by Ivy Asher
As soon as my eyes adjust, I blink at the sight in front of me. “What the fuck?”
My “uniform” is hanging up on the wall directly across from me with a sticker tag on it, sporting my name in thick black letters. I stare at it for a full minute before I start looking around. I check around the desk and in every corner of the room, but I’m not finding any hidden cameras to support that this uniform is a joke. There’s a cheap full-length mirror on one wall, and I tap on it to make sure it’s not some kind of two-way thing, but it pops right off the nail it’s hanging from on the wall, and I have to rush to catch it before it falls and breaks.
I hang the flimsy thing back on the wall and take another look around. The only thing in this sparse cabin is an empty wooden desk, a chair, and this...uniform. It’s not a standard cotton shirt and slacks like I was expecting. There’s no patch that says “security” anywhere on what’s in front of me. Oh, no. That would be too easy.
“I knew there had to be a fucking catch to the eighty dollars an hour,” I mumble before striding forward and snatching up the hanger. Someone either has a sick sense of humor or is one kinky motherfucker.
I stand there for a moment with my arms crossed and my gray eyes glaring at the uniform. I consider writing a very strongly worded email to HR about this. I mean, surely this is objectification. But then...I remember that I haven’t paid my electric bill in two months, and the trash company confiscated my garbage cans because I was way in the hole with them too, so I just say fuck it. No one is gonna be around to see me anyway. Besides, it’s not nipple pasties, I guess I at least have that going for me.
I strip off my clothes and stuff them in the empty desk drawer before yanking the uniform on. It’s all leather. Thick black leather. I curse under my breath the entire time it takes me to get the damn thing on. I can’t seem to shake the thought of a “Friends” episode I watched where Ross tries to wear leather pants and it all goes hilariously wrong. I make a mental note not to apply lotion or baby powder in the future right before getting these pants on.
When I’m dressed, I look down at my body in bewilderment. The black leather top is a little crop top-ish with leather ties holding in my ladies, but it’s a strain, I’ll tell you that. There’s a crisscross applesauce thing going on across my chest and collarbone, and my belly button and waist are visible at the bottom of the damn thing. Good thing I’m not PMSing, or there would be some serious bloated tummy poochiness accessorizing this look.
The bottoms are skin tight black leather pants sporting crotch laces, with a black leather belt that seems to serve no purpose other than to hang low on my hips. And the boots are—you guessed it—black leather. They lace up my shins, the skin-tight pants slipping right inside of them like they’re lovers.
Whoever owns this graveyard must be some bored ass weirdos, making their security employees dress like this. Or maybe this is some initiation shit. Am I being hazed?
I look like fucking Xena minus the skirt. Hmm, maybe I should practice that weird warrior cry she does. I take one look in the mirror and immediately rethink my decision to take this job. There is nothing normal about this outfit. I can barely breathe.
Eighty dollars an hour, benefits and possible over time, I start chanting to myself over and over again. God, am I chafing already?
I look down and find leather scraps on the floor and sigh before snatching them up. “Gloves? Really?” I grumble, shoving my hands into them.
I wiggle my fingers, looking for the little finger holes, but I quickly discover they’re not gloves, but some weird leather forearm guards. I shake my head as I stare down at them.
Nope. Can’t do it. I’ll kick ass at guarding their graveyard, but this uniform is a no-go. I unlace the top, desperate to get out from the too tight leather. I swear it tightens around me like it doesn’t appreciate the rejection, and I battle to get it off. I fling it as far away from me as I can as soon as I separate myself from the top, and I just stand there slightly sweaty and breathing heavy from all the exertion.
I pull out my black racerback from the drawer I put my clothes in and breathe a sigh of relief when I pull it down over my head. I glance at myself in the mirror as I reach down to undo the crotch laces on the skin-tight leather pants, but I pause. I turn sideways and look at myself in the mirror. My purple hair and ivory skin really stands out against this leather. As I study my reflection, I arch my back and poke my ass out, unable to help myself, because what I have going on right now...is a look.
