Chapter 4
STEVIE
All night, I struggle and fight about how this job is a bad idea.
No questions. Show up wherever we’re requested.
Clean up and get out. That’s what Jasper said, and it reeks of sinister doings.
No cops, no investigation. And then there’s the money.
In one week, I can make nine thousand dollars.
Nine thousand! My mom’s and my bank account barely showed fifty dollars.
We scraped every penny together to survive.
In the end, I show up for work when Jasper calls…
and then another call and scene…and another.
Each scene is horrific, yet I’m learning how to stop sharing my bodily fluids with my co-workers.
Sometimes I have to drive close to an hour to a scene, while some are nearby.
Not all of them are at a house. We’ve met at factories, abandoned houses, in a silo, and in the woods.
The whole crime scene cleanup is definitely illegal, and I’ll admit, I’ve thought about quitting.
I’m not stupid to think this is all legit.
Google does the trick for research purposes.
Times Up has been around for ten years. It shows a variety of cleaning jobs they do, such as working crime scenes for the police department and for personal clients.
I’m guessing the personal jobs also include some very bad people.
Terrible people I don’t want to meet. But it isn’t entirely illegal.
The paycheck I received after two weeks kind of sealed the deal.
In seven months, I’ll be able to afford a down payment on a condominium and furnish it.
Money shouldn’t be the driving force for me to stay at this job, which has ties to shady businesses…
except it is. My mother struggled with finances, and after Noel and I called it quits, it was tough for me to make ends meet.
I’m tired of having to figure out which bill to pay, or what foods to buy to last me a week.
And one of the best things about the job is any weekend work is pay and a half.
Five thousand. Though we haven’t done many of those.
So, I don’t ask questions. I stay out of everyone’s way, and distance myself from Jasper and the rest of the crew. When I finished my first week, they asked me out for drinks, but I declined. The less familiar I am with them and the scenes we’re cleaning, the better off I’ll be.
I hear Gears and the others setting up for the day.
Saturdays tend to attract more bikers and work, which is the perfect opportunity for a morning run, cemetery stop, and grocery shopping.
With my earbuds in, I jog down the stairs, wave to Gears, Chains, Grinder, and Pirate, and head down the dirt path toward the open fields.
I’ve finally figured out my way around here.
Down the street of houses and businesses, it opens up to pastures on both sides and a trail.
The farmland is approximately a two-mile run, and then I veer off to the right into a well-kept forest. There is an abundance of paths heading left, right, and straight ahead.
For now, I stay on the main one for about another three miles where I break through the forest and wind up by pastures again, until I come to the cemetery.
One way, from the auto shop to the cemetery, is four and a half miles.
At the cemetery gate, I stop, placing my hands on my knees to slow my heartrate and breathing down.
Damn, this feels good, pushing my lungs and legs to capacity.
Standing up, my eyes skim over the area.
It’s the quaintest cemetery I’ve been in.
No cars allowed, so I stroll through, reading the monuments and headstones, finally coming to Alicia Gunthrie, Loving Wife and Friend. I tear up at the epigraph.
Definitely a great friend.
The headstone also has Wolves of Mayhem.
Hayes Gunthrie. Husband and Brother to the end.
She’s buried next to her husband, which gives me some peace of mind.
Wolves of Mayhem is the MC Gears and the guys belong to.
Maybe I’ll find out more about them without letting them know Alicia was my friend.
I’m not about to get embroiled in an MC, especially when I’m already doing shady work for a living.
I spend about ten minutes at her grave, pull the weeds overflowing onto her headstone, and head back to my apartment.
The garage is in full swing, with motorcycles littering the side.
At the top of the steps, I grab my mail from the mailbox, tossing it on the kitchen table. Right now, I need a shower.
Cleaned and dressed in jeans and a t-shirt, I open the kitchen cabinets for baking ingredients.
With little plans for today, it’s time I bake chocolate chip cookies for Gears and the guys.
Since living here, Gears has looked out for me.
I occasionally have coffee with them, and he’s changed my oil for free.
The least I can do is bake him sweets, which he loves.
I hear them breaking for lunch. Unless there’s an emergency, they order out and eat together in the garage and at the picnic table set up on the other side of the lot.
Two dozen cookies line a platter I found in one of the upper cabinets.
As soon as I hit the bottom step, someone whistles, and I stop to yank my t-shirt down. I should have put on a sweatshirt.
Searching for Gears, I find him at the table, chowing down on a beef sandwich and fries. Once he sees me, he flags me over as he wipes juice and ketchup from his beard.
“Join us, Stevie.”
“Thanks, but I already ate.” I place the platter down on the table, and they all stop eating as if I grilled prime rib. “I made some chocolate chip cookies for you.”
Gears drops his beef sandwich, reaches for a cookie, and shoves it into his mouth. Crumbs gather in his beard, dropping out of it and his mouth as he chews.
When he’s done, he says, “Sweetheart, best damn chocolate chip I’ve eaten.”
“I’m glad you like them.” Being around so much testosterone makes me nervous. “Well, I’m going—”
“Aw, c’mon, Stevie. Sit. Have a fry or a cookie.”
Two men slide down, so I can sit, which I do.
For the first time, I notice the guy across from me, who is extremely handsome.
His honey-colored eyes are locked on me.
They’re mesmerizing, framed by a black circle and long lashes.
He shoves the top of his long, thick chestnut hair back where it falls perfectly in place.
