iamdoubt / MILES ST. CLAIRE
H e doesn’t even recognize himself anymore. He doesn’t know who he’s staring at when he looks in the mirror every morning, nor if he ever did. He doesn’t think there’s 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 bachelor’s in psychology doesn’t seem to mean much when he’s 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. He’s 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. It’s disgusting, Miles thinks, but he keeps his mouth shut. The meeting’s adjourned. Numbers are up and everything’s 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, they’ll be fired before the next meeting.
Sam and Miles meet with him afterward to discuss real numbers; the inflation he’s so proud of. Anthony runs all his sales through hotel room service. What looks like a pricey drink on paper is really Ozz. Miles doesn’t know how his father got his hands on such a supply and he doesn’t want to, but because of it, he’s 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. “We’re doing well, boys!” He revels, patting Miles and Sam’s shoulders. Miles fights his initial instinct to swing at him. Sam speaks for both of them, “I didn’t think this would take off so fast.”
“Well, we’re not exactly where I want to be, but we’ll get there. Miles, a minute?”
His chest gets tight. He doesn’t 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 he’s trying to silently say it’s alright. Miles can’t decide if he’s grateful for the attempt, or annoyed by the lie. Either way, he leaves the room, and Anthony comes closer. He place his hand on Miles’ shoulder, digging his fingers into the collarbone. Miles grits his teeth. He can’t flinch.
“Our sales could have been better, and you know it too.”
Miles doesn’t speak. He’s still holding his breath, trying not to flinch; not to react.
“You’re part of St. Claire’s face. You have all the power in the world to help – to become the next in line, but you still don’t want to.”
Miles turns his head away. There’s another pinch in his collarbone that causes him to grit his teeth together, but he still doesn’t speak.
Anthony repeats himself. “You still don’t want to, do you?”
“You’re right, I don’t.” Bluntness is the only thing that works on Anthony St. Claire. If he senses fear, it’s immediate failure. It’s not the Ozz, Miles wants to say, but Anthony hates that explanation. It’s everything that comes with it. It’s the scheming, the internal wars with conflicting dealers. It’s the death. His heart skips. And he’s lost. “I don’t want to.”
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.
It’s an easy job, and that’s the best he can say about it. It’s 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. There’s 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. It’s easy, but Miles hates every single person who walks through the door. Every big shot company executive who can’t 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 parents’ dime; every one. The first woman in front of him can’t pry her phone from her ear. His usual spiel is completely wrecked by a series of questions, not directed at him: “What did you say? Sorry, service sucks in here! I’m checking in! Yeah – hey, can you hear me? Yeah, I’m checking in.”
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 it’s onto the next, a reservation he’s been dreading ever since the name came across his screen a week or so prior. It’s a face he knows, but a face he hasn’t seen in some time. While they didn’t part on bad terms – users and dealers rarely stay friends, but tend to part ways silently most of the time – he gets knots in his stomach when he sees her. It’s a few moments before Miles realizes he’s frozen up, and when he snaps out of his thoughts, he clears his throat, and runs the name for the reservation. It figures he’s the one to check her in. He was going to just leave it alone, but now he feels a strange obligation.
“Long time no see. Welcome back.”
“Thank you. Yes, it has been rather a while, hasn’t it?” 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 hadn’t 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. Claire’s was one of the nicest she’d ever been to. And Ozz, well, suffice to say the trip had been salvaged by a few intense days of enjoyment.
Ones that hadn’t insignificantly featured the man standing before her, checking her in.
“I trust I don’t need to remind you of my name,” Sherlock said lightly with a teasing edge to her smirk. “Or that the open ended nature of my stay will be a problem.”
