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 makes 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
