Grave Mistakes (Hellgate Guardians Book 1) Read online

  “It sounds like exactly what I’ve been looking for,” I reassure her. “I’m a loyal hard worker, who isn’t afraid of a challenge,” I reply, hoping I’m not laying it on too thick.

  Maybe the cemetery part of this position is what’s kept them from finding the right person. I’ve personally never been one to be freaked out by cemeteries or what could go bump in the night. I happen to be one of those weirdos who thinks that they’re peaceful and, a lot of times, very beautiful places to spend time. Especially if it’s one of those old graveyards with all of the tall headstones. I could spend ages in one of those.

  My finger starts trailing over the armrest as I imagine the peaceful graveyard duty, and I nearly hum at how soft the damn leather is under my hand. Wait, when did I move my hands? I snatch them back into my lap, inwardly kicking myself for my lack of impulse control. This chair needs a warning label on it. I don’t know how anyone sits here and gets anything done. I want to steal it. I would eat, sleep, and fuck in its cloud-like embrace. That’s how nice it is. Their security officer interviewee probably shouldn’t start things off by trying to steal from them, though. Might set off a bad first impression.

  “The Perdition Estate is very motivated to keep the graveyard gate secure, as I’m sure you can imagine. Hence the very generous package they’ve put together for future team members. The hours are from dusk until dawn, which means they will vary depending on the time of year,” Ms. Atwood tells me. “Your job would be to keep trespassers off the property and to escort any authorized visitors to and from the gate; although, the latter would be a very rare occurrence. We’ll trust that you’ll do whatever needs to be done to keep everything safe and secure. The only other thing we ask is that if there is an incident, you use the radio to contact the estate. For obvious reasons, we don’t want you to contact the authorities.”

  I look at Ms. Atwood curiously. Obvious reasons?

  She must read the question in my gray eyes, because she immediately addresses it. “We once had a previous team member who did that, and as you can imagine, it was a huge hassle. The estate has enough to deal with, and any member of the team needs to follow rank and report to their higher-ups. Let them handle issues that are above your pay grade,” she explains.

  I nod in understanding. I suppose that makes sense. It’s very military-esque. Then again, this is a security job, so maybe this is par for the course. I want to ask more, but I also don’t want to give away that I might not be qualified for this job and lose this opportunity, so I keep my mouth shut.

  Ms. Atwood studies me for a moment, and she brightens even more when I don’t express any concerns or objections to the no cops caveat. The thing is that doubt and questions are something rich people can afford, and I’m about as far from that status as someone can get. Not that I’ve ever been the kind of person to operate with much caution anyway. Fuck looking this gift horse in the mouth, I’m not even going to make eye contact with the neighing bitch.

  This kind of money could make a huge difference for me, and it doesn’t require any extra schooling. I fucking hate school, which is why I’m a twenty-eight-year-old bartender. I’m a night owl who likes the hustle and bustle and gray area of working in a bar, and on good nights, the tips make the hard work worth it. This new job would lack the energy and activity that I’m used to, but I’d be an idiot to pass up something that, so far, seems easier and pays a hell of a lot more. All I have to do is guard a gate at a cemetery? I’m your girl.

  Like Ms. Atwood can read the direction of my broke-ass thoughts, she immediately dives into the pay talk. “As mentioned on the site, the rate of pay is eighty dollars an hour…”

  I cheer inside and try not to let out a relieved breath. I was a little worried that I would get here and they would say, “Whoops, that zero was a typo,” and then I’d have to go back to real life and quit daydreaming of what it would be like to make that kind of money and pull myself out of the pool of debt I’m barely treading water in.

  “And benefits?” I blurt, sounding way too fucking eager.

  She smiles kindly. “Absolutely. Full health, dental, and of course, accidental death and dismemberment benefits are included, along with hazard pay. If you note your Ring on the paperwork, then you’ll get full paid time off for any major celebrations and an additional month of PTO to be used throughout the year.”

  I blink. “Okay, great.” Ring? Does she mean my marital status?

