Every Last Drop by Charlie Huston

but, urn, the elevator is out and, well, there are some difficulties involved with getting it serviced. So, urn. Up here and, yes.
He pulls at his lower lip. —By the, urn, way, are you holding any?
I walk past him, up the fire stairs. —No. Just I couldn't get all the blood out of my jacket when I cleaned it last.
He comes after me. —Oh, yes, that would, urn, explain it.
—It's a fucking mess.
—I know.
—And it's getting worse.
—I know.
—And it's going to happen again.
—I know, Sela.
—Urn, yes, excuse me.
I watch Gladstone's back as he sticks his head a little farther into the room beyond the door he cracked open only after knocking politely about ten times and finally deciding the people fighting beyond it had not heard him.
The folks inside take note of his presence. —What? What? —Urn, I. So sorry, Miss, but I, I did, urn, knock, and.
—What, Gladstone?
—Nothing. I mean, urn, someone, a, urn, new, urn.
His arm is waving at me, indicating my presence, despite the fact that it is invisible to the people he's speaking with.
—A new, urn, applicant. And I, urn, know you like to greet each one, urn, personally, so I.
—An intercom, Gladstone. We have a perfectly good one. Or has that broken now too?
—No, I, urn, I. I buzzed and. Would you like to, urn? —Wait. Gladstone.
The other voice has taken over, the one that shares my opinion about things around here being a mess. —Urn, yes?
—Is there someone out there? —Urn, I.
He pulls his head back, looks at me to make sure I'm still there, then sticks his head back into the room. —Yes, urn. There. Yes.
—Motherfucker! See! See! A mess! These people. No regard for security. No
understanding of protocol. Is it any wonder things like this shit come up?
—They're not these people. They're our people. You, of all people, should get
that.
—Don't, not now. This is no joke. And it's no time for remedial lessons in
compassion and understanding. You!
Gladstone s back stiffens. —Urn, yes?
—You bring someone up here again without clearing it through me, you'll be back in the dorms.
—I, urn, yes, I. It's just, I did buzz and, urn. —Shut the fuck up. —Urn.
I grab the edge of the door and pull it open, move Gladstone out of the way and step into the room.
Sela goes for the piece strapped into the shoulder holster she's wearing over her tank top.
Her hand freezes on the butt.
—Oh Jesus.
I raise a hand. —Yeah, good to see you too.
Her hand stays on the gun. —Did I say it was good to see you, Joe?
—No, but I always try to read between the lines. Figured you going for your gun was how you express affection these days. —That not how she expresses affection at all, Joe.
The girl comes out from behind her desk, puts a hand on Sela's arm, rubs her thumb across a vein that swells down the muscle. —Chill out, Sela.
Sela takes her hand from the gun, but I'd be hard-pressed to describe her as chilled out. —Don't get too close to him.
The girl comes toward me. —Don't be silly, it's Joe. What's he gonna do, kill me?
She comes closer.
—He'd never do that. He'd never hurt me at all.
She smiles. —Well, except for maybe that time he slapped me.
She squishes her face. —But I was being pretty bratty. Giving him a bad time about things.
She stops in front of me. —Well, come on, Joe. What do you think?
She gives a little spin, displaying her slacks, French-cuffed shirt, suit vest and expensively shorn hair. —Have I grown up right?
I take off my huge sunglasses and show her the fresh scar tissue. —I don't know, maybe I need a better look.
She claps, wraps her arms around me, turns her face into my chest and inhales. —Oh, Joe, you always know just what to say to make me feel safe.
I stand there with her arms around me, my own arms at my sides, looking at Sela.
She shakes her head. —She her own thing, our girl, isn't she, Joe?
—The logistics of it are just devastating. I mean, it was one thing to say we were going to establish a Clan, take