Chapter Eight
Phoebe
NOW
Step One: Find a place to live
Step Two: Get a real job
With step one complete, I focus on the next part of our plan to live honestly. This isn’t a temporary life that I can ditch tomorrow and erase for good. This is supposed to be a permanent thing—a part of my career résumé that I can build upon. Permanence. It’s definitely new for me.
I’ve never had a normal paycheck.
Don’t have a social security number.
Never passed a driver’s test to get a license.
If I even have a real birth certificate, my mom hasn’t showed me. I understood, even at a young age, that having paperwork means being tied to something—to someone.
We can do this.
I breathe in the encouragement as Hailey and I walk into a five-story, white brick mansion near the New England coast. Thanks to being spritzed by the sprinklers outside, my heeled boots squeak on the marble floors. The manicured green lawns and freshly planted peonies all scream, Country club!
The squeaking I’m making screams, Outsider!
“Fuck,” I mutter under my breath, trying to tiptoe like an idiot. I feel like the Grinch coming to steal Christmas from the residents of Victoria—which shouldn’t be the case. I’m not here to steal.
So why do I feel like I’m up to no good?
“You’re fine,” Hailey consoles, her fair face seeming bare without the heavy dark eye shadow and black lipstick. Though, she’s still wearing eyeliner. “You’re not supposed to be prim and proper.”
“I’m just supposed to be me.” I try to scrape wet grass off my boot and onto the marble. Under my breath, I add, “The only problem is being me means being a liar.” I am a liar. I am a deceiver. These things have been ingrained deep inside me, and they don’t just go away with the snap of a finger.
Hailey sends me an encouraging look. “We’re working on that part.”
I’m supposed to learn how to be better. Be good and truthful. Not sure how to do that without ripping parts of my personality away.
For Hailey, I remind myself.
The two words might as well be branded on my heart.
I’m trying to make this work for Hailey.
I won’t screw up.
She scours the empty rotunda for an employee, and I twirl around and take in the glamorous surroundings. Through big, spotless windows, I see the wraparound porch with cushioned rocking chairs and an impressive golf course. Victoria Country Club also has an Olympic-sized pool. It kinda sucks we can’t go sunbathe and drink pi?a coladas all afternoon.
Hailey glances at her Betty Boop watch face. “I swear the orientation was supposed to be at nine.” Her natural-brown brows furrow like she’s struggling with getting a fact wrong.
“Katherine is probably late.” I help myself to a beverage from a refreshment cart. Cucumbers float in a water jug, and I fill up a polished glass.
Hailey browses a table of magazines.
I squeeze at her side. “Oooh, Celebrity Crush.” I grab the gossip rag and sip my cucumber water.
“I don’t know how you can read that.” She’s already flipping through a National Geographic History magazine titled, “Hellraiser: The Hideous History of Satan.” “Maybe two percent is actually true.”
She’s not wrong. “But even though people know ninety-eight percent is likely garbage, they can’t help themselves and want to believe it’s true,” I tell her, flipping the page. “I’m one of those people when it comes to celebrities, Hails. I want to believe my favorite boy bander is dating my favorite actress. Aren’t they cute?” I flash a photo of the alleged couple shopping at the Grove in L.A.
Hailey has the best deadpan expression. “It’s staged.”
I examine the photo. “Even if it’s pretend love, it’s way more of an exciting love story than the boring girl-meets-boy, girl-dates-boy, girl-marries-boy. I like twists. Girl-realizes-boy-sucks, girl-dates-girl. Or girl-hates-boy, girl-sleeps-with-boy.”
“Girl-pretend-loves-boy?” Hailey questions. “Boy-pretend-loves-girl?”
“Exactly.”
She looks up from her magazine. “Sounds more like you and my brother.”
I try not to tense. “No, what I have with Rocky is diabolical love.” I turn a page. “Two stubborn hotheads imploding at the same time.”
“A proven bad combo,” Hailey concludes while skimming the National Geographic with interest.
It shouldn’t hurt hearing her say that, but my stomach clenches.
Even though Hailey and I are best friends, she’s not the one I confided in about liking Rocky when I was younger. Rocky is her brother. It just seemed messy and complicated, and I was afraid she’d want us together as much as my mom did. I needed Hailey to reinforce the idea that we are truly a bad combo. And maybe she’s right.
Rocky and I are combative. That isn’t a healthy ingredient in a relationship. Not that I’ve ever been in a real one.
“Totally,” I agree with a page flip. “You’re the smartest person I know, so your wisdom is my road map.”
“I’m only book smart, Phebs,” Hailey says casually.
I scrunch my brows. “Now, that’s a big, ugly lie.”
She’s still reading, but her cheeks redden, her skin a pinker and fairer tint than mine. “I know useless facts about useless things. I don’t know how to fix a toilet or hot-wire a car. You have tools. I have paper.”
“Paper is useful.”
“Sparingly. Only at specific times for specific needs.” She shuts the magazine, resigned to these facts about herself.
And I wonder how we arrived at this place. Where it’s just easier to see how amazing the other person is—and it’s harder to see those same amazing qualities in ourselves.
“I love paper,” I tell my best friend.
She smiles over at me. “I love tools.”
We’re both grinning when heels suddenly tap tap tap against the marbled floors. We turn around at the same time a fortysomething woman approaches in a stiff but quickened strut. Reddish hair slicked into a perfectly neat bun; nothing about this woman is out of place. Her black wrinkle-free pencil skirt hugs her curves, and a gold nameplate is fastened to her silk blouse: katherine rhodes, manager of guest relations.
She’s slightly out of breath and ten minutes late. Her tardiness is the only scratch in her polished armor. It’s unseemly. How could she?
The horror.
The dry wit inside my brain almost makes me smile, but I smooth my lips together so I don’t come off as a smart-ass.
Her finger juts out toward the entryway. “Was that you?”
I realize she’s pointing at the grass I smeared on the marble. No hello, no greeting, just an accusation. Awesome. I open my mouth to lie, but I stop myself short.
“We’re here for the job,” Hailey says quickly. “I’m Hailey Thornhall. We talked over email.”
Katherine appraises Hailey’s attire: black slacks and white button-down. It’s the dress code in Katherine’s email that I’m also following. Hailey no longer has an eyebrow piercing or a lip ring. We’re both making efforts to fit in... except, I didn’t dye my hair back to brown.
I like the blue, and the email said nothing about hair color.
Katherine has two small tote bags hooked on her arm with the country club’s logo: a budding pink mountain laurel. “You’re both new and I’m too busy to repeat myself, so one mistake is fine—two is fireable.” She rips the glass out of my hand. Water sloshes back at me. What the... “This is for guests. You’re not a guest here.”
I pat the wet spot on my blouse. “Noted.”
She glares at my dry tone.
I want to bristle and act like I belong the more she tries to make me feel small. But I’m in no power position here, and I end up feeling like a wet poodle, tail between my legs.
“Sorry,” I mutter.
Her sharp gaze cuts to Hailey. “Magazines are also for guests.” She takes the Celebrity Crush from me, and when she collects the history on Satan mag from Hailey, she stiffens at the title and the thick streak of eyeliner that shades Hailey’s gray eyes. Katherine is probably thinking Hailey cracks out a Ouija board every night and communes with the devil.
I smooth my lips to holster a smile.
That couldn’t be the furthest thing from reality, but she’s not asking us about ourselves—she’s just telling us to do as she says.
More quickly, she hands us the totes. “An orientation pamphlet is inside as well as a map of the country club. Whichever one of you made the mess on the floor, clean it up ASAP, and fix your hair.” She’s staring at me.
My face is on fire. “What’s wrong with my hair?”
“It’s a mess.”
It’s in a pony, but at least she didn’t comment on the color.
“Get those pieces out of your face.”
I agree to this with a sheepish, “Okay.” I’m so glad Rocky isn’t here to see me wilt like a dying petunia.
“I can’t give you the tour today.” She takes a hurried glance at her watch. “We’re dealing with a situation at the pool.” After a glimpse of her phone, she lets out an annoyed breath. “Okay, well it looks like one of the Koning boys is walking you through the orientation today. I need to handle this.”
Before I can ask what the hell a Koning boy is—Katherine zips off and exits out the double doors to the wraparound porch and patio.
Hailey and I exchange a what the fuck look.
“Koning?” Hailey frowns. “Like the beer?”
Skepticism pinches me, and my best friend follows me into the bathroom. I collect a bundle of paper towels. “Is Koning a family?”
I know the brand. Koning is just about everywhere in America. It’s the drink of mind when I think of football and beer. Their Super Bowl commercials are also pretty legendary. All of them incorporate sperm whales and the classic Koning gold crown.
Hailey searches the internet on her cellphone. “And your suspicions are... correct. The company was founded by a family in 1826.”
“I didn’t want that to be true.” I fix my hair into a neater pony, a little more nervous at the idea that we might’ve found ourselves among beer aristocracy. This isn’t a tiny independent brewery. Koning is the biggest rival to Anheuser-Busch, the company that makes Budweiser.
The Konings likely have money and prestige, two qualities that are like catnip for my family. It has the smell of a long con, and I’m not supposed to be sniffing out a new job for the Tinrocks and Graves.
“It’ll be fine,” Hailey says with nonchalance, but she’s gathering more paper towels at a rapid speed. She seems a little anxious.
It does sound... unbelievable that the Konings have roots in this little Connecticut town, and we just so happened to have picked this place to establish a new life.
Returning to the entryway, I’m on my knees and scrubbing at the grass stain on the white marble. Hailey kneels with me and helps clean the most stubborn green streak.
“I doubt anyone related to that family is here,” I tell Hailey while we scrub. “Maybe some infamous beer-drinking frat boys are running around the country club and they pound six-packs of Koning Lite.”
Hailey takes a good look at the glittering chandelier in the main rotunda. “More like bourbon-drinking boys.”
“I’m more of a beer drinker these days.”
I startle at the familiar voice behind us. He rounds our knelt bodies, and we look up.
“You.” Hailey gapes.
Jake in his fancy sport coat and leather boat shoes has his arms crossed like a disappointed dad. “Me,” he says while Hailey and I pick ourselves off the floor. I wad up all the dirtied paper towels, and Jake is practically pouting at my hair.
I feel like he’s channeling most of his disappointment into the fact that I ditched his advice. But in this new normal life that I can have, I want blue hair.
“Koning boy?” Hailey asks the important question. “What does that even mean?”
His arms drop with a heavy exhale. “Katherine.” He groans. “She’s known my brothers and me since we were small.” He says this like it’ll answer the question.
“You’re heavy beer drinkers—the Koning boys?” I ask, though my voice sounds tight. Stilted. I’m questioning everything now. He can’t be that rich.
“My mother’s maiden name is Koning,” he explains.
Okay, he is that rich.
Hailey maintains a stoic face. “So your family owns the beer company?”
Jake nods.
I go rigid. “Do they own this country club, too?” Why else would he be Katherine’s choice to give us the orientation?
“Yeah.” Jake sighs heavily like he didn’t want to have this conversation today. “We do.”
“Why didn’t you say something?” I cross my arms like a disappointed mother. He had every opportunity to tell us who he was back at the loft. He knew we would be working here.
“I didn’t feel like talking about my family.” The way he says it, there’s a subtle note of bitterness there that I’m sure few would catch.
“That’s fair,” Hailey says, like she totally gets being cagey when it comes to family.
But this is different. We’re hiding crimes.
What’s he hiding?
“It feels a bit disingenuous,” I tell Jake. “You knew we would be working here, and you were giving us tips so we wouldn’t be eaten by the upper elite, but in reality, it was just so we fit into your country club’s standards.”
“It was both,” Jake says. “We have a dress code. One that your best friend seems to respect more than you.” He’s staring at my hair again.
“It’s dark blue. Not cotton candy I-went-to-Disney-World blue, which I understand would distract people from their mai tais and pickleball lessons.”
He shakes his head. “That’s not the point—” He cuts himself off as his phone rings, and not with the automated ringtone. “Highway to Hell” by AC/DC blares in the echoing rotunda. He stares me down while fishing it from his pocket, as if waiting for a smart-ass comment.
I have none.
I’m just shocked he’d do a contrarian thing. Most people set their phones on vibrate.
Turning his back to us, he takes the call. “I can’t help right now, Trent. I’m giving an orientation to the two new servers.”
Hailey isn’t a lover of major confrontation, and this whole thing with our landlord is becoming messier by the second. She leans closer to me. “We don’t have to work here. There’s still that job opening at the bookstore.”
We vetoed that job when only one position became available. We want to work together, and maybe it’s asking too much to have the perfect job and be able to work with my best friend. If I have to sacrifice one over the other, I’m ditching perfection.
“No, we can do this,” I tell her.
She stares harder at me. “You sure?”
“Positive.” With my finger, I draw an X over my heart, promising her.
Hailey tries to relax.
Jake’s voice pitches louder. “Seriously? Fine.” He growls, “I said fine, Trent. I’ll handle it.” He hangs up the call and turns around.
“Talking with the devil?” I joke. “There’s a magazine for that.”
He’s confused.
I flush. “Because the song... ‘Highway to Hell’... and a history magazine—you know what, never mind.” Fuck my new life.
“Is everything okay?” Hailey asks him.
“Yeah, it’s fine,” he says more gently this time, pocketing his phone. “Let’s just get on with this so you both can start your shifts.” He treks down the long corridor with zero pause. Hailey and I nearly jog to keep his lengthy pace. “There are five dining rooms at the club, including the patio dining. Katherine will email the shift schedule at the start of the week, but things change hour by hour. Guests choose where they’d like to dine, and if extra hands are needed in another area, you’ll be shifted there.”
He barely slows at a set of double doors. “Guest locker rooms, library, and anywhere that isn’t a dining room is off-limits. Sometimes we need more servers at the pool and for snack service; again, you fill in where needed. Banquets and events are frequent, and as full-time staff, you’ll be expected to work those.”
He pushes open the doors. Circular tables, burgundy leather chairs, and glitzy chandeliers fashion this elegant, warm atmosphere. Light streams through the tall windows, so it can’t be a smoking parlor. It’s likely the main dining room.
“This is the main dining hall,” he announces.
I smile. Okay, my deduction skills aren’t too rusty yet.
“Anything you hear in VCC stays here. These guests pay for privacy, and they do pay a lot of money. Which reminds me...” He turns to me. “Don’t expect tips. We’re a no-tipping club since it’s rolled into the dues.”
No tips.
We were banking on tips to afford rent.
And why did he