing wrong with my usual ensemble, but I didn’t want to look like myself. Not only that, I needed to stand out enough for them to hire me. I had seen enough of the girls who worked at Sinner’s Lounge to know what their uniforms were like. If I wore something close to what they did, it couldn’t hurt.
After another contemplative glance, I put on a short skirt and blouse that was maybe a little too tight for me. It wasn’t an outfit I was used to wearing, and I had to remind myself not to look uncomfortable. I let my hair loose, draping it over one shoulder.
“You can do this,” I muttered as I studied myself in the mirror. “This is the story you’ve been waiting for. You’ve worn tighter stuff than this before. Not in like, fifteen years, but you can still pull it off. Figuratively at least, because I’m sure you’re going to have to cut it off when you get home later.”
The alarm on my phone went off, and I took a deep breath. It was time to go. I threw my phone into my purse, gave myself and the heavier makeup I put on another once-over in the mirror, then headed out the door. During my drive, I practiced my cover story in my head.
I knew they would be doing a background check, so a fake name or social was out of the question. Besides, the best cover story was one that was mostly true. I would be paying attention to anything and everything. The last thing I needed was trying to keep my story straight. As far as checking me out online, all my social media accounts were set to private, and the articles I posted on Underground NYC were written under a pseudonym. There was nothing there that could give me away or was particularly incriminating.
I pulled up outside the club, and from my car, took a moment to stare at the building. Even though it wasn’t lit up or anything, it was still pretty impressive. The one-story structure somehow managed to stand out among the taller buildings on either side. Red brick walls were faded in places where they were hit by the sun.
While most places would have advertisements, billboards, or various decorations outside bringing customers in, Sinner’s Lounge didn’t need it. Everybody knew what kind of place it was and what to expect. And if they needed to make sure they were in the right place, all they had to do was look up at the large, ornate letters that spelled out the club’s name, with cleverly placed horns around the “S” and the tail of the “G” swirling to end in a sharp point.
I allowed myself one last moment of anxiety, one more chance to internally panic, before I took a deep breath, and stepped out of the car. The second my heels hit the pavement I wasn’t April Dawson the reporter anymore.
I was April Dawson, the waitress. Just a girl who was looking for steady work in an exciting place.
When I entered the club, I tried not to be impressed by the size of it. I had been there once or twice before when gathering my initial intel for the story, but it appeared vastly different in the daytime.
The dining area sprawled out further than I anticipated, with tables of two and four made from a black, shiny wood that glinted in the bright lights. Each one was spotless and already prepped for opening. A well-stocked bar took up most of one wall, providing extra seats for those looking to drink alone.
In the center of the room, the main stage broke off into two additional smaller platforms, each adorned with a sturdy silver pole. At least it seemed sturdy from where I stood. Steps from the main stage led out into a collection of comfy-looking armchairs, one or two surrounding small round tables. Further back, the tables disappeared, though more chairs and even a couch or two were set facing the stages.