  “I assume you are permitted to reside here, yes? Because if you aren’t, that’s a problem.”

  “Oh, yeah,” I answer quickly. “I’ve got my driver’s license if you want to see it?”

  Ms. Atwood laughs. “You’re funny,” she says, shaking her head. “Is it contingent on anything, or do you have free rein? We always need to make sure.”

  “Oh, I’m totally legal,” I assure her. “A citizen with free rein all the way.”

  She smiles again. “Wonderful. Well, you do seem to be a diamond in the rough. We’re lucky you came in today.”

  Surprise filters through me, but I don’t want to show it and make her reconsider. “Thank you.”

  “You’d be required to work five days a week on a rotating schedule, and there may be opportunities to work overtime depending on the needs of the estate and your fit with the team. Would you be open to that?”

  “My schedule is very flexible, and I’m always available to work on holidays,” I offer, because working on Christmas beats being alone, or worse, getting pity invites to someone’s house where you get a front row seat to how loved and happy their home life is. No thanks.

  “That’s excellent to know,” Ms. Atwood beams. “So when can you start?”

  I’m taken a little aback. Wait… That’s it? No tell us about yourself and why you think you’re worthy? No reference checks or drug tests? I swallow down the excitement that bubbles up in my chest and tap into the caution my mother always told me I needed to practice more of.

  “Before I accept, I just want to be sure that there won’t be any kind of bait and switch type of scenarios here. I’m not going to show up and discover some webcam girl situation or find out that I have to partake in any other questionable activity like telemarketing or becoming an overly friendly Chick-fil-A order taker? Pretty sure they’re possessed by something, and I’m just not game to find out,” I add on a friendly yet suspicious chuckle.

  Ms. Atwood laughs again, but it goes from a tinkling to a full belly laugh, and I have to stop myself from joining in, because it’s a tad contagious.

  “They really are too polite to pass as human, aren’t they?” she agrees, and I give in and giggle with her.

  “I have a really good feeling about you, Delta. I promise that all you have to do is guard the gate at the Perdition Estate. You wouldn’t be the first to question what the catch is, but I swear there isn’t one. It’s a draining position which can take a lot out of you, but I think you’re up to the task, and you’ll find it very rewarding,” she tells me with a wide reassuring smile that helps me feel instantly at ease.

  I take a deep breath and smile right back. “I’m available as early as this weekend,” I tell her, and she claps her hands once excitedly and rises out of her chair.

  Well, fuck. If luck be a lady, then I’m going down on her tonight.

  “Perfect!” Ms. Atwood cheers, like it’s the best news she’s heard all day. “Missy will get all of the paperwork sorted, and you can start Sunday at dusk.” She reaches out, and I abandon the best chair ever to stand and shake her hand again.

  “Excellent. I’m excited to get started,” I supply professionally as I bite down on the squee that wants to come ripping out of my throat.

  Play it cool, Delta. Pretend that people offer you easy, well-paying jobs all the time. Nothing new here to get squealy about.

  Any reservations I have over the fact that Ms. Atwood hasn’t expressed concern over my lack of experience or anything else is chased away by my daydreams of not having to avoid calls from debt
collectors and being able to catch up on all my bills. Shit, I’ll finally be able to fund the repairs that my shack of an old house needs. And I might even be able to trade in my cantankerous moped for a new car in just a couple of months, especially if I can do overtime.

  This job is perfect, and even though it has the feel of too good to be true, I’m not going to worry. Hell, I’ve earned this good luck break in my life. I’m going to be grateful for it instead of scaring it away with logic and suspicion. At this point, there isn’t much I wouldn’t do for this kind of money, so I chase away my concerns with a broom and shout good riddance as I slam the door shut on their ungrateful asses.

  Ms. Atwood walks me to the glass door and pulls it open, and I thank her again for her time and the job offer before I trace my steps back out to the receptionist. As the receptionist, Missy, gets my information, I can feel all my pent-up financial stresses start to float away.

