iamdoubtâ / MILES ST. CLAIRE
R E U N I O N ||Â @apcgee
     H e doesnât even recognize himself anymore. He doesnât know who heâs staring at when he looks in the mirror every morning, nor if he ever did. He doesnât think thereâs ever been a time in his life where he was truly sure of himself. Miles St. Claire was a bright kid; a shining star among other students, someone who excelled at many things, and was praised for it. He was proud of it, but it all feels meaningless now in the grand scheme of things. His bachelorâs in psychology doesnât seem to mean much when heâs stuck behind a counter, showing high class brats in and out of over-priced hotel rooms.
   First thing in the morning, his father pulls the entire staff in for a meeting in his office. Heâs proud in announcing numbers are up, but Miles knows the real cause of the increase. He and Sam Avila, a family friend and accomplice, glance at each other while all the new kids obliviously celebrate their bonuses, thanking their Lord and savior, Anthony St. Claire for his generosity. Itâs disgusting, Miles thinks, but he keeps his mouth shut. The meetingâs adjourned. Numbers are up and everythingâs fine; our doors stay open and the kids stay clueless awhile longer, until Anthony decides whether or not he sees potential in them. If not, theyâll be fired before the next meeting.
   Sam and Miles meet with him afterward to discuss real numbers; the inflation heâs so proud of. Anthony runs all his sales through hotel room service. What looks like a pricey drink on paper is really Ozz. Miles doesnât know how his father got his hands on such a supply and he doesnât want to, but because of it, heâs become the biggest supplier in New York, and probably most of the country. People stay at the hotel just to get their hands on it. âWeâre doing well, boys!â He revels, patting Miles and Samâs shoulders. Miles fights his initial instinct to swing at him. Sam speaks for both of them, âI didnât think this would take off so fast.â
   âWell, weâre not exactly where I want to be, but weâll get there. Miles, a minute?â
   His chest gets tight. He doesnât want Sam to leave them alone, but neither of them are in a position to argue Sam gives Miles a look, a small nod, like heâs trying to silently say itâs alright. Miles canât decide if heâs grateful for the attempt, or annoyed by the lie. Either way, he leaves the room, and Anthony comes closer. He place his hand on Milesâ shoulder, digging his fingers into the collarbone. Miles grits his teeth. He canât flinch.
     He canât flinch.
   âOur sales could have been better, and you know it too.â
   Miles doesnât speak. Heâs still holding his breath, trying not to flinch; not to react.
   âYouâre part of St. Claireâs face. You have all the power in the world to help â to become the next in line, but you still donât want to.â
   Miles turns his head away. Thereâs another pinch in his collarbone that causes him to grit his teeth together, but he still doesnât speak.
   Anthony repeats himself. âYou still donât want to, do you?â
   âYouâre right, I donât.â Bluntness is the only thing that works on Anthony St. Claire. If he senses fear, itâs immediate failure. Itâs not the Ozz, Miles wants to say, but Anthony hates that explanation. Itâs everything that comes with it. Itâs the scheming, the internal wars with conflicting dealers. Itâs the death. His heart skips. And heâs lost. âI donât want to.â
   With that, he turns his back and practically scurries out the door before anything can escalate. While fewer things inspire Miles to drive a pen through his eye than manning the front counter, it feels like a sanctuary after a meeting with Anthony.
   Itâs an easy job, and thatâs the best he can say about it. Itâs monotonous, and slow-paced; not prestigious or worth talking about in any way, shape or form. Miles spends the morning checking people out, and the afternoon checking newcomers in. Thereâs a build up of small annoyances that add up throughout the day that make him wish he was as cold-hearted as his younger brother, who acts as the face of the other, more horrific side of things. Itâs easy, but Miles hates every single person who walks through the door. Every big shot company executive who canât stand to carry his single suitcase to his room on the first floor; every group of party-goers celebrating their twenty-first birthdays on their rich parentsâ dime; every one. The first woman in front of him canât pry her phone from her ear. His usual spiel is completely wrecked by a series of questions, not directed at him: âWhat did you say? Sorry, service sucks in here! Iâm checking in! Yeah â hey, can you hear me? Yeah, Iâm checking in.â
   He goes back to the pen scenario. A hospital trip would get him out of there. It could be a whole new sanctuary. He rushes the girl through, then itâs onto the next, a reservation heâs been dreading ever since the name came across his screen a week or so prior. Itâs a face he knows, but a face he hasnât seen in some time. While they didnât part on bad terms â users and dealers rarely stay friends, but tend to part ways silently most of the time â he gets knots in his stomach when he sees her. Itâs a few moments before Miles realizes heâs frozen up, and when he snaps out of his thoughts, he clears his throat, and runs the name for the reservation. It figures heâs the one to check her in. He was going to just leave it alone, but now he feels a strange obligation.
   âLong time no see. Welcome back.â
âThank you. Yes, it has been rather a while, hasnât it?â A life time ago, it felt like. And yet here was Miles St. Claire, barely changed at all. Still the same, sulky boy he had been all those years ago, when Sherlock had matched him in sullenness and dissatisfaction with the world, mired in her resentment, frustrations, and addictions.
         A case had brought her to the city, a private one. That was the only sort she could get in those days, having not yet made any inroads to Scottland Yard (a fact she, in retrospect, could not blame them too harshly for, given her predilections for being high). Even with New York being a more tolerable American city, she hadnât been entirely pleased with the trip, the case proving ultimately dull and simplistic; checking in to the St. Claire had been an attempt to make up for the wasted time. A chance to try the rumored concoction peddled there, the true force behind the elaborate facade. As far as drug dens went, she had to admit that St. Claireâs was one of the nicest sheâd ever been to. And Ozz, well, suffice to say the trip had been salvaged by a few intense days of enjoyment.
Ones that hadnât insignificantly featured the man standing before her, checking her in.
                  âI trust I donât need to remind you of my name,â Sherlock said lightly with a teasing edge to her smirk. âOr that the open ended nature of my stay will be a problem.â