Fallen (Blood & Roses #4)
Callie Hart
Five forty-seven a.m. Five forty-fucking-seven a.m. I hate clocking in for the early shift. I’ve been doing nights for the last three months though, and I think they decided it was time I put in the hard yards. That’s fair enough, I suppose. However, working with Myers is something else entirely. The man has no sense of personal hygiene, and also has no idea when to shut the fuck up. I’ve only been rostered with him three or four times since starting work here. Since then I’ve heard from the other guys that to land a shift with Myers is a punishment of some sort. I’m here on time; I’m never late. I do the job well, so I have no idea what ball I’ve dropped to deserve this shit. It ain’t gonna fly, though. Today is gonna be all-out hell.
The bank of screens in front of the desk where Myers and I are stationed are already filled with images of people, awake and going about their early morning routines. It’s never seemed right to me—that the world never seems to stop moving. That there are people always awake, no matter what time of day or night, for us to witness on the screens of these monitors. We are Big Brother, overseeing the mundane rituals and the sometimes highly illicit activities of Seattle’s residents. We see everything, and I mean everything. It even creeps me out sometimes, and I work here.
“So I told her, ‘bitch, if you really want to get on with my sister, you can’t be talking to me like that in front of her. I’m her baby brother, you know? She’s always going to stick up for—’ Hey! Hey, Renford, check that out. The feed's gone live for the new gas station account. Did you notice that? I can’t believe they want us to watch over eighteen new places.” Myers nudges me a little too hard with his elbow, and the takeaway coffee cup I’ve been stirring sugar into rocks dangerously, nearly spilling the hot black liquid all over my crotch.
“Careful, asshole! You nearly burned my dick off.”
Myers just laughs his annoying donkey bray of a laugh, completely unfazed by the clear dislike in my voice. I’m not even pretending to hide it. Not that Myers seems to care. “Whatever, man. Hey, and check that out.” He stabs a finger at the bottom right-hand screen, the one right in front of me, gesturing to the vehicle that’s just rolled onto a gas station forecourt. I know the gas station; it’s the one out by the airport. I’ve used it enough times before to recognize the layout and the busy street out of the building’s window, as the camera’s view rotates from the outside to an internal shot.
Myers is still staring in awe at the car that’s just pulled up to the pumps. It’s an Aston Martin one-77; the kind of supercar little boys dream about owning one day, while they’re playing with the Matchbox version. This monster of a car is being well cared for. The bright sheen to the hood speaks of a wax polish that must have been done very recently. Even I have to agree that it’s a beautiful machine.
“I’ve thought about test driving one of those things,” Myers says, stuffing a piece of buttered toast into his mouth. “You know, you can go down to the dealership and pretend you’re interested in buying one. Wear something nice, make them think that you have some money or something. I figure that’s the only way I’m gonna find myself behind the steering wheel of a car like that,” Myer says, brushing crumbs from the outside of his mouth. “You never know, though. I might win the lottery one of these days.” Myers continues to ramble on about playing the odds in some sort of betting ring he is involved in, offering me a buy-in if I’m interested, but I’m not listening. I’m looking at the man who’s just climbed out of the backseat of the car. I know the man, although a lot of people wouldn’t. He’s an A-list celebrity. The kind of celebrity that only people in certain circles would be acquainted with. He’s mentioned on the news sometimes, but not in the entertainment section; they report about him in the section that covers the unsolved murders and brutal beatings that sometimes take place within the darker corners of this city. They never say his name, although I am well aware of it: Charlie Holsan.
Charlie Holsan has just gotten out of that ridiculously expensive car and is now walking into the gas station. A tall, unfamiliar-looking man gets out of the driver’s seat and follows Charlie inside. I don’t know the driver, but I know Charlie quite well; he’s been my brother’s employer for the past eight years. Eight years of Sammy never answering his phone, and never showing up to family events. Eight years of me bailing Sammy out of jail when his boss has been too busy to send someone himself. Eight years of my brother becoming more and more corrupt, as this English prick sinks his claws just a little bit fucking deeper.