Page 2 of Misadventures of a Biker

“I am,” I replied. My tone lacked the enthusiasm I hoped to convey. “I’m pretty excited about it, too.”

She paraded around the corner of her desk and paused. She folded her arms beneath her perky breasts. “Really?”

I offered her a phony smile of reassurance. “Really.”

“You don’t seem very convincing.”

I scowled. “I take exception to that remark.”

“Oh, wow,” she said. “You are serious.”

“I’m looking for a change of pace,” I said matter-of-factly.

“It’s just—” She shook her head. “You don’t look like a receptionist.”

“What do I look like?”

She shrugged one arm. “A tattoo artist? An artist?” She looked me over good, taking a moment to study my visible tattoos. “Maybe a movie producer or something. A creative type, for sure.”

“Sorry to disappoint you,” I said. “But I’m just a guy who desperately needs a job.”

“What’s your background?”

“Construction. Four years hands-on. A little less than ten in management.”

“So, you know the trade?”

“I can’t pretend to know your side of it entirely, but I know every facet of construction.”

“Janine’s going to go nuts over your tattoos,” she said, nodding at my hands. “I can’t wait until she sees them.”

“Who?”

“Janine.” She tilted her head to the side. “She’s crazy about hand tattoos. Tattoos in general, really.”

“Does that mean I’ve got the job?”

“The position has been vacant for two weeks. We haven’t had one decent applicant. This time of year, the only people searching for work are either in school and looking for a part-time job, or they’re seventy years old and hoping to supplement their social security.”

Naples, Florida, had roughly twenty thousand residents in the off-season and three hundred thousand during the winter months. The city was built to support the influx of inhabitants, leaving many businesses to suffer from April to December. The reduced income during the slow months wasn’t the typical business owner’s only frustration. A small selection of available year-round employees was equally unnerving.

“I’m well aware,” I said. “I went to high school here.” I extended my hand. “I’m Devin Wallace, by the way.”

“Sorry, I should have introduced myself.” She shook my hand. “Katelyn Winslow. I go by Kate.”

She wasn’t lacking in the self-esteem department, but everyone needed reassurance from time to time that they were attractive. I gave her a quick undressing with my eyes and grinned. “I can start on Monday.”

She flushed a little. “Come with me. I’ll grab an employment packet.”

I followed her to a large conference room. She disappeared momentarily and then returned with a manila folder. She placed it on the table beside me.

“There’s an application in there, an I-9 form, and a four-page questionnaire,” she said, gesturing to the folder. “It shouldn’t take you long. Let me know when you’re done.”

The questionnaire resembled the personality profile assessment I’d taken upon entry to the Federal Bureau of Prisons. Realizing the similarities between the two tests, I answered most of the questions opposite of what I had in prison. Being independent, dominant, impatient, and analytical weren’t qualities I suspected they were seeking. After completing the questionnaire, I reached for the application. The first question following my personal information was the same one that had prevented me from being hired on my twenty-six previous attempts.

Have you ever been convicted of a felony?

If I lied and got caught, it would be a one-way ticket back to the joint. If I told the truth, I wouldn’t be hired. In four days, I’d be picked up by US Marshals for not complying with the conditions of my release. Under no circumstances was I going back to prison.