Heathen (Cerberus MC Las Vegas Chapter #1)

Chapter 6

Kaylee

"You look tired, sweetheart. Are you not getting enough sleep?"

I can't help the slow blink of my eyes as I look at the woman. What is it about the elderly that makes them think they can say whatever comes to mind, no matter the situation?

Maybe it's one of the benefits of growing old, but I just can't see telling a stranger they look bad or asking them about their life.

"We've been busy today," I lie.

My exhaustion has more to do with the lack of activity today and my double shift yesterday than anything else. I wouldn't be tired if I had something to focus on, but it's either feast or famine around here. Yesterday was chaos, and I should've gone to bed and right to sleep easily, but my mind raced with that warehouse district and those women disappearing behind that heavy door.

"Would you like to add some Halloween candy today?"

"No thank you, dear. I have diabetes and dentures. You're lucky you're so young."

I give her a faint smile, hating that it's the best I can manage.

I give her the total and wait for her to write out a check, another thing that makes this grocery store different from most others. As much as Mr. Gillis complains about bounced checks and fraudulent copies, he hasn't stopped allowing people to use them, afraid he'll alienate customers who aren't part of the digital age.

"We take debit cards as well," I say, noticing the card in her wallet.

She waves her hand as if dismissing the idea completely before continuing to write the information on the check.

I compare the name and address on the check with the driver's license she presents and complete the transaction.

"Have a great rest of your day and thank you for shopping at Main Street Grocery."

She worries about getting her wallet back into her huge purse before pushing her cart away.

"Have a good day, dear. Do try to get some sleep. You'll never find a man if you get wrinkles."

I'm left staring after her, mouth slightly open, dumbfounded at her ease of saying such things.

"She's a feisty one," Rachel says as she approaches.

"She's hateful," I mutter before turning to my coworker. "How is Ginny?"

"Strep," Rachel says with a frown. "And a double ear infection."

I take a step back. I'm not exactly a germaphobe, but I don't want to get sick.

Rachel notices, laughing and rolling her eyes. "Kids are nothing but a bag of germs."

"You didn't need to stay home with her again?" I ask, although I'm grateful she's here for her shift because I just don't have it in me to work another double shift today.

"She's with my mom," she explains. "She came home early from her vacation to watch her so I didn't have to miss another shift."

"Vacation," I muse with a smile. "I wonder what that's like."

She huffs. "Seriously, but I wouldn't call chasing after a boyfriend who took off to California a vacation. Those are Mom's words, not mine."

"Well, hopefully, Ginny feels better soon. I'm going to finish breaking down that canned good display and then I'm off."

Rachel scrunched her nose. "Didn't Mr. Gillis just have you build that the other day?"

"Yep," I say, trying my best not to sound frustrated.

This isn't my business, and no matter how differently I'd do things if it were, I'm not the one who gets to make decisions about it.

"He said it looks weird now that people are buying the items," I explain.

"So you'll break it down and put the products back in the storage room where no one can buy or see them except for their tiny slot on the shelves?"

I pull in a deep, frustrated breath. "Exactly."

"Why not just reconfigure it to accommodate the lower product count?"

"That's a great idea," I tell her with no enthusiasm. "Let me know what he says when you suggest it."

Laughter bubbles out of her throat as she shakes her head. "Not a chance. I need this job."

"Same," I quickly agree. "Have a good shift."

I run to the restroom quickly because I've been at the register for the last several hours without a break. On my way out of the back, I grab the cart to remove the canned goods, already not looking forward to the ache moving so many cans is going to cause in my back.

I've got only half of them down and stacked onto the cart when the tinkle of feminine voices rounding the aisle meets my ears, making me look up.

Although there are two new faces, I recognize the small group of Russian women, including the same one I spoke with mere days ago.

Instead of smiling at me as she has done in the past, she frowns as if already annoyed that she'll have to deal with me again today.

"Good afternoon, ladies," I say as I place a can on the cart and approach them before they can walk away as if they didn't see me standing there. "Where's Alena?"

Several of the women look at each other rather than looking at me.

"Where. Is. Alena?" I ask again, breaking the question down even though I know the one looking right at me has spoken English before.

She mutters something in Russian before leading the group of women away.

Frustration grows thick inside of me, and I know how ridiculous that is. I don't even know Alena's last name, but I do know she has always been kind to me. She had been coming to this grocery store twice a week for months before suddenly she was no longer around. It concerns me.

I finish loading the cart and sweep up the floor where the display was before pushing the cart back to the storage room and stacking the cans on the shelf to clear the cart. We only have one stocking cart in this entire store, and I know someone will probably need it later.