The owner of this place may be into Xena, but the sexy badass thing I’ve got going on right now is a way better choice. I kick out like I’m a practiced ninja. These pants are hot and practical. I double knot the bow at the top of the pants and decide to keep them on. They’re working for me. If I’m asked, I’ll just say the top didn’t fit. I hide the creepy forearm covers in a drawer and pretend like I never even saw them. I keep the sticky name label from the leather shirt and put it over my tank top, just in case.
After I’m re-dressed, I grab the flashlight and radio that were on the floor next to the boots. Luckily, there are helpful little holsters for both the flashlight and radio on my belt, so I guess it wasn’t as useless as I thought it was. There’s also a spot on the belt that looks like it holds maybe a nightstick—because, you know, this uniform is so practical—but I don’t see one of those.
I pull off the Post-it note stuck to the radio and eye the number five that’s written on it. I turn the radio around, studying the buttons, just as something crashes to the floor behind me. I whirl around and let out a little squeak of surprise. Or maybe that squeak came from the leather, I can’t really tell either way.
I stare at the long walking stick that’s now lying in the middle of the floor. I hadn’t noticed it before. Maybe it was tucked into a shadow in the corner or something. I sigh before picking it up. “Why do I need a damn walking stick?” I grouse to myself as I check out the smooth matte black wood. There are bands of silver metal inlaid sporadically along the shaft, and metal caps at both ends. I look from the walking stick to the holder on my belt that I assumed was for a nightstick. It looks like it will fit, but who the hell walks around with a small tree hanging on their hip? I sigh and decide to just hold the damn thing.
“Fucking weird.”
Gripping the stick in my hand, I quickly get out of the cabin before anything else leather or Xena-like can come for me. I hurry out through the door and head for the gate to the graveyard. The second I notice that it has a lock on it, I look down at my belt and notice there’s a convenient keyring waiting right there for me. There’s also a shit ton of keys and, for once, no label. You’d think the sticky note people would’ve realized that it would’ve been helpful to mark which key went where.
I go through about ten keys and a dozen swear words before I pick the right one and get the gate to swing open. Just as I step through it onto the graveyard grounds, something sharp pricks my hand. Apparently, the stupid walking stick has splinters or some shit.
I hiss and transfer the stick to my pain-free hand and see a drop of blood beading on my palm. I wipe it on my pants and then examine the microscopic wound in the waning light, looking for the splinter that the evil walking stick just attacked me with. I don’t see it. Another pinhead-sized drop of blood forms, but I ignore it and take the walking stick back in that hand so I can get to work.
A tingle shoots up my arm as I walk further into the graveyard and turn to shut the gate behind me. I better not get fucking tetanus from this damn thing. I swear, I’ll put in a Worker’s Comp claim faster than you can say “walking stick from hell.” I give the black wood and metal stick in my grasp the side-eye and then shake off Splintergate, ready to secure the shit out of this graveyard.
Looking up, I’m glad to find that it’s definitely still dusk-ish. I count that as officially making it to my shift on time. “Take that, Xena cosplay uniform,” I say in victory.
Just as I fist pump the sky, a loud crackle of static ma
kes me jump and sends my heartrate galloping. I quickly snatch the radio off my belt and fumble with it. I stare at the dial and twist it until the number five lines up with the arrow.
“Main house to gate security, do you read me?” a deep masculine voice asks, the warm tone seeping out of the radio and filling the darkening night. Damn, that is a sexy voice.
My fingers fumble with the buttons. “Fucking shit…” Whoops, I think he heard that. “I mean yes! No shit...or fucking. Sorry,” I stammer out, talking really loudly into the receiver.
I would slap a palm to my forehead if I wasn’t holding the radio in one hand and this weird fucking splinter stick in the other. I press my forehead against the walking stick instead and roll my eyes at myself.
The radio is silent for an uncomfortably long time before the masculine voice bursts out of the speaker again. “No need to shout, I can hear you,” the voice states evenly. “I was making sure you found the radio. Also, heads up, there’s an event going on at the main house, so you may see a dozen or so cars head that direction. No one will bother the graveyard though, and it should be secure. We just need you inside the grounds tonight. We’ll deal with initiation tomorrow.”
Initiation? This security supervisor takes his job really fucking seriously.
“Okay, event. Got it,” I tell him.
As though his words conjured them out of the blue, I can now see headlights passing down the main road in the distance. “If you need anything or the gate becomes compromised, just call on this channel,” he instructs, pulling my focus from the dimming brake lights of the car as it moves further away toward the massive brightly lit mansion.
I nod my head for a beat in understanding before I realize the dude on the radio can’t see me. “Right, will do.” I wait for a second to see what else he’s going to say, but the radio goes silent. I click the button again to talk. “So, uh, do you have a call sign or something I should use?” I ask, not sure about radio etiquette and how this is all supposed to work. I mean, he’s not saying “over” after every statement, so apparently that’s not a thing.
“A call sign?” the smooth bass voice asks.
“Yeah, you know, like, ‘Baby Bird, come in, Baby Bird. This is Mother Bird, over.’”
Did I just lower my voice like the soldier from Toy Story?
Once again, the radio goes silent for a little too long. I can’t even blame my awkwardness on anything, not even my weird ass uniform. This is all me.
“I’m not going to be called Mother Bird,” he finally declares.
I give a little huff before clicking back on. “I’m not saying you have to be Mother Bird, I was just giving an example,” I defend.
I think I hear him sigh, but it could just be the radio static. “Give me a better one,” he demands, and I stare at the radio for a second, wracking my brain for a macho call sign that has minimum potential to offend a dude. “How about...Maverick and Goose?” I offer, feeling quite proud.
“Are you one of those weird bird people?”
“What? No, Goose from Top Gun, not an actual goose.”
“Oh…” the noticeably delicious voice muses. I’ve never heard such a sinfully sexy voice before, but his tone has a way of heating you up inside. And I’m not saying that I’m imagining what he looks like naked, but...buns of steel, chiseled abs, and at least ten inches down south.
“Wait, doesn’t he die?” he asks, pulling me out of my momentary mental perving.
I blink and pull the radio away from my mouth and give it my best WTF look. Is this dude serious? I look around once again, checking for hidden cameras. The Xena costume and this weird interaction is seriously tipping the scales to crazy. I count to ten, giving Ashton Kutcher plenty of time to leap out of the bushes and yell, “Burn! You’ve been punked!”
Nothing happens.
“Look, if you don’t like my call sign options, then just pick your own,” I finally radio back as I start to move further inside the cemetery. As much fun as going back and forth with Mr. Deep and Delicious on the radio is, I should probably get my bearings before it gets too dark to make out the details of this place.
Past the gate and a surprising patch of overgrown grass, I find a stone path, and I follow along, guided by the tall hedges that border it. The hedges suddenly end, but the path continues, and I step out into a massive graveyard. It’s breathtaking.
Tall trees and ornate headstones are scattered all over the grounds, and I spot several large mausoleums spread around the well-kept grounds. This place is huge, and I can see it bordering a dense tree line in the distance. Some people would probably think this place is creepy. And yeah, there is a slightly eerie vibe, but I’m not bothered in the slightest. Just as I expected, there’s a quiet, solemn beauty to it all that I appreciate.
“Iceman,” suddenly blurts out from my radio.
I jump in alarm, forgetting I’m holding the damn thing. “Huh?”
“I’ll go by Iceman,” the mystery man on the other side of the radio repeats, and I shake my head at him as a smile stretches across my face.
“Okay, Iceman it is,” I confirm, trying not to chuckle. “So, Iceman, anything else I need to know about this gig other than to call you if I need help?”
“Just make sure the gate is secure. We’ll know after tonight if you’re a good fit for the gate. That’s about it.”
Something in his tone and the statement good fit for the gate sets off my spidey senses. It’s like the graveyard is going to decide if I’m a good employee, which is just weird, but there’s no way I’m going to go all twenty questions and try to start interrogating this dude. He misspoke; I don’t want to make things awkward by pointing that out. I need to fit in on whatever team Ms. Atwood mentioned if I want this job to work, and I really need that to happen.
I look back toward the gate at the cemetery’s entrance and try to identify what about it requires so much protection. It’s just a black wrought iron gate. It looks to be shut securely to me, so I simply shrug and then continue with my efforts to become more acquainted with the area that I’m now responsible for watching over.
“Sounds like a plan,” I finally respond. “Are you the head of security?”
I’m guessing he must be if I’m reporting to him. He’s probably in some plush office right now, pretending to watch security cameras while he eats chips and plays games on his phone. I’m sure he’s not dressed in all leather, either. Lucky bastard.
“Something like that,” he replies vaguely. “Over.”
Ha! I knew “over” was a thing. Wait...did I just get dismissed?
“Double over,” I quickly reply.
Static ensues before I hear, “You can’t double over. It’s just over, and I already said it.”
Wow. Someone is getting testy. He must have run out of Candy Crush lives already.
“I can do my own ‘over’ after your ‘over’ if I want to,” I say with a frown.
There’s a long pause. A really, really long pause.
Why am I even arguing with him? Are these tight as fuck pants cutting off the circulation to my brain?
“Just go do your job, Maverick. Be sure to stay alert. Over,” he finally responds.
Yep, I definitely annoyed him already. Look at me, making friends so seamlessly.
I blow a few purple strands of hair that rebelled against my pony tail, out of my face. I stare at the radio for a moment, trying to come up with something that will have my potential boss or coworker less annoyed with me, but I come up with nothing, so I figure it’s better to just stop before I dig myself any deeper. I replace the radio back into the holster on my hip belt and decide to do exactly as instructed.
The sun dips lower and lower as I make my way around, and the various bright colors that paint the sky slowly give way to the dark purples and blues of impending night. I let my eyes adjust as the sun tucks in for bed, and the almost full moon begins to work its magic in the sky.
My eyesight has always been pretty good in t
he dark, so I’m not worried about being out here all night. I liked that about the bar scene, too. The low lighting thing really worked for me.
As night officially stakes its claim, a calm peacefulness seeps across the graveyard’s grounds like fog. I reach the end of the path around the entire perimeter and start to pick my way through the moon-kissed headstones.
I get lost in reading the names on them and tracing the details of the intricate stone markers that now represent people’s lives. I’m surprised by all of the different last names I find. I figured, with it being a private graveyard, this would have a lot of family names, but that doesn’t seem to be the case.
Just as I’m settling into what is looking to be a tranquil first shift, an incredibly loud and alarming whoosh sounds off to my left. The onslaught of it startles me, and my heart kicks up and starts running a race that would impress Secretariat.
“What the fuck?” I murmur, my eyes scanning my surroundings.
If I didn’t know any better, I’d think I was getting crop dusted by a damn tornado, but the loud noise stops just as suddenly as it began. I start to move in the direction I think it came from, my eyes zeroed in on a cluster of mausoleums.
I probably should be scared, but mostly I’m a little salty that something is messing with my new cushy job already. Whatever that was needs to know that it’ll take more than that to send me running away from eighty dollars an hour and benefits.
Cautiously, I approach the largest of the mausoleums in the graveyard, shock filtering through me when I hear voices inside.
“Fuck, don’t tell me I’m going to have to face off with vandals on my first day?” I mutter to myself as I try to suss out how the hell people got in there without my catching them. I’ve been vigilant as fuck.
I let out an irritated breath and tighten my grip on my walking stick which now has a very weapony feel to it. This will be just like kicking a drunk out of the bar. Be firm and authoritative, I tell myself, and take no shit.
