Phoenix Simpson [PUBLISHED]

8

Phoenix Simpson

Chapter 8

The next morning I found myself staring at the email sitting in my inbox.

I'd been offered an interview for a Door Supervisor job. In other words, a glorified name for a bouncer. Calling it a door supervisor didn't make it sound more appealing, it made it sound ridiculous. Were doors so much trouble nowadays that they needed babysitting?

I really wasn't in the mood to stand around all hours of the night, ushering drunk people in and out of a nightclub, but it was the only response I'd gotten so far, and I'd equally had enough of staring at the laptop screen.

The 'Door Supervisor' job hadn't required many qualifications. Just the ability to speak English and to be physically fit. They'd also mentioned being friendly and 'host-like', but that was asking too much, in my opinion.

The interview time was the same day, later this afternoon. I realised that they'd called my phone earlier, but I hadn't answered. I didn't answer calls from unknown numbers. Now I realised that they'd tried to contact me already today. Not one for talking much, I decided to reply to the email instead, agreeing that I'd be able to make the interview in four hours time.

I wondered what kind of questions they'd ask me. And what kind of responses they'd want to hear. Part of me was tempted to search for ideas or tips for the interview, but it would make me seem too desperate. I could handle it. I didn't need the help of some unknown blogger's opinions.

I didn't mention the interview to any of my brothers, not even Landon. He wasn't around anyway. He was 'out' again, which meant he was probably on a date, or coming back from an all-nighter.

As the time drew closer, I took a shower and got dressed into smart black trousers and a white shirt. I didn't wear clothes like this often. I may have been a former gang leader, but we weren't the Italian mob. Hoodies and leather jackets had been enough. I touched up on my aftershave and brushed strands of my hair into place before taking one last look at myself and turning to leave.

I almost went for my gun, instinctively. The act of preparing for something usually included packing my gun, or at least a knife. But this wasn't a gang fight I was going to, or a night on patrol. This was a bloody job interview.

Huffing out, I pulled back from the locked drawer of my bedside table. Only me, Landon and Walter had had guns. I'd made Landon and Walter dispose of theirs. But I was still holding onto mine. I didn't always lock my gun away. In the past I sometimes got complacent, and those were the times when the triplets would steal it, take it out for the day to show off most likely, then put it back as if they hadn't touched it. I knew, of course, and I made sure they never pulled stunts like that again. They could easily end up in juvenile detention for years, not just the days at a time that they were used to being in there for. Worst case, they could end up dead. Either by accidentally shooting each other whilst messing around, or by starting something with the Santiagos that they couldn't finish.

I'd never hit my brothers like our father and mother hit us. They would use their hand or fist to the face. Mum preferred using the cane, and she'd make sure we felt it to the backside or the palms of our hands. I never hit any of my brothers in the face as a punishment, only if it were a fight. But even so, not the triplets, they were too young. Usually, it was Walter who provoked me into fighting, and I couldn't remember the last time I'd punched Landon or Eli.

Somehow, I only needed to speak in a certain way, give them a deadly look, and the triplets would get the message. They all would. One of the most important messages being: Never try the product. My father had taught me that the hard way. I hadn't even had the slightest desire to try the product he dealt, mainly cocaine. But that hadn't stopped him. He'd tipped half a small packet down my throat and made me swallow it. One of his lessons.