I clock out and pull my apron off over my head, waving at Rachel who is checking out another elderly woman as I leave the store.

The heat hits me the second I walk outside. The weather in Vegas is temperamental at best. We wake up to temperatures in the fifties and sixties, and by midafternoon we're inching up to the upper eighties. It feels sweltering after being in the back room of the store.

I swipe my arm across my forehead, as I walk to my car.

I'll be the first person to tell people that I have no life. My one friend, Morgan, gives me a hard time about it all the time. I don't know why I skipped the whole go-out-and-party part of my early twenties, but now at twenty-six, I just have no desire to spend my hard-earned money on drinks and partying.

Morgan assures me that a short dress and a quick smile will have men falling at my feet to buy all the drinks I could ever consume, but I hate the expectations that men have once they've dropped a ten-dollar bill on the bar top, as if a drink is worth a night rolling around in hotel sheets.

I bet that's what that guy would expect who came into the store last night , I think as I climb into my car and send up a quick prayer that the damn thing starts today. It gave me trouble this morning at home, but it finally cranked just as I was about to give up and grab the bus.

The engine turns over immediately, as if I've never had trouble getting it started before, and I have to smile, knowing just how silly it is that I'm grateful that something works when it's supposed to. I guess that's where I've gotten in life.

Instead of driving straight to the taco place because I know I have food to eat at home, I turn the opposite way out of the parking lot.

I don't know what prompts me to drive past the house those women went to the other day, but I do, finding the house devoid of any activity. They must've already dropped the groceries off. I bet that since they tend to shop at the same time when they come in, another group of women were taken to that warehouse.

Wanting answers to more questions than I'll ever have the chance to ask, I drive in that direction next, slowing down near the building and coming to a stop two blocks up.

It's not really possible to see much in the rearview mirror, so I move up the block and stop directly in front of the massive door.

There's no activity, no one coming out or going in. I don't even see the sleek SUV that I saw the other day. The place looks completely abandoned, and if it weren't for the camera up in the corner facing the door, I'd think it was just another decrepit area of Vegas that time has forgotten.

Instead of going home and minding my own damn business like an intelligent woman who has a healthy dose of self-preservation, I turn the ignition off, knowing that if there was ever a time my car wouldn't restart it would be now.

I pull in a deep breath as I climb out, making sure to lock the doors, even though I know that it won't stop someone from breaking in. This thought has me opening the car back up, hiding my purse under the seat, and relocking the doors.

The heat from all the concrete swirls around me, and I blame it entirely for the sheen of sweat that begins to dot my brows, because giving in to the echo of fear I'm feeling won't answer any of the questions I have.

I'm not insane. I know how dangerous it is to be in a place like this. I have no business here, and I'm well aware of that, but I want to know what happened to Alena. I need to know that she's safe, and if she's not, then I need to figure out a way to help her.

Surprisingly, there's no doorknob on the door, only a sheet of steel covering the outside, a way of preventing anyone from being able to pick the lock. It should be enough to make me turn around and haul ass back to my car, but either determination or stupidity prevents it. If this ends terribly, I don't know that distinguishing between the two will even matter.

I pull in a deep breath as I raise my hand to knock, but fear makes me come to my senses, and I quickly turn away and head back to my car.

I'm only a handful of feet away from the door when it swings open.

"Can I help you?" a man asks at my back.

My initial instinct tells me to run, but the Texas transplant to Vegas southern hospitality reacts first, making me turn to face the man with a smile on my face.

He's massive, like the guy a movie producer would hire to play Goliath, and my hands immediately begin to tremble.

"Can I help you?" he repeats, his voice more of a growl than actual words, but there's something in the tone of it that just gets on my last damn nerve.

"Do you always talk to people like that?" I snap and stand as tall as my frame will allow.

A slow, twisted smile tugs up the corners of his mouth, but it looks more like a sneer than a grin, and that crawls all over me as well.

My hands turn into fists as I fully face him. I know there will come a time when I'll reflect back on this and know I should've taken a different tack, but now isn't the time for reflection and consideration.

"Are you looking for work?"

I allow my eyes to sweep over him. He's in dark navy work pants and a vertically striped shirt with a business patch on the right breast that reads A-1 JANITORIAL .

I'm reconsidering my argument about my insanity because I let my hands relax at my sides and dip my head.

"I am," I tell him. "I have many years of cleaning experience."

His eyes dip lower on my body as his smile widens. "I bet you do. You're American?"

"Y-yes," I say, wondering if that would disqualify me from getting inside and poking around in an effort to determine what happened to Alena. Maybe she just no longer works for the janitorial service. Maybe this isn't as nefarious a situation as my gut was trying to warn me that it was.