  Things are turning around for me. I won’t be foreclosed on and kicked out. I won’t have to start over or try to file for bankruptcy. I’m going to have a new job, making a shit ton of money, and benefits. I can actually go to the dentist for that cleaning I’ve been putting off. Now all I need to do is find a boy toy who’s just as emotionally unavailable as I am but is mind-blowing in bed.

  Yep, things are finally looking up.

  2

  “Could you send this back for me, Delta?”

  I turn at my coworker’s voice, immediately noting the pinched expression on Vicky’s face. She’s golden-blonde and pretty, in her mid-thirties, and she’s been working here about as long as I have. It’s busy tonight at Ballpark Brew House, since Sean put up the Going Out of Business sign. I guess all the town drunks want to get in a few more times before we close for good.

  I take the bottle of beer from Vicky and immediately see the sediment settled on the bottom. “Shit, he’s serving expired beer?”

  Vicky nods. “Customer complained that it tasted spoiled. But if I take it back to the bar, Sean will rip my head off, and I’ve already dealt with him screaming at me tonight. He’s in a piss ass mood. Even worse than usual,” she grumbles before swiping a finger beneath her eyes, trying to fix her running eyeliner. “Can you take it for me?”

  I cringe slightly as I stuff my notepad in the back pocket of my jean shorts. They’re faded and a centimeter shy from showing cheek. They’re paired with knee high baseball socks and a T-shirt that’s supposed to resemble a jersey, but it’s so old now that most of the number one on the back has peeled off. This beat up old jersey matches the rest of this place, though.

  “This is my last night, Vick. I don’t want any shit from him,” I tell her honestly. “I just want to keep my head down, earn my tips and my last check, and leave.”

  “I know, I’m sorry to even ask,” she tells me, before worrying her bottom lip. “But he told me he doesn’t want to talk to me again for the rest of the night.”

  God, Sean is such a horrible boss. Vicky is pretty meek, so I feel bad that she even has to deal with a guy like him. I don’t like dealing with the prick either, but for the most part, I’ve just learned to shut up and take it. I’ve needed every damn penny from this job, and I couldn’t afford to lose it. “Alright, I got it. Just cover Home Base for me, okay?”

  Vicky lets out a puff of relieved air. “Thanks, Delta,” she says before darting over to the table full of middle-aged men sitting at the back to take their orders. Her uniform is just as tight, short, and faded as mine, but we’re used to it by now. It’s not like Sean would actually order us new uniforms or do any kind of updates to this place. It’s not in his nature to give a fuck about anything other than himself.

  Taking a breath, I try to mentally and emotionally prepare for having to deal with Sean. I already had to give him my abrupt notice, and he wasn’t happy about it. Didn’t matter to him that he put all of us out of work by closing the bar in the first place. Any inconvenience is like a personal affront to him.

  I walk through the section of high top tables, half of them missing stools and looking more like kindling than a place anyone would want to sit for a fun night out of games and drinking. The floor is sticky under my sneakers, and I spy a spot on the wall where a signed picture of A-Rod used to be. Now there’s just a clear view of peeling paint and an empty, stained wall. Sean the Shithole probably pawned the photo, like he has most everything else in this place.

  Back in this bar’s glory days, our uniforms were much more authentic and cute, rather than rundown and sleazy. The baseball bases on all the tabletops were shiny and unstained, and the bar shelves were decorated with pristine and protected signed baseballs between high-end liquor bottles. There was always a game on the flat screens, and we even had a cook who served epic ballpark food. But ever since Sean took over after his Uncle Ollie retired, he’s run this place into the ground. I hate that he ruined Ollie’s legacy.

  Ollie was a damn good boss and an even better man. Smart, kind, and he treated this place with respect, including his employees and customers. I loved working for him, but as soon as Sean took over two years ago, I knew that everything that made this bar great was as good as done.

  I used to like working here because it reminded me of my dad. He loved baseball. He took me to games when I was a kid, and we always gorged on hot dogs and soda while cheering from the nosebleeds. He worked in construction, so when he had a slow year and couldn’t afford tickets, he made sure we watched all the games at home together during the season. It was our thing. I still make sure I watch them every year on my own, and despite the fact that Sean has ruined Ballpark Brew, he damn well won’t ruin baseball for me.

