The Position

The Position

Vol. 1

Izzy Mason

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events, is purely coincidental.
 

Copyright © 2014 by Izzy Mason

All rights reserved.
 

No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form.
 

The Position

Vol. 1

Chapter One

My car has been parked on the alley side of an Albertson’s for nearly three weeks, which is about as long as I’ve gone without getting run out by the cops. I should move it tonight before I jinx my luck. People don’t like to see cars sitting in one place for too long, especially if they’re filled with clothes and shoes and blankets and groceries. They assume it’s some drifter up to no good. But sometimes it’s just me, Michaela Clark; recent graduate from CU Boulder with a degree in architectural design. Yes, I am homeless and live in my car.
 

It’s not even eight o’clock in the morning, and already it’s been a shitty day. I got caught trying to sneak into the shower at the YMCA nearby and ended up resorting to a ho bath and a quick hair wash in a gas station bathroom. The clothes I’d laid out for today slipped from the back of the seat to the floor in the night and are now a rumpled mess. Not that it matters, since I just discovered an epic run in the only pair of stockings I own.
 

With a sigh, I dig around for something else to wear—a pair of baggy black trousers and a white button-up blouse—and wiggle into them quickly before some pervert comes along. I’ve been told that black and white suggests “professional,” though I’m concerned the profession it suggests is caterer at a fancy party, not architect’s assistant, which is the job I’ve applied for. *Beggars can’t be choosers.* *Beggars can’t be choosers. Beggars can’t be choosers.* My mother’s voice chides me inside my head until I angrily push it away.
 

I pull my damp hair into a ponytail and lean close to the little mirror I’ve propped up on the dashboard, carefully brushing mascara onto my lashes. It accentuates my green eyes, though they’re hard to appreciate from behind the geeky, out-of-date glasses. As I dab on lipstick and blend it in with my finger, I try to picture myself sitting behind the desk of an elite architecture firm like Lazarus & Smith.
 

I can’t do it. All I see is beggar, beggar, beggar.

It’s a warm, muggy morning and I can smell rain on the way. As I unchain my bike, I notice the black clouds hanging over the mountains out west and the occasional strike of lightning across the horizon. Oh, great. I roll up the chain side of my pants, throw a leg over my bike, and haul ass toward downtown before I have to add “drowned rat” to my physical description.
 

My trousers are so baggy I feel them balloon out as I get some speed and I feel like a circus clown. I pedal fast down empty residential streets, through the oily alleys of the industrial section, and along the bike path through the park. I’m about to fly under the pedestrian overpass when I see a guy sprawled out on the grass beneath a tree. I stop the bike and wheel over to him. He’s a pretty typical-looking street drunk: black grimy skin, wiry beard, filthy, torn-up clothes.
 

As a teenager, I spent my fair share of time in homeless shelters dodging do-gooders from Child Protective Services. I’ve also spent the occasional night on a park bench or in a sheltered doorway. It was guys like this who would come to my aid the most. They’d chase off rats and assholes with bad intentions. One guy even gave me his sleeping bag when he had nothing else in the world. That was Captain. Now he’s the closest thing I have to family, and even though he still lives in the shelters and homeless encampments, I visit him as often as possible.
 

I lay my bike down and squat beside the guy. He reeks of piss and liquor. He’s flat-out.
 

“Anybody home?” I put my hand on his shoulder and shake him. His clothes feel gummy and stiff. “Come on, my friend. You want to choke on your own barf? You know better than that.”
 

He groans and twitches. His eyes flutter open a little but I can tell he doesn’t see me. He’s too blotto. I’m just going to have to do it on my own. I step over him and slip both hands under his back, then bend my knees for leverage. He goes over with a surprised grunt and then he’s out again.
 

“Sleep it off, dude,” I mutter. “You’ll be okay.”
 

I look at my cell phone and gasp at the time. Fuck. I grab my bike and get moving, pedaling as fast as I can. By the time I hit the gridlocked traffic of outer downtown, the rain begins to fall. I squint through my speckled glasses and weave in and out of the cars, feeling the surface turn slick under my tires.
 

I’ve only been in Denver for three months. It’s the biggest city I’ve ever seen. My hometown is an ugly afterthought in the middle of the New Mexican desert, where the only nightlife is found outside the Circle K and drag racing is the most popular local sport.
 

But Denver is like the refined lady I fantasized I would become—dashing and cosmopolitan. It is the opposite of my hometown. And the opposite of me. I used to lose myself in daydreams while holed up in my bedroom listening to the overloud TV in the front room where my folks were drinking. I would imagine I was a high-powered professional with beautiful clothes and nice car. I’d carry my lunch box around like a briefcase and play that I was at a work lunch in a fancy restaurant.
 

In my town kids grow up and marry each other. Babies come early and dreams are as flat and dry as the wasteland around us. I only managed to get out because I had no choice. Leave and live, or stay and die. That’s why I don’t whine about my less than ideal circumstances. Still, as I pedal through the bustling streets, the skyscrapers loom over me like judgmental strangers who know I don’t belong. *Hey you! The one with the clown pants! Get back to the Podunk town you came from! You’re way out of your league here!*
 

The rain falls harder and I can feel the synthetic fabric of my blouse start to stick to my skin. I’m not the kind of girl you can easily break. My entire childhood was a string of insults and beatings. Now my calluses are thick and strong. There’s nothing you can say to me that’s worse than what my parents told me every day of my life. I put my head down and pedal faster, silently shaking a fist at the buildings. *Fuck you! I’m coming, and nothing can…*

My screed comes to a screeching halt. I don’t even see the car door until my bike slams against it and I’m flying through the air. Everything is a blur of brake lights and metal and hard, black asphalt as I land on my back and slide several feet. Cars roll past inches from my head. There’s a ringing in my ears and nausea swells in my stomach. I can’t breathe. It takes me a minute to understand what just happened.
 