"Come on in," he says, stepping fully outside and holding the heavy door open for me. "I'm sure Dima has time for an interview."

"Well," I say, trying to delay going into the building. "I may need to schedule it at a different time."

I can't see anything on the inside other than a dark tunnel, and it leaves me with a heavy feeling in my gut.

"Very well," he says, his accent thick as he steps partially back inside.

"How long will it take?" I ask, knowing I'll never get another chance. I doubt this man would open the door for me a second time.

"Not long," he assures me. "You look well qualified."

Every warning bell in my head is ringing, the sound almost loud enough for me to clap my hands over my ears to ease the sound, but instead of letting my gut lead me, I tell myself not to be a baby and take a step forward.

"Thank you," I tell him when he holds the door open for me.

Cool air washes over me, instant relief from the heat radiating outside, but then the door snaps closed, covering us in the darkness that I know seems worse after being outside in the sunlight.

A red glow is all that lights up the inside, and my skin immediately begins to crawl. I look over my shoulder, taking note of the EXIT sign above the door he just closed. Somehow that makes me feel a little better, as if the building being up to code in that respect means the business inside is completely legit.

"Dima is this way," the massive man says as he shuffles past me. I take note that he made every effort to get around me in the narrow hallway without touching me, and it's another token in his favor.

Stupidly, I follow the man, wondering when it would be a good time to ask him about Alena, but somehow the stars align with his next words.

"How did you hear about A-1 Janitorial?"

"Alena told me about it. She assured me I'd make more money here than at my current job."

The big guy stops to face me just as the hallway opens up into a larger area.

"I have no doubt you'll make more money," he says, and I hear a sinister edge to his tone.

I dart my eyes all around but the shelves full of cleaning supplies don't make me feel any better.

"Who is this?" a man asks, making me focus on him.

"I haven't caught her name, but she says Alena told her about the janitorial job."

"I think this is a mistake," I mutter, turning back in the direction we came after hearing the inflection in the big guy's tone.

"It's not a mistake, beauty," the smaller guy says as he steps around to block my path. "Let's have a chat, okay?"

He waves his arm toward what appears to be an office, and to his credit, he doesn't touch me either.

He gestures toward an empty seat on the other side of a small desk, and although I hesitate, I do eventually sit down.

"You're American," he says as he takes a seat across from me behind the desk.

"Correct."

"We don't have many Americans applying for this job."

I blink in his direction rather than speaking because I don't have a clue as to what he expects me to say.

"Alena told you about the job?"

"Yes."

"She spoke to you of what it entails?"

"Yes."

"And this is something you want to do?"

I drop my eyes to the paperwork on his desk, but the man is astute and quickly covers the information on the forms with his hands as he leans forward.

"Beauty?"

"Kaylee," I correct. "Does Alena no longer work here?"

He leans back, scraping the paperwork into the top drawer of his desk as he does so. "Alena was promoted to another position within the company."

"I like the idea of upward movement in the company," I say, as I begin to wonder if this is really a bad thing.

Promotions aren't something I'll ever get at the grocery store.

"It's the goal for all our employees," he says as he pulls a clipboard with paperwork on it from a shelf behind his desk. "How about you complete this questionnaire and we can see if you'll be a good fit?"

I take the clipboard and the pen he offers, grateful to have something else to focus on other than his smiling face.

I fill in the requisite information, realizing a little too late to scratch through them and change the information that I probably should've lied about, like my name and home address.

The next set of questions makes me snap my eyes up to him. "Why in the world would you need to know my body measurements?"

"For your uniform, Beauty," he answers without hesitation.

"Kaylee," I correct. "My name is Kaylee."

"Kaylee," he says with an easy smile. "Of course."

I finish the paperwork, skipping over the lengthy paragraphs of fine print because, honestly, who reads that stuff?

I hand the clipboard back to him, and he immediately goes right to the last page, grinning down at my signature.

"You read this?" he challenges.

"I did," I lie.

"And you're in agreement with the terms?"

"I am," I tell him, but my hands start to shake again.

"Do you think you can fake an accent?"

I tilt my head in confusion. "Why would I need to do that?"

"The men looking for wives can easily find an American, Beauty."

"Looking for a wife?" I ask in confusion. "You've got to be kidding me."

"No jokes here," Dima says. "You said you read the paperwork."

"This is a bad idea," I mutter as I stand. "Thank you for your time."

"Where are you going?" the big burly guy from earlier asks as he blocks the doorway of the office. "You belong to A-1 Janitorial now."