I’m surprised that the security job isn’t for this building, which is what I had assumed, but honestly, it could be in an outhouse for all I care. Eighty dollars an hour is eighty dollars a fucking hour. And, hello, benefits!
Ms. Atwood does that adorable giggle again and nods. “You’d be surprised how many just don’t pass muster, but that’s the world we live in these days,” she observes, and I nod my head in agreement.
It’s half impossible to keep good, hard working servers staffed in the bar, and it seems the security industry suffers from the same problem.
“As their hiring agency, the Perdition Estate is very special to us. They’re our most important clients, and we’d really like to get them set up with the perfect fit for their team. Does that sound like something you’d be interested in?” she asks me cautiously.
“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
