In Dark Places

by Darryl J Keck

  Darryl J. Keck

  In Dark Places

  by Darryl J. Keck

  Copyright © April 28, 2019 by Darryl J. Keck

  Cover photo: Susan MacMillan, Darkskye Productions

  Cover model: Sarah Gow

  Write to me at: darryl@highvolumepress.com

  This is a work of fiction. Names and characters are either a work of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Actual products and locales are used either fictitiously, as part of the timeline, or for description purposes only. All rights reserved.

  Susan—

  Thank you for always being supportive, pushing me to do my best, and for letting me know when something wasn’t working!

  Chapter 1

  Mandi

  Applying for a job can be nerve-racking. When you have a lot to hide, the experience can be downright daunting. And boy, do I have some skeletons in my closet! If I lived in Chicago, I’d be able to blend in with the other misfits, but I happen to be stuck in a pint-sized town of 7,000 residents. You could say I stick out like a hand missing its middle finger.

  I have pretty much made a catastrophe of my life, and I’m only 29. Look at my present situation: I live with my crotchety grandma, bartend at a sleazy tavern, and got stabbed a little over a year ago by my former boyfriend. He’s doing 18 months for attempted murder. Yep, you heard me right—18 months. That was all my life was worth to the state of Illinois. That isn’t even enough time for Robbie to become someone’s bitch! You could say that I desperately need a miracle. Right now, I would settle for a decent job with an affordable health plan.

  My extended family and I have given the community of Wilkinson Creek plenty of reasons to dislike us over the past three decades, and the locals are determined to keep me down no matter what I do. Word of mouth travels fast in a town with only six beauty salons. Everyone in the area has heard the rumors surrounding the McAllister family. As a result, not one reputable business within a 10-mile radius will give my resume the slightest consideration. The townsfolk would never allow me to waitress in fear of what I might stick on their burgers—and there are plenty of cockroaches scurrying about in this town.

  As I mentioned, I tend bar at Ray’s Tavern—a county line dive that attracts degenerates from every little burg within fifty miles. The bar hosts a hotbed of illegal activity including backroom poker games, under-the-table drug deals, and some discrete prostitution in one of the non-public bathrooms. My duties include pouring drinks, flirting with the regulars, watching out for cops, and looking the other way when observing something I shouldn’t have noticed. Even the misbehaved need a secure clubhouse. As a result, my tips are usually higher than what is collected off the edge of the bar throughout my shift.

  Ray is the ringleader of the self-indulgent festivities that take place nightly. He gets a sizable cut of whatever goes down. Ray has a shaved head complete with a blue stocking cap, an orange goatee, and his skin is cloaked with a ton of ink. He may look like a badass, but I still remember when he played with a toy airport when he was just a knee-biter.

  Ray happens to be my first cousin and the reason I pour drinks looking like I’ve stepped directly out of Warrant’s “Cherry Pie” video. With my highlighted blonde hair, full lips, and sapphire-colored eyes, I look uncannily like Bobbie Brown—the model from the once-popular video. I enjoy the nightly masquerade, and I’m expected to go “Coyote Ugly” on top of the bar whenever the song spins. It’s splashy behavior that is good for generating tips. I still have a taut midriff and enjoy showing it off whenever possible. I use what works.

  Ray’s customers are perpetually stuck between 1982 and 1994. He offers them a safe place to explore their decadent behaviors and chase their lost youth—at an inflated price, of course. The jukebox is always playing some mostly-forgotten hair metal song, and I’m required to resemble a product of 1990 to keep them coming back. It pays the bills, but not all of them.

