Page 42 of Petty's Crime

Can Brit be trusted?Well, she’s never actually stolen anything, that was the whole point. But has she the temperament to make a good waitress? She certainly doesn’t like the idea, I’d raised that suggestion before. But now, maybe, she’ll have had second thoughts as she knows how hard it is to get a job as a felon. Maybe she’d be on her best behaviour and wouldn’t let me, or the club, down.

Britney needs a job, and if Erika has a place for her, how could I deny her the chance? Maybe getting out of the apartment will sweeten her temper.

I finally settle for mumbling, “She’ll do okay. I’ll tell her about the position.”

“Erika will want to interview her,” Red warns.

“Of course.” There are positives to the idea. It means she’d probably be working the evenings while I’m doing the same, and hopefully it will stop her complaining about me being out so much. And Britney won’t be left to her own devices, nor able to spend so much time without me in the clubhouse.

“Was that it, Prez?”

“Fuckin’ wish catching up about your marital bliss was all it was.” He smooths his hand over his beard. “Nah, I got a job for you, Petty.”

I’m all ears, leaning forward. “Anything you want.”

“I’ll keep you to that, Petty.” He leans back, linking his hands behind his head. “We’re putting our plan into action to catch this Saul motherfucker once and for all.” His mouth forms a line. “The feeling is Saul got her out of her house for a reason. We’ve upped the security there, but now she’s been forced to move out. All she’s got to protect her are keeping her location secret and always having one of us around. Escorts, as you know, can be distracted or removed, and finding her location is, for him, probably only a matter of time. We need to force his hand before he forces ours.”

I’d like to say he’s wrong, but I’ve been thinking along the same lines. Though we try to make sure she hasn’t got a tail, and the room she’s in is in a fake name, if Saul’s got a contact helping him, she might not be able to stay underground. I raise my chin to show I agree with him.

“RoseLyn’s off for the next couple of days, yeah?”

Her residency is five nights a week, so yes, she is. Again I dip and lift my head before returning it to the neutral position.

“We want her to go visit her folks. Stay there the night so we can put shit in motion.”

“RoseLyn doesn’t want to worry her folks and admit there’s anything up.”

He’s got an answer for that. “She doesn’t need to tell them. Surely she goes home to visit them from time to time? Especially when she has time off?”

She must do. She hasn’t said, but I believe that they’re close, else why would she worry so much about upsetting them? “What about her protection?” My brow furrows. “I thought we were sending someone with her. We can’t guarantee that the fucker will stay in Vegas and not follow her home. And if she turns up with a bodyguard, her family will get suspicious for sure.”

Red’s lips curve. “Won’t be a bodyguard we send with her. Wouldn’t be strange for a girl to take a new love interest home.”

I have no fucking interest in bitches, and least of all RoseLyn. So why should I feel on edge hearing she’s got a boyfriend in the wings? He must have been out of town as I’ve never met him, and she’s never mentioned him which is strange. The thought shouldn’t unsettle me. I tamp that reaction down hard. “Have we checked him out, Prez?” I hope my voice doesn’t sound as brittle as it feels.

He chuckles loudly. “Don’t need to check him out. We already know all there is to know about him.”

So that’s that. RoseLyn will be flying off to Texas while we make Vegas safe for her to return. “What’s the plan, Red? Where do you want me?” Hopefully I’ll have a chance to teach Saul what happens to abusive men.

He snorts. “On a plane to Texas.”

My mouth opens and shuts. “But you said you weren’t sending a bodyguard—”

“I’m sending a pretend boyfriend who can play both roles.”

As his meaning sinks in, my head starts moving side to side as my mouth states the word, “No,” and then I repeat it again, “No.”

“No? You refusing a direct order from your prez?” His eyebrows meet his hairline.

“Send Cobra,” I say in desperation. “He gets along with her. He—”

“He’s got tats for miles and is enough to scare any potential in-laws off. Nah, you’re the much better proposition.”

“Me?” My voice squeaks and I cough to clear it. “What the fuck, Prez? You think I’m boyfriend material?” Grasping at straws, I add, “I’ve also got tats.”

“Not on your face and neck,” he retorts.

I’m too busy continuing to shake my head to formulate much of a response. All that comes out of my mouth is, “You must be fuckin’ joking.” I scramble for an excuse.

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