Finally, he gives me a full white teeth smile, causing me to cross my legs.
My mouth is slightly open, still surveying his face and trimmed goatee when he waves his hand to get my attention.
I simper and turn my head toward Gears before I humiliate myself anymore, but he clarifies by asking, “Stevie, is it?” My cracked yes is soft. “Gears said you’ve been around for a month or so. How do you like it here?”
A little on edge, I tuck my hair behind my ear and respond, “It’s nice. Quiet.” They all laugh. “I mean quiet when the garage is closed.”
Gears cuts in. “Stevie has breakfast with us. Only coffee.” His hand flies up and down toward me. “Look at her. She ain’t got meat on her bones.”
The handsome biker answers, “She’s fine.”
My face is blooming red as I ask, “What’s your name?”
He holds out his hand. “Smokey.”
My hand gets buried in his while his thumb caresses the top of my hand, and his eyes lock on me.
It’s an uncomfortable moment, so I drop my head a bit to break eye contact, tug my hand back, and he lets it go.
I’m not used to this kind of attention and environment.
For years, it was me, my mom, and Noel, and caring for her was top priority.
Even after she died, Noel and I didn’t go out much.
He was frugal and a loner. But this crowd is gritty and probably dangerous, and here I am, the only woman out of ten men.
I stand and back up. “I’m going to head upstairs.” Gesturing to the platter, I add, “Enjoy the cookies.”
They all offer their goodbyes. When I’m at the bottom of the steps, I glance back to find Smokey watching me. This has me running upstairs and locking the door behind me.
I forgot about the mail still sitting on the table. Shuffling through it, an envelope with only my name catches my attention. I flip it front to back, yet there’s nothing else on it. It wasn’t mailed, which means someone put it in my mailbox.
I rip the side open and slide the letter out.
Stevie,
I’m inmate number 6878309 at Moose Grove Prison—Kingston “Frost”. I have a conjugal visit set up for us next Friday at one. Wear a dress.
Frost
I laugh again, flipping the note from front to back.
Is this a joke? There’s no introduction as to who inmate 6878309 is, but guessing by the name Frost, he must be in an MC.
Wolves of Mayhem? I read an article about how inmates write to women and lure them into the jail to rape them.
They use scare tactics. I crumple the note into a ball and toss it in the trash.
Well, Frost, you got the wrong girl.
If we work on Friday’s, they’re usually low key.
That sounds morbid. I should say that the Grim Reaper prefers to handle things during the week than on the weekends.
There’s an eeriness on Fridays, like those who died and we had cleaned up after are lurking in the shadows.
Today is especially out of whack because my skin tingles as if someone is watching me.
The morning isn’t different from any other. I knock down two cups of coffee and lock up my apartment. Gears and the guys are hard at work, so I don’t think much of their lack of a morning greeting.
Jasper instructs us on today’s assignment.
Thank God there’s no body, but there are loads of shell casings and bodily fluids smeared on the floor.
We’re in the trailer where the now deceased used to live.
It’s a cramped space containing a small kitchen, sitting area, and a bedroom and bathroom toward the back.
The sitting area is where the person or persons died.
More like murdered, which is why we’re responsible for finding every shell casing in the place.
No questions, Stevie. You agreed to work here, so shut up and enjoy the money.
Money has a way of suppressing guilt. The grandeur of not worrying about how you’re going to pay the bills, or splurging on a pair of shoes erases the thoughts of where the money comes from.
But a sliver of guilt pierces through my oblivious daze from time to time.
Like when I visit Alicia’s grave, and scan over the headstones.
Loved ones gone, and some forgotten. My mind plays different scenarios in my head as to whether Mr. and Mrs. Lenox were good people.
Their graves are in close proximity to Alicia’s.
They lived a long life, but were they respectable people?
This is what I do: find fault in the dead, especially the people’s’ blood I’m scrubbing off the floor.
No one is innocent with this amount of ammunition in their apartment.
These reasonings enable me to show up for work.
We’re finished by one in the afternoon, so I head home to shower. When I pull into the parking lot, Gears comes out of the garage, cleaning his hands on a rag and narrowing his eyes at me. He doesn’t seem happy.
He nods to me. “You done already?”
“Yeah. I feel so gross, so I’m going to take a long shower.”
Gears cracks his gum, gives me one last look, and returns to the garage.
It must have been an exhausting day, because I fall asleep after my shower, and I sleep until it’s dark.
While making something to eat, I hear a high-pitched scream, so I run to the door.
My hand is on the lock to make sure it’s secure as I scan the outside.
The entire front is lit up, but I don’t see anyone.
Goosebumps travel over my arms and legs.
Another scream.
At the edge of the light, I see a shadow of someone running. My breath hitches, gripping the top of my robe closed.
Laughter.
Another scream.
Is someone in trouble or are they just having fun?
I hear movement out there. My phone rings, and I run to the side table by my bed to get it. Without checking the number, I answer with a shaky hello.
A deep whisper comes through. “I waited for you, Stevie.”
I’m trembling. It’s difficult to hold my robe closed, grasp the phone, and scan outside.
My trembling voice asks, “Who is this?”
The line is quiet aside from his breathing, and then he says, “I don’t like waiting.”
My hand grips the phone harder. “Who is this?” I’m pacing in front of the door. “I’m calling the cops.”
“Next week,” and then he hangs up.
Next week, what?