Chapter One
Mackenzie
Nobody told me that I'd be in happy places
Just trying to erase the traces
What came before me
A girl that I used to see somewhere very deep
She's falling asleep and I'm trying to wake her said her pray
- ‘Anything but me’ Lindsay Lohan
I hand Mrs. Thompson her room key just as my phone starts to ring. The brass numbers on the keycard catch the soft lobby light as I place it in her palm with my usual practiced smile.
“Dynasty Suites, this is Mackenzie, how can I help you?” My voice is pleasant, professional, which is muscle memory after years in this role.
“Mackenzie, please come see me for your evaluation.” My boss, Mr. Watson, says before hanging up. No greeting, no small talk. Just clipped words and the click of the line going dead.
I’ve been working in guest relations for the past two years, full time since graduation and part time while I was still in school.
I’ve poured myself into this job learning every system, every policy, remembering faces, birthdays, the smallest preferences of our regulars.
I’m hoping that my evaluation is not only good, but good enough to lead me straight into the open manager position.
As I make my way toward the back offices, I smooth out any wrinkles in my skirt, palms brushing over the fabric to keep my hands from fidgeting.
I pass one of the hallway mirrors and pause for a second, checking that my hair is still neatly pinned, my makeup even, lipstick intact.
If there’s ever a time to look completely put together, it’s now.
Once I reach his office, I knock lightly, my knuckles making a muted tap against the heavy wood. A beat later, his voice calls out, telling me to enter.
Stepping inside, I cross the short stretch of carpet to one of the two chairs in front of his large oak desk. The smell of leather from the chairs mixes with the faint tang of furniture polish in the air.
Mr. Watson spins his chair to face me, the slow swivel somehow deliberate, like he’s setting the pace.
“Thank you for being so prompt. Going through the topics on the evaluation, you placed at commendable on almost all of them. I’ve never gotten any feedback from customers about you aside from them loving you. ”
Relief floods through me, and I can’t help the smile that spreads across my face. “I really like my job. The company is great to work for also, especially since I am looking to grow within it.”
Mr. Watson nods, leaning back in his chair. “I have been thinking about that too. We have a manager’s position open since Margie left last month.”
My pulse skips. This is it. The conversation I’ve been hoping for.
“I think you could be qualified, but I’d like to test your knowledge in a few areas. If you’re up for it.” He arches an eyebrow, almost in challenge.
“I would love that.” My voice is steady, confident, even though inside my heart is thudding in anticipation.
We both stand, and he leads me out of the office.
The quiet of the back hallway gives way to the hum of activity as we pass through the kitchen pots clanging faintly in the distance, the smell of simmering stock drifting in the air.
He quizzes me on different topics pertaining to employees and procedures.
My answers come easily, as natural as breathing.
We take the elevator up, the soft mechanical hum filling the silence between questions.
The ballroom doors open to a wide space lit by glittering chandeliers, their light bouncing off polished floors.
He continues the questioning here, running through more scenarios.
I feel good, like I’m proving myself with every response.
From there, we head up to the top floor the luxury suites where the VIP guests stay. These are the rooms where small mistakes can turn into big complaints, the kind that reach the owner’s desk. I know this territory well.
“Have you taken notice of the new mattress toppers that were ordered for these suites?” His hand smooths over the bedspread, flattening invisible wrinkles.
“I haven’t, but I have heard great things from the guests. They seem to really like them.”
He gestures toward the bed. “Have a seat.”
I hesitate, my mouth parting to protest, but he cuts me off smoothly. “How can you sell the luxury of something when you have no idea about it?”
I see his point, and with a small nod, I perch on the very corner of the bed, careful to keep my knees angled toward the door. Still, my senses heighten like my body knows something before my mind catches up.
“You know, Mackenzie…” Mr. Watson steps in front of me, closer than necessary. “I could make sure you get everything you want within this company.”
The words are wrong, his tone is too slow, too knowing and makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up. I shift my weight, trying to rise, but his hands clamp down on my shoulders, firm, unyielding.
“You should really think about your next move.”
I look up at him, my voice sharp. “Get your hands off of me.”
He chuckles, low and ugly, then shoves me. My balance slips, the mattress dipping beneath me, and I fall backward. Before I can react, he’s on top of me, the heat of his body pressing me into the bed, his hands rough at the hem of my skirt.
“Get off of me!” I yell, my hands braced against his chest, pushing, shoving, but he’s too heavy.
“Just let it happen and you won’t regret it.” His breath smells faintly of coffee and something sour as his hand brushes against my panties.