  After repeatedly being groped, goosed, and gyrated against, I’ve grown tired of bartending in the company of lowlifes. Thanks to a recent online posting, I’ve discovered that Leighton Publishing has five entry-level positions available. Their advertisement contained two phrases that grabbed my attention:

  “No Experience Necessary” and “Room for Advancement”

  The CEO of the company is apparently old school because all candidates must “apply in person.” In the age of impersonal online applications, the requirement to make a personal appearance is a huge relief. Even more comforting is that Leighton Publishing is located 40 miles to the west in Bluff Ridge. It’s far enough away from Wilkinson Creek’s critical eye to get a fair shake. Equal Opportunity Employment has proven to be a pile of bullshit in my community!

  Shortly before 9:00 a.m., I pull my blue Chevy Cavalier into the vast parking lot that faces Leighton Publishing’s large office building. The exterior contains seven floors of reflective floor-to-ceiling windowpanes. From my “visitors only” parking spot, the shiny glass seems to be casting white clouds and blue sky as if to conceal the publisher’s creative inner workings from the curious community. It’s a bit intoxicating that so many notable murder mysteries, science fiction page-turners, and hot romance novels are being edited within those four walls—and I might become a small sprocket of this particular literary machine. I need a win so bad that I’m almost growing desperate.

  I adjust my white dress, check my reflection in the driver’s side window, and make sure my black heels haven’t picked up any crumbs from the dirty floor of my car. This might be the most professional I’ve looked in my entire life.

  I fluff the back of my hair and whisper, “Okay, let’s go get ’em.”

  Lavish vehicles occupy the reserved parking spaces to the right of my partially rust-covered Cavalier. Considering I have nothing, the Porsche and the ivory BMW should be quite the dazzling display of affluence, right? Not to this girl! I have little respect for the wealthy because not a single one of them has ever positively impacted my life. Seriously, a multi-millionaire business magnate is either charging the general public too much for a product or not paying the employees enough. Regardless of my deep resentment to those with too many successive ‘zeros’ in their bank account ledger, I still need to consort with these privileged individuals to secure a decent job. This lineup of opulent automobiles is evidence that the Kindle and other electronic formats have not adversely impacted the revenue-generating power of this publishing empire.

  My size-seven feet take their first hopeful steps towards the intimidating large revolving door that could be the gateway to a more-rewarding chapter of my life. I have more than my share of family baggage I’d like to check at the door or drop off in the lost and found box. Instead of heels, I should have worn ruby slippers because I need a transformation that can only rival with Dorothy’s journey from Oz—except I want to be whisked away from my grim reality, not return to it.

  Upon safely entering through the nail-biting revolving door, it’s as if I’ve been transported to another city. Water is cascading down the glossy outer marble walls into an unseen fountain, making the place as tranquil as a tropical resort spa. It’s so unfair that a publishing lobby has more luxury than I’ve enjoyed throughout my entire life. I could live out the rest of my days in this waiting area—just position my bed alongside the leather chairs.

  A young receptionist with shoulder-length brown hair is perched behind a modern glass desk that is similar to the building’s exterior. Instead of the room reflecting back at me, the glass reveals everything behind it. My eye jumps to the large marble partition that partially masks the elevators and hallways leading to the inner offices. This place goes out of its way to maintain its privacy.

  “May I help you?” the receptionist asks,
breaking my trance.

  “Yes, ma’am,” I sweetly reply, laying it on thick. “I am here to apply for one of the entry-level positions you had posted on your website.”

  She cocks an eyebrow, taking a few seconds to look me up and down. The way she is surveying my body feels as if I’m applying for a modeling job. Apparently, I look as if I’m trying to land an upper-management position and not merely trying to get in on the ground floor. They say, “Dress for the job you want, not the job you’re applying for.”

  “Please fill out this form,” she says, sliding an application pinned to a clipboard to the edge of the desk. A pen is fastened to the metal clip by a thick string, most likely attached to deter the hopefuls from leaving with a souvenir.

  I take a seat in one of the brown leather armchairs. The chair is so baby soft that it practically conforms to the shape of my petite body. The application is a single one-sided page. It must be kept purposely short to prevent us from curling up in the chair and hibernating.

