Chapter 15
Chapter Fifteen
This morning my head feels like I thrashed it against a sharp boulder a few thousand times, but I’ve held back the queasies thanks to a few green olives and dry toast. Gen, however, has not fared as well. She’s in the bathroom puking her guts out.
“You okay in there?”
She doesn’t answer, so I open the door a crack and check on her. She’s hugging the bowl, her cheek affixed to the rim. I open the door wide. “You don’t look good. Do you want me to take you to Urgent Care?”
“No,” she says without moving. “Just need quiet time with the toilet.”
I grab two washcloths from the cupboard and soak them in cold water. I drape one across the back of her neck.
Gen moans. “Feels good.”
“Here.” I hand her the other. Her arm wavers unsteadily in the air. I grab her fingers and direct them to the cloth.
I keep a close eye on Gen for the rest of the day. By evening she’s eating but still feeling pretty crappy.
The full force of what could have happened last night with Drake if Jaeger hadn’t shown up hits me as the day wears on.
I will never do anything like that again.
And afterward, with Jaeger? Clearly, I wasn’t thinking.
I was feeling, and allowing it to control my actions.
If there’s something between Jaeger and Gen, I could be the other woman this time.
Gen can barely trust as it is after the last A-hole played her.
The level of betrayal in this situation would be so much worse.
I haven’t told her about Drake, because to do so would mean explaining why Jaeger showed up.
Gen goes to bed early and I decide to talk to her about everything when she’s not so sick.
I need to get to the bottom of what’s really up with her and Jaeger.
She says nothing, but I can’t shake the feeling she’s holding something back.
The next day, Gen is gone when I wake. She left a note, saying she had errands to run.
I texted her and told her not to worry. That I’d grab a ride into work from one of the dealers.
I don’t want to wait to talk to her about Jaeger, but holding off a few more hours until we get off work won’t kill me.
I approach the seamstress counter at Blue and hand the lady my ticket to claim my uniform.
“Sorry, honey,” the attendant says. “Boss needs you to visit the supervisor. Elevators off the lobby, second floor. They’ll direct you from there.”
That’s weird. I’ve only interacted with the head dealer and a pit boss who manages new trainees. I’ve never gone upstairs to the big guns—the people observing Casino Real World through stealthy security cameras.
I nod to the attendant and jog up the stairs to the casino floor and the wall of elevators off the lobby.
Up the elevator, the second floor of the building could not look more different from the rest of the casino.
A section of cubicles takes up a good portion of the space, which is so institutional and wrong compared to the high-end décor of the gaming and customer areas, yet an upgrade from the yellowing paint and metal lockers of the basement.
Offices line three sides of the floor, with one large double door labeled Security in the center of an entire wall.
“I’m Cali Morgan,” I tell the receptionist. “The seamstress asked me to come here.”
The receptionist drums bright red nails that disappear briefly as she tucks back shoulder-length reddish-purple hair that under no circumstances came from nature. Those nails flash back out and pluck a sticky note from the desk. “Right this way.”
I follow the receptionist down the hall. Her heavy eye makeup and hair are casino glam, but the modest skirt and blouse she wears keep her respectable. I’m going to take a wild guess and say she worked the casino floor at some point.
We pass the security area and come to a different hallway lined with offices spread farther apart. The receptionist knocks on a door with Robert Middleton, Gaming on a metal plaque to the side, and we enter.
In the office, a man of middling years with sandy blond hair and a dimple in his chin taps a few last keystrokes on his computer. “Thank you.” He nods to the receptionist, and she closes the door behind her.
I have a strange feeling about this.
What could I have done wrong or right to land me here?
I’m not the fastest dealer, but no one has complained so far.
I haven’t miscounted, which is more than I can say for other new dealers.
If miscounting or botching a riffle shuffle were cause for dismissal, half the summer dealers would have been axed.
Robert Middleton stands halfway and gestures to a chair. “You must be Calista. Have a seat, please.” I never go by my full name, but I don’t correct him. Something in his voice tells me this is serious.
He sits down in his wide leather chair, a large picture window looking over the mountains and lake in the background. Blood rushes through my veins, pulse pounding at my throat. This guy is big time. Why would he call me up here?
Leaning on his forearms, Robert Middleton steeples his fingers. His jacket is off, but he’s wearing a white dress shirt and a striped taupe business tie so tight the skin at his neck folds above the collar. “I’ll get right to the point. We’re going to have to let you go.”
My jaw drops, eyes unblinking. What?
I mean, that thought occurred to me, given where I am, but I didn’t actually think it possible. I’ve never in my life received anything less than an A-minus, let alone been fired from an internship or work position.
“I don’t understand,” I finally say.
“It’s very simple. You are here as a summer employee.
We have a probationary period of three months for all employees.
If at any point during those three months we feel the collaboration isn’t a good fit, the casino may terminate without cause.
It’s been brought to my attention that your conduct does not fit our culture and that you would do better somewhere else. ”
His poker face is perfect. I get nothing from his expression. “What conduct are you referring to? I’m not trying to be argumentative. I just don’t understand what I’ve done that would warrant this.”
“I’d rather not go into specifics, nor am I obligated to.
Your termination is effective immediately.
” He stands and walks around his desk, gesturing to the door, a waft of spicy aftershave making my stomach roll.
“Please return to the front desk. The receptionist has a packet of closing forms for you to fill out.”
Somehow I manage to rise, my legs shaking like crazy. Robert Middleton holds out his hand. I stare at it for a moment, then snap out of my daze and grasp it. His handshake is firm and decisive. “Best of luck to you, Ms. Morgan.”
This cannot be happening. How is this happening?
My throat goes dry, and tears burn the backs of my eyes, but I walk to the receptionist desk and the violet-haired woman.
When I finish filling out forms, I step inside the elevator escorted by one of the security guards—as if I were a felon. The receptionist said the security guard is customary, but I’ve never felt so low in my life.
The guard promenades me across the casino floor, past Gen handing out drinks in the lounge. She doesn’t see me, but Mason does. He glances up from his bar in confusion.
I know the feeling. I swallow and keep walking, mortified. They told me not to talk to anyone, and the last thing I want is to announce what’s happening.
After the guard leaves me in the parking garage, the tears I held back spill down my cheeks. I shuffle my feet along, shocked and in a daze, toward the rows of cars, searching for Gen’s, then I halt.
I tip my head back and sigh loudly.
Gen has the keys and the receptionist said I couldn’t return before tomorrow, when my employment status would be announced.
I walk to the edge of the garage overlooking the fields of cars below and lean my head on the cold metal bars.
What am I going to do? I needed this job for school.
My savings from this summer would only cover a fraction of the costs of my first year, but still.
I’ll have to request more loans, which may take me my entire life to pay off. I’ll be a well-paid corporate slave.
Opportunities like Harvard Law don’t come around every day. I should be grateful. And yet I’m not. It doesn’t feel like a dream, it feels like a burden.