“Oh my God, are you alright?” At first the voice sounds far away. It’s a man’s voice; deep and strong. “Miss, can you hear me?”

Slowly, the breath comes back and the ringing subsides. My glasses have flown off and everything around me is a blob. But I can see there’s a man kneeling on the wet pavement beside me. His hand is gently gripping my shoulder as I lie there like the drunk in the park.
 

“Here,” he says gently. “I think these are yours.”
 

He pushes the glasses into my hand. The lenses are scratched to shit but not broken. When I slide them on they feel lopsided. They’re so wet and dirty I can’t see a thing.
 

“Hang on,” the voice says, and the glasses slip off my face again. Though the man is only a gray and black blur beside me, I can tell that he’s cleaning the lenses with a handkerchief. Then he slides them carefully back on my face. “Is that better?”

I blink through the clean lenses and see him for the first time. Mother of God. Electricity jolts through me and I catch my breath. His eyes are intense, the color of amber, and they watch me with concern and curiosity. His hair is the color of dark sand, swept up and styled like an Italian model in a GQ magazine. His face is so beautiful, it’s almost mythical, like a marble sculpture come to life. Chiseled cheekbones. Smooth, clean-shaven skin. And the sexiest lips I’ve ever seen in my life. I open my mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. I’m literally speechless.

“Can you tell me your name?” he asks, frowning down at me with worried eyes. “Can you say your name?”
 

I try again. This time, the words are there. “Michaela Clark.”
 

He nods, pleased. “Do you know where you are, Michaela?”
 

“Where I am?”

“What city is this?” he asks firmly.
 

The water is beading on the dark gray wool of his gorgeous pea coat and the knees of his trousers are getting soaked. But he doesn’t seem to care.
 

“Denver,” I say. Just then I notice the clock on a tower beyond his head. I’m already fifteen minutes late for the interview. I push myself up to a seated position and he puts a strong hand on my back to help me. “I’m fine,” I say quickly. “And I have to go. I’m late.”

He furrows his brow as I gingerly get to my feet. At first I’m dizzy and have to grab his arm to steady myself. I take a few deep breaths and find my balance again. My blouse is drenched and smeared with dirt and grime. The skin on my back feels hot, and I can tell it’s all torn up. My pants are filthy and wet. I’m basically the biggest mess that’s ever walked into a job interview. I look down at myself and sigh. Well, at least I’ll be memorable.
 

“Are you sure you’re okay?” the man says, quickly fishing a business card from his breast pocket. “It was all my fault. Go see a doctor and send me the bill.” He walks back several feet and picks up my bike, which is like a fucking tank. Not a scratch. “That’s a hell of a bike. But if it turns out to be damaged in some way, please let me pay for the repair. And the clothes, as well.”
 

In spite of the pain and dizziness, I laugh loudly, distractedly brushing at the mud on my clown pants. “You’ve got to be kidding.”
 

“And the glasses,” he asserts, ignoring my sardonic laughter. “They’re obviously scratched.”
 

He reaches out and slides the business card into the breast pocket of my blouse.
 

“That’s my card.”
 

The gesture feels weirdly slow and I’m shockingly aware of the stiff cardboard sliding over my breast. In spite of the chill, my body tingles with heat. I stare at him, breathless. The last time I felt a caress on my breast it was a beer-goggled frat boy grabbing me from behind at the student center. The man gives me a friendly, almost paternalistic smile, and I realize he wasn’t trying to be seductive. He was just being sincere. A nice guy. The rest was all fantasyland.
 

I nod stupidly. “Okay. Whatever. It’s really not necessary.”
 

“But I insist,” he says.
 

As much as I want to, I don’t wait to watch him walk back to his car. There’s no time to spare. I jump back on my bike and set off yet again. By the time I find the address of the interview, I’m thirty minutes late. It’s a tall, elegant glass tower; the kind you imagine important people in, working on important things.
 

I want to stop off in a bathroom to at least clean the dirt from my face and hands, but then I might lose the interview entirely. Feeling like a cockroach on a cupcake counter, I ride the elevator with a handful of beautifully dressed people carrying wet umbrellas. They exchange silent looks and stare at me. But I don’t care. I’ve come this far. I might as well go all the way.

Chapter Two

“I had an accident,” I say to the woman, trying to sound confident. “On my bike. Got doored.”
 

The woman touches a hand to her lips dramatically. “Oh no!” It’s a kind of breathy exhalation. “Honey, you should be at the doctor’s, not here!” She’s very tall with a short, blond bob and a long neck. Her body looks like stretched clay, tapering so drastically at the waist that I think I may be able to get both my hands around it and still touch fingers. She’s wearing a cream-colored dress with a matching short jacket, and it’s so pristine and perfectly tailored, I can’t imagine she ever sits down or eats lunch in it.
 

“I look a mess,” I say with a shrug, “but I feel okay.”

The woman’s eyes are wide and she shakes her head. “It’s just that…” she waves her hand in my direction, unable to put the words together.
 

“This opportunity is important to me.” I force myself to take a step toward her to keep myself from retreating. I feel like an idiot. It was a stupid idea to come to an important interview looking like something that got caught in a car tire. I was afraid that if I rescheduled, someone else might get the job before I’ve had a chance. But now it’s clear I’ve solidly blown my chances.