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.