Page 53 of Brave
Swallowing convulsively, wiping her damp hands on her pants, she switched her backpack to her other hand and knocked.
“Come in.”
Deep breaths. She glanced back at Carlson, still on the barstool watching her. He pointed at her, flashed the okay symbol, then shooed with both hands while mouthing Go. Bracing herself—it was just an interview, after all… a practice interview… with one of the most intimidating doms she’d ever met, a man who made no effort to hide his dislike of her… God, she really was going to throw up—she went inside.
The interior of Spencer’s office was strongly reminiscent of the one her old manager had, back when she’d worked at Dairy Queen as a teen. It was small, no bigger than a broom closet and with just enough space for his desk and the tall metal filing cabinet that he was currently digging through. A wireless printer crowned the top of the cabinet, set in front of a cardboard box that read: Lost and Found. The handle of a purple crop was peeking over the open top flaps. Shift schedules, photographs, and order reminders were tacked all over the walls, along with a calendar and a wrinkled ten dollar bill in a picture frame—the first the bar had ever made on the day Black Light opened.
“Sit down,” Spencer said, pulling a thin packet of forms out of a file folder.
Sandwiched in the small space behind the door was an empty chair. She had to come in and close the door before she could obey. Her pack balanced in her lap, she picked at her fingernails. Her leg wouldn’t stop jiggling and she tried not to look at him directly.
B is for Broken…
Sticking the forms in a clipboard and digging a pen out of his desk, at last Spencer turned around. He took one look at her, huddled on the chair in the cramped corner of his office, the cuticle around her thumb raw and bleeding now, and promptly dropped the clipboard. It hit his desk, clattering loud enough to make her jump and sending the pen skittering to the floor.
“What,” he demanded, “are you doing?”
Turning, he plucked a tissue out of a box half buried behind two folders and a spreadsheet. She jumped all over again when he clamped his big hand onto her wrist. Glaring first at her and then at her fingers, he switched his grip to her bleeding thumb. His touch gentled as he wiped around her near non-existent thumbnail until he found the source of the bleeding.
“Press,” he grumbled, holding a corner of the tissue to the wound.
Eyeing him nervously, she did as she was told while he rummaged through his desk.
“You’re out of luck,” he said, holding up a child’s Band-Aid. “Regular bandages go like hotcakes around here. You’re stuck with Frozen.”
Throwing the wrapper away, he put it on her, then held out an expectant hand.
The only thing she’d brought in here with her was her pack. She wanted to cry, but she obediently gave it to him.
“No.” He dropped it on his desk with only slightly less irritation than he had the clipboard. “Hand,” he ordered, holding his out again.
There was zero warmth in his stare as she reluctantly offered the hand he’d just bandaged. He dropped it the minute she’d placed it in his waiting palm.
“Other. Hand,” he growled, patience thinning.
She gave it to him. Three of her five fingers were every bit as red and raw as her bleeding thumb. He pointedly showed her each one before turning her hand palm down. He slapped the back, hard.
Gasping, she yanked her arm back. She hugged it protectively, shrinking back in her chair when he leaned toward her.
“You,” he snapped, “don’t get to hurt you. Got it?”
Eyes huge, hand stinging, she nodded.
Bending to pick up the pen, he shoved both it and the clipboard with its forms at her. “Fill those out.”
It was an employment application with a W-2 directly under it. She looked at him. “I don’t understand…”
“You’re looking for a job, aren’t you?” he countered.
She was horrified. “Not here!”
“Thank God for small favors.” He stabbed a finger at the application. “Fill it out. Everything I tell you to do is something you’ll be asked at a real interview. My job is to help get you ready for it. Your job is either to cooperate or get out. Frankly, I’ve got other things I could be doing.”
Her stomach was a ball of knots and her hand still stung. The urge to drop the forms and run were incredibly strong. He could keep her pack if he wanted, she just wanted out. And yet, when he leaned back to cross his ankle over his knee, folded his arms across his chest and waited, instead of bolting, she timidly bent her head and began filling out the form.
She got as far as her name and halfway through her address before he took the clipboard out from under her. Removing the application, he wadded it up and threw it in the garbage.
“No prospective employer is going to take you seriously if you list your name as Puppy.” Sticking a fresh application form on the clipboard, he handed it back. “Try again.”