  After filling in the blank spaces with my not-so-splendid job history and some not-too-revealing personal information, I return the clipboard to the receptionist. She clearly knows I’m standing here, yet she makes me wait like an undesirable. Although she’s giving me time to be intrusive, I notice a dictionary app opened on her phone. A secretary that willingly looks up definitions is clearly in transition. Greeting the public is provisional until a coveted editorial position opens up. I can always spot an intellectual in disguise. When her workday is over, she most likely parks her ass on a barstool at the most upscale watering hole Bluff Ridge has to offer. She will accept drinks from men but will rarely give them much more than a smile for their generosity. I have a gift for sizing-up other women.

  When she finally reaches for my application, she quickly scans the details.

  “It will just be a few minutes,” she says, purposely avoiding direct eye contact. “Someone will be out to see you shortly.”

  Out of shock, I ask, “Am I being interviewed today?”

  “That’s the way we conduct our entry-level placement. Our policy is such that if you take the time to come in, we’ll take the time to see you.”

  “Thank you,” I tell her graciously and return to the buttery armchair. I begin reading a copy of Omni, so I will look bright.

  “Mandi McAllister,” a husky female voice announces from the right of the room. It was almost as if the wall opened and she seamlessly appeared.

  I look up to see an intimidating woman in a dark business suit. Her short hairstyle is directly from the uptight bitch stylebook—as experience has taught me. I desperately hope she isn’t the human resources director. If so, my insightful talent of rating women is about to work against me. She appears to be around 50, but that haircut adds ten years to her face. Jamie Lee Curtis would look much younger if she would retire that tight style first unveiled in Perfect.

  It has been my experience that a stern woman of this ilk will rarely see me as a suitable candidate for employment. They tend to judge the length of my hair, the size of my breasts, or the overall sexiness I exude rather than my ability to perform the job at hand. With any luck, she is merely a well-dressed assistant escorting me to be interviewed by the owner of that shiny Porsche. A man with a high-performance car would see me as a good fit, or he’d likely fantasize about how well I might fit. Either way, it could get me the position. Not that I want to be perceived merely as eye candy, but I’ll deal with being objectified to get through the door. I’ve been externalized since around the time I turned 14, so roaming eyes are nothing new.

  “Good morning, Ms. McAllister,” she greets, shaking my hand. Not much of a squeeze. Her husband doesn’t get seductive looks or a sexy grip. She also scans the length of my body, pausing at my shoulders on the way back up. This is an indication that she is put off by my long flowing hair. Wonderful! Fuck it; I’ll still treat her as if she’s my best friend. Kill ’em with kindness, right?

  I return the greeting warmly, acting as if I failed to pick up on her blatant profiling. Faking enthusiasm is second nature; it’s better to simulate an outer smile rather than letting the world know how defeated you feel inside. Mixing in the artificial sweetener is how I’ve kept from having a weekly meltdown.

  I follow her down a long hallway lined with dozens of framed book covers. We’re moving at too brisk of a pace to focus on a single title, but I do notice the all-too-familiar “#1 New York Times Bestseller” bar printed across the top of most of the covers. That list of bestsellers must change daily because thousands of books seem to be on it.

  We walk through a doorway leading to a plush office. To my dismay, a well-groomed man is not sitting behind the desk; one of those comfortable leather armchairs is also absent from the room. Instead, two black plastic chairs are positioned in front of the cluttered desk—this seat is guaranteed to put my ass to sleep within five minutes. With Carolyn Hollingsworth written on the nameplate, this has all the telltale signs of a taxing interview.

  She takes a seat and analyzes my one-page application. This woman has made such a habit of frowning that the edges of her mouth point 30 degrees to the south. To keep from watching her body language, I casually glance around her office. Behind her desk is a framed college degree. She graduated with Magna Cum Laude honors. Strategically positioned around the office are company-issued awards, signed books from renowned authors, and photos of her “seemingly” jovial family. Smiling families always look cheerful in pictures. Well, most families look happy. I am so outmatched.