A surge of adrenaline slams into me. My vision tunnels, my heartbeat roaring in my ears. I push him with one hand and with the other, I swing upward, punching him hard in the throat.
The sound he makes is a strangled wheeze, his hands flying to his neck as he stumbles back and crumples to the floor.
I stand, my chest heaving, blood roaring in my veins. “Go to hell.”
My legs move on instinct as I walk out of the hotel. Each step feels both too fast and too slow, like I’m moving underwater. My body is on fire from the adrenaline pumping through me, skin prickling with the aftershock.
Sitting in my car, I grip the steering wheel so tightly my knuckles ache. I force myself to focus on my breathing in, out, in, out until my pulse starts to slow.
I need to go home. Have a drink. And start looking for a new job.
***
5 weeks later
As I unload the last box, I let it rest in my hands for a moment before setting it down beside the others. My old bedroom feels strange yet familiar in the way muscle memory is familiar, yet foreign because I’m not the same person who left it almost eight years ago.
The soft lavender paint on the walls is faded now, the corners cluttered with old knick-knacks I didn’t bother to pack when I moved out. It smells faintly like dust and the vanilla candle my mom used to light in here when she cleaned.
After almost eight years, I moved back home.
The words echo in my head like a sentence I never imagined saying out loud.
I tried finding another local job, but nothing was available in my field.
Every application, every polite phone call, every follow-up was met with silence.
Deep down, I know why. I’m pretty sure Mr. Watson made sure that any hotel within driving distance knew not to hire me.
I had considered going to the management above him writing everything down, taking it to someone who could fire him.
But even in my angriest moments, the thought of walking back into that building made my stomach twist. I wanted to put it all behind me, shove it into some dark corner of my mind and never have to see his face again.
And realistically? It would be his word against mine.
That night, he even texted me with one neat, impersonal message saying he was sorry he couldn’t offer me the position, but that was “no reason for walking out during my shift.” A neat little way to rewrite what happened.
Covering his ass. Turning the truth into a messy, unwinnable he said, she said.
I tell myself it’s better this way. That walking away was my choice.
The truth is, I wasn’t really that happy living in the city anyway.
My apartment was small, clean, and painfully quiet.
I didn’t have many friends there, so my nights were a rotation of working late shifts or binge-watching Netflix until I fell asleep on the couch.
In a way, maybe all of this was a much-needed way out a brutal one, but an out nonetheless.
Still, I could never rationalize packing up my life and leaving without a job or some kind of plan.
I wasn’t running just because I was lonely.
Right now, I just need to take a minute to breathe. To rebuild the savings I blew through just trying to survive these past weeks. Thank God my lease was month-to-month because it made breaking it almost too easy when everything came crashing down.
My plan is simple: find a job here, save as much money as I can, and let the dust settle. After that, I’ll decide if I want to stay, reestablish my roots, or disappear to someplace where no one knows my name. For now, the first step is finding work.
In Bartsville, that means the local newspaper. My mom pulled one for me this morning, the thin stack of pages folded neatly in half, smelling faintly of ink. Here, job hunting is still done in print an entire town stubbornly holding onto the idea that not everything has to live on a screen.
Driving back into town earlier, I couldn’t help the memories that came rushing in.
The best and worst times of my life all happened here, and most of them within the span of a single year.
Every street corner, every storefront carries a ghost. And a part of me, an instinct I can’t seem to shake, feels him here.
His presence like static in the air. It makes me want to turn my car around and run in the other direction.
Because he is the reason I left. Or… ran.
Pushing that thought down, I pick up the paper and settle into the creaky desk chair by the window. Sunlight filters through the lace curtains, dust motes drifting lazily in the warm glow. I flip to the classifieds, scanning the tiny print.
A few babysitting jobs. Not terrible, but they wouldn’t rebuild anything close to the kind of savings I need.
A retail position. Possible… but I know myself. Half my paycheck would be gone before I even got it, swallowed up by impulse purchases and “employee discounts.”
And then the last posting catches my eye Bartender, six nights a week, at Ambrosia.
I’ve never even heard of it before, but the name sounds sleek.
Mysterious. From what I’ve heard, bartenders can make good money, sometimes great money if the place stays busy.
Maybe I could get out of here sooner than I planned.
Maybe I could even line up a few odd jobs during the day to pad my savings.
I dial the number listed before I can overthink it, the phone cool against my ear. A woman’s voice answers, brisk but not unfriendly. We talk for less than five minutes, and somehow, I hang up with an interview scheduled for tomorrow with the manager.
It’s only when I set my phone down that I realize…
How exactly do you dress for an interview at a bar?