The Blinding Light

Published by

DREAMSPINNER PRESS

5032 Capital Circle SW, Suite 2, PMB# 279, Tallahassee, FL 32305-7886 USA

http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of author supz imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

The Blinding Light

© 2014 Renae Kaye.

Cover Art

© 2014 Bree Archer.

http://www.breearcher.com.

Cover content is for illustrative purposes only and any person depicted on the cover is a model.

All rights reserved. This book is licensed to the original purchaser only. Duplication or distribution via any means is illegal and a violation of international copyright law, subject to criminal prosecution and upon conviction, fines, and/or imprisonment. Any eBook format cannot be legally loaned or given to others. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the Publisher, except where permitted by law. To request permission and all other inquiries, contact Dreamspinner Press, 5032 Capital Circle SW, Suite 2, PMB# 279, Tallahassee, FL 32305-7886, USA, or http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/.

ISBN: 978-1-62798-812-4

Digital ISBN: 978-1-62798-813-1

Library of Congress Control Number: 2014940019

First Edition July 2014

Printed in the United States of America

This paper meets the requirements of

ANSI/NISO Z39.48-1992 (Permanence of Paper).

To Susana, and all that coffee!

I
TOOK
one last look at my reflection in the mirror and decided that
decent
was about as good as it was going to get.

I was freshly showered and shaved—the five-dollar polo shirt was the best I had—and the jeans were the only pair I owned that didn’t have a hole in them. I kept my hair cropped close enough to my head that it didn’t require combing, and the usual thick, gold chain I wore around my neck had been carefully hidden in the drawer in my bedroom. I’d decided to keep the single gold stud in my ear, though. I made no apologies for my orientation and I might as well be upfront about that in my interview. Besides, an empty hole in my lobe pretty much said the same thing as a solitary earring.

With a final look in the mirror, I grabbed my keys, wallet, and phone, and walked out the door. The bus stop was only a few yards away, and the buses ran frequently along the main road. I didn’t even have a chance to contemplate whether I wanted to risk sitting on the bus-shelter bench seat and possibly get gum or some shit on my pants before I spied the squarish green Transperth vehicle approaching.

Carefully I waved the driver down and was disgusted to count out the change needed. A whole $2.80 for a frickin’ bus ride to travel three suburbs away. My budget was waaay past
stressed
, had sailed on past
hurting
with barely a flicker of its eyelid, and was firmly staring at
oh-my-God-you-have-to-be-joking
. I could feed all five foot ten of my body on two dollars a day with wise shopping and no fancy frills. It was painful to hand over the money to the bus driver and only receive a tiny white ticket in exchange.

I found an empty seat and—after carefully checking—plonked my arse down for the ten-minute journey. I would’ve preferred to ride my trusty, rusty bike, but that would mean arriving at a job interview all sweaty. Not such a good first impression.

Okay, I conceded to myself, second impression. I’d already blown the first impression. I’d worked my usual Sunday-night shift down at The Gardie Tav and had arrived home at 2:00 a.m. So when my mobile phone rang just before nine in the morning, I was not exactly Cheerful Charlie on the phone. Without opening my eyes I’d slammed the device against my ear and growled, “Yeah? What?”

A small pause ensued, and I was about to hang up when a no-nonsense, female voice asked, “Is that Jacob Manning?” That woke me up fast. This was no marketing call from India or drunken mother calling because she couldn’t find her car keys. The voice was older, polished, refined and with a definite military-like bark to it.

I sat up, looked at the bedside clock, and put on my best yes-boss-no-boss tone, “Yes. This is him.”

“Mr. Manning, my name is Mrs. Martha West and I’m from Housekeeping Inc. We have received your resume in the mail this morning and I was wondering if you had time to come and see me for an interview this morning at ten o’clock?”

Floored doesn’t even begin to describe my reaction. I had put my resume in the post on Friday because I was desperate for any kind of work. I thought the company may have some sort of outdoor cleaning branch or industrial contracts that I might suit. Anything was good, and I figured it couldn’t hurt. The postage had cost me over a dollar, but I had managed to peel a sixty-cent stamp off an envelope that my housemate had received, so I happily sent my details to the company for half price.

Suddenly I realized that Mrs. Martha West was still waiting for my reply. “Ahh, sure. At your Applecross office?” That was where the newspaper advertisement had instructed the resumes to be sent.

“Yes. Is that a problem?”

“No, ma’am. I just need to take the bus, so as long as there isn’t a bus strike I can be there at ten.”

The
ma’am
was a little over the top, but she had that prissy, snobby voice that gave me flashbacks to Mrs. Sydney-Smith’s science classes where we had to call her
ma’am
or do detention. I’d chosen the detention every day after school for four weeks before caving in to her demands. I would’ve gone longer, but my little sister was sick, and I wanted to get home so I could take care of her.

“Good.”

“Would you like me to bring anything with me?”

“Determination and brass balls.” And then she hung up.

Well, fuck me. Obviously Mrs. Martha West wasn’t as snooty as I first thought. No problems, though. Me and my brass balls were pretty inseparable.

I grinned to myself as I pictured a matronly woman instructing me to drop my pants for inspection.
I’d bring my brass balls as long as she didn’t ask to see them!

M
RS
. M
ARTHA
West was exactly how she sounded on the phone. Her hair was liberally sprinkled with gray and had been ruthlessly pulled back into a bun and secured with a dozen pins. Her suit was gray too—a gray knee-length skirt, an ugly gray jacket over a spotless white shirt buttoned to her throat, and a gray-and-red silk scarf wrapped around the collar for a bit of color. She didn’t smile, she didn’t chitchat, and she didn’t offer me a glass of water. She just took a seat behind a massive but immaculate desk and waved me to the chair on the other side.

My resume was centered directly in front of her, and she picked it up and flicked through the pages before skewering me with a glare from her surprisingly bright blue eyes.

“Mr. Manning, I see you have had a variety of jobs in the past, none of which you have stayed at for very long.”

“Yes.” Well, it wasn’t like I could refute that. My sad and colorful employment history was noted in black and white in front of her.

She pursed her lips. “Any particular reason for that?”

I sighed. “Not really. A combination of personality clashes, better opportunities opening up, and some plain bad luck.” I did try to be a little diplomatic. This was a job interview after all.

Two well-plucked brows rose skyward. “Personality clashes? As in you didn’t get along with your coworkers? Or was it that you were unable to take instruction from your supervisor?”

Yes and yes… sometimes, anyway.
“I refuse to do anything illegal, ma’am. That got me fired a couple of times. I’m gay, just so’s you know. So, if that’s a problem, I can leave now. But don’t go giving me a job and then giving me grief for my lifestyle later. My orientation has gotten me into trouble a number of times. And sometimes my bosses have just been real meatheads. I don’t tolerate idiots. It’s a personality flaw I’m working on. Sometimes biting my tongue gets a little painful and I end up telling people how to do the job better. Not everyone appreciates efficiency and good practice.”

Mrs. Martha West’s expression didn’t change. I wondered idly if she was Botoxed up? I’d heard that stuff can make changing your expression a little hard. But Mrs. Martha West didn’t look down or away. She just stared at me. I suspected this was the end of my interview.

“Mr. Manning, you sound like you have a smart mouth on you.”

Hell, yes.
“I’m sorry. I’m working on that too. And please call me Jake. I know that sometimes my mouth runs away from my brain, but I’m a good, hard worker, Mrs. West. I can do the shit jobs without complaining, I turn up on time, I don’t call in sick unless I’m dying, and I’m desperate for a job.”