  Occasionally, I glance at her, but she fails to notice. She has a small pair of professional reading glasses resting so far down her nose that, by all appearances, she doesn’t need them. In an attempt to project confidence, I try not to slouch even though the fragile bones in my butt are beginning to bruise from this ill-fitting chair. An uncomfortable seat like this may be a subtle test to judge the applicant’s level of restlessness.

  Carolyn keeps tapping her index finger against the right corner of the application. Annoying! Her silence is making me nuts. For a woman with a major in communications, she sucks at making a visitor feel cozy and welcome.

  “From what I see here, you do not have any experience in publishing aside from possibly reading books,” she says with an equal blend of arrogance and condemnation. “I assume you are familiar with the titles that we publish.”

  This is an indirect inquiry to size-up my level of illiteracy. I’m 29 and interviewing for an entry-level position . . . what does this say about my intelligence? I’ll need to give her my ‘A’ game.

  “I’ve read many novels from Leighton,” I say, deciding not to tell her any specific titles in fear that the genres might reveal something unfavorable about my personality.

  “My concern is that you have not worked with the printed word—not even as a cashier in a bookstore.”

  “Yes, that is true, but your online advertisement specifically stated that experience was not necessary,” I indicate, placing heavy emphasis on the ‘not’ to avoid being already disqualified. Reading the fine print may prove to be quite beneficial.

  “We did include that wording in our job posting, but we’d like to think an applicant would have some general knowledge of the publishing industry.”

  “I have familiarized myself with much of the software used in this industry by doing online tutorials.”

  “Oh, so you are self-motivated,” she remarks while jotting a note in the upper left corner of the application. I couldn’t tell if that was a question or a statement of shock.

  “I am extremely self-motivated and have always been a self-starter.”

  After a brief hesitation, she says, “I see that you elected not to finish college. Was there a reason for abandoning your studies?” We’ve officially arrived at the ‘judgment’ part of the interview. Since I’m expecting to land a job here, I’m compelled to answer what is clearly none of her business.

  “I have procured over four semesters worth of credits.
I plan to finish school upon having the pecuniary means to do so.”

  When talking to a priggish woman, it is best to sprinkle in as many 50-cent words as possible. I am able to speak scholarly due to my deep connection to Joey Potter on Dawson’s Creek. Joey felt deracinated from her small community courtesy of poor choices made by her incarcerated father. My vocabulary escalated by researching every word she uttered in her genuine, yet somewhat-exaggerated dialogue. Throughout those six seasons, my teachers were impressed by the words I would enunciate during class. My friends thought I was putting on airs whenever I’d weave a complicated word into a sentence. Being a wordsmith separated me from the herd, so improving my vocabulary became a pursuit. As a result, I’m able to keep up with a woman like this. I can’t do shit about her prejudice related to the size of my boobs, though. I’ve caught her glancing at them twice.

  “In case you are not aware, we have an employee/employer tuition match at Leighton,” she boasts with pride. “By maintaining at least a 3.0 average in any class, we will reimburse 70% of the tuition to the employee.”

  “That sounds wonderful.” Returning to college is not actually in my future plans, but it’s a smart play to make her believe it’s on my to-do list. When she spoke of college, it slightly brightened her unpleasant disposition.

  “This looks fantastic to me,” she says approvingly. “When can you—”

  She trails off, focusing heavily on the bottom of the application. She taps the paper three times with her red pen while biting her lower lip and scrunching her chin. If she had any idea how disgusting her face looks, she’d make a gallant effort not to hold her mouth in such a way. That expression would put a guy off from receiving a blowjob. She meets my eyes by looking over the top of her frames in a degrading way. It’s as if an unsympathetic librarian is about to scold me for returning an overdue reference book.

  “Is there a problem?” I ask, faking concern.