  With the rotten beer in hand, I weave past the tables and head straight for the bar. Ollie’s two pride and joys, his brewery machine and his signed baseball by Joe DiMaggio are both shoved into the corner carelessly like forgotten relics. I’m honestly surprised either is still here. I’m sure they have to be worth a pretty penny. Everything else that’s fit that criteria has up and disappeared from this place.

  I go over to the end, careful to stop before I cross the barrier. Sean gets his dick in a knot if anyone goes behind the bar without his express permission while he’s back there. That’s made nights bartending here interesting to say the least.

  He’s talking to a few of his prick posse, but I know he sees me, even though he ignores me completely. He’s average looking, not hard on the eyes with his ashy brown hair and brown eyes, but he’d be a hell of a lot more attractive if he weren’t such a bastard.

  I do my best to put a polite smile on my face. He’s easier to deal with this way. If I ever so much as sigh or approach him with anything less than a smile, he’ll chew me up and spit me out like tobacco on a baseball field. “Hey, Sean?” I call in the friendliest tone I can manage.

  He continues to talk for several seconds before deigning to turn his head to look at me. “Yeah?”

  I wiggle the beer bottle in my hand. “Customer sent it back. Can I have a fresh one, please?”

  Immediately, the good-natured look that was on his face from talking to his buddies drops off, and he comes stalking over. “What the fuck’s wrong with it?”

  I hold it up eye-level with him so he can see the shit settled at the bottom. “I think you might’ve accidentally served some of the expired stuff that you forgot to toss out.” We both know he didn’t forget, and it sure as shit wasn’t an accident, but I have to play nice. One more night, Delta. Just one more damn night.

  Unfortunately, my wording doesn’t appease him enough, because his expression grows thunderous. He takes another step forward like he wants to intimidate me. My heartbeat kicks up a notch, but I’m used to Sean’s scare tactics. He’s nothing but a fucking bully, and I learned a long time ago not to cower to his bullshit. He might get Vicky to cower, but not me. I’ll play nice and I’ll take a lot of his shit, but I’m not going to tuck tail and run. I won’t give him the satisfaction of that.

  “There’s nothing wrong with
that fucking beer. Now take it back to them. They can drink the shit we serve, or they can get the fuck out.”

  Prime example of why the place is closing down.

  I clench my teeth, my hand tightening around the bottle as I try to suppress my anger. “Sean,” I say, trying to keep my voice level and quiet enough not to disrupt the customers. “I can’t take this back to them. It’s rotten. Nobody wants to drink that. You wouldn’t drink this, so we can’t expect them to. Can you please just give me a new beer?”

  For once, just fucking work with me and don’t be a dick.

  He just stares at me dispassionately. “No.”

  I stare at him, flabbergasted. I don’t understand this guy. At all. I’ve been dealing with this bullshit of his for years, being as accommodating as fucking possible. Unlike him, I’m loyal to Ollie’s place. I’ve always just taken whatever he dished out, pasted on fucking smiles, and dealt with him day after day for shit pay and barely-there tips. And still, after all of that effort on my part, he can’t just throw me a fucking bone on my last day of work?

  I let the fake smile drop right off my face. It feels like drawing a line in the sand.

  “Fine. I’ll get it for them myself. You don’t have to do a thing,” I tell him in a rare form of defiance. “I’m supposed to be bartending anyway instead of serving tables and cleaning the bathrooms.”

  I step to the side so I can get around him, but Sean moves in my way to block me. He crosses his arms and looks down his nose at me. “You think you’re hot shit because this is your last fucking night working here?”

  Anger makes my whole body tingle, and rage floods in my veins. All of the shit I’ve swept under my proverbial rug is suddenly being ripped right out from under me. I want to wreck this bastard. I want to grab his head and knock his skull into the lacquered wood until he’s bleeding all over the bartop’s scoreboard. I am so done with his shitty attitude.