Grave Mistakes (Hellgate Guardians #1)(10)
Just when I raise my hand to knock again on the massive wooden door, it swings open, and an elderly man wearing a full butler uniform looks down at me. “You must be Miss Gates.”
“Yes,” I say with a smile, tucking my hair behind my ear. “Nice to meet you.”
He gives me a bored look, making it known that it’s not at all nice to meet me. “This is the main entry, Miss Gates. You are supposed to enter through the side gate,” he says with a sigh. “Go past the patio, to the left of the gardens, take a right at the fountain, and head for the iron gate where the graveyard grounds are. You’ll see the small groundskeeper building there. It will have everything you need inside.” Without another word, he shuts the door in my face.
I blink at the wood, not even an inch from my nose. “Oookay then, Grumpy Lurch.”
Turning, I head back down the steps, feeling like I just got smacked down to my third-class place. I really need to learn the Jack Dawson spit technique, dammit.
I walk across the driveway, the gravel crunching beneath my feet as I head for the side gate. It swings open easily with a little squeak, and then I find myself in the grassy side yard. I follow the butler’s instructions as I pass by the enormous, posh patio that’s equipped with a gazebo, inground pool and jacuzzi, and even a damn hedge maze. This place is so extra, I don’t even think there’s a size for it.
It takes me ten minutes to walk through the garden. Ten. Fucking. Minutes.
My own outside “garden” consists of the marijuana plants that Mrs. Lee grows on her windowsill in the house beside mine.
When I finally make it to what must be the groundskeeper building, dusk is here, and I know I need to hurry up, or I’ll be late for my first shift. This place feels like it’s miles from the main house. I’ll need to get here earlier so I don’t have to rush next time.
I approach the small wood and stone structure and yank open the door. It’s nothing but a mostly empty cabin that looks like it was handmade a hundred years ago. I walk inside, my steps thudding on the wooden floor as I flip on a single, really old electrical light that hangs in the middle of the room.
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?