Page 3 of Heathen

I'm not the same person who moved to Vegas a few years ago. That Kaylee would've clocked out and done exactly what he needed without getting paid, but at the end of the day, this is a job. I'm not here helping a friend or an elderly relative, and as much as I like Mr. Gillis, he doesn't exactly reward my work ethic and hard work with anything more than my paycheck. If anything, he piles on more work and increases the expectations because he knows I'll get it done.

I don't dislike the man for it. It's natural to lean on those who you know will get a job done and get it done correctly. But when my very first yearly evaluation came up, he seemed to have completely forgotten all the extra things I had done for the store, smiling like he did something spectacular with a raise that didn't even cover the increase in the cost of living, so I stopped being the one always available.

I pull in a deep breath as I walk toward the back to clock out, knowing that the person I face in the mirror each morning, demanding that she grow a backbone and quit letting people run all over her, isn't the same person who walks through that front door every day. If we were one and the same then I would've done something on my only off day this week other than cover Meegan's day shift.

I pull my timecard from the rack and push it into the ancient machine, waiting for it to register the card and stamp the time onto it before placing it back in the rack. I fight the urge to press my head to the wall and pray for my life to change.

I go to work and I go home. Hell, I even do my grocery shopping here, turning my paycheck right back into more profit for Mr. Gillis rather than taking the time to drive a little deeper into town and buying my groceries at one of the less expensive box stores. That would mean, however, that I had to inch closer to the more touristy part of Vegas. I'd rather claw my own eyes out than mingle with arrogant and entitled people from out of town who all think that the locals are only here to do their bidding.

After making my way out of the back, I stand just inside the double doors separating the overstock room from the customer shopping area of the grocery store, deciding if I'm going to do a little shopping before leaving or if I'm going to be lazy the rest of the day and run by a fast-food place for dinner before going home.

I step to the side when I see a couple walking past the doors. As much as I want to complain about tourists, the locals who have been shopping here for decades are just as expectant and wouldn't care one bit that I'm not on the clock.

Once those customers have passed, I step out, having decided that a couple of tacos from the place on the corner is the best decision I've made all day.

"Oh, hi," I say as I turn the corner and nearly run into a small group of women.

Of the group of five, two say hello. These women have been inside the store many times over the last several months, telling me that they're local. I look over every beautiful face, wondering if they're sisters or somehow all related because they're each beauty pageant beautiful.

Resisting the urge to run a hand over my head, I frown when I notice that Alena isn't in the group today. She has been the one who has always been quick to speak to me when she's at the store.

"Where's Alena?"

The women all stand a little taller, making me feel even shorter than my normal five feet five inches.

They look among themselves before one steps forward and says something I don't understand in what I think is Russian before they all walk away.

I'm left standing in the middle of an aisle, just looking after them, as if the interaction didn't happen.

I don't exactly feel insulted, but I know the woman who spoke to me knows some English. I've heard her speak it to Alena before when they've been here previously, and the fact that she's not doing it now makes my suspicions rise.

I know it's part boredom and part annoyance that makes me wait in the parking lot for them to finish their shopping, check out, and leave. My clunker of a car doesn't go very quickly, but thankfully, two of the nearby factories have also closed down, making traffic for them slower.

I'm five cars behind them, wondering why a group of women need to be chauffeured to do their grocery shopping when they pull into a not-so-great neighborhood.

None of it makes sense.

The SUV has to have cost a pretty penny, yet the house they pull up to is barely half a step above a hovel. The women in the SUV climb out, unloading groceries without the help of the driver, which annoys me probably more than it should.

Just when I'm thinking the house is much too small for five women to live there, six if I include Alena, four more women step out of the house and climb into the SUV. I recognize a couple ofthem from previous shopping trips to the grocery store, but none of them are Alena.

Because I don't have anything better to do, I plan to follow the SUV when it pulls away from the house, waiting until three cars line up behind them at a red light before pulling out.

I can't recall another time, other than that one in high school when I tried to follow a boy my friend liked, that I ever tried to tail someone, but I've seen it a million times in the movies, so I pull knowledge from that.

The drive takes us right back into the industrial area near the grocery store, which is odd. I imagined the women being part of a flashy Vegas show or possibly waitresses at one of the major casinos because of their beauty and height. I never imagined they'd park just outside of a rundown building and file into one of the side doors.

What I don't miss is the look on each of their faces. There are no smiles. They aren't laughing with each other or joking. They aren't animated with their hands or telling stories.

Each one seems resigned, as if they are facing something none of them want to be involved in.

I crouch down in the driver's seat of my car when the SUV pulls away from the building, driving in my direction, making me realize that I seriously suck at any sort of covert endeavor.

When he's gone, I pop back up, knowing I should get my ass out of here, but I look toward the building once again. There's no sign, nothing that indicates what type of building it is. What I do know is there is a lot of seedy shit that goes down in Vegas. There are a lot of people in roles that are meant to protect the citizens and visitors who would change their behaviors based on who is lining their pockets.

I don't feel comfortable calling the police, because, honestly, what do I know about what's going on inside? The answer is absolutely nothing.

I also sometimes have a sneer on my face when heading in for a shift at work, so not being happy all the time isn't new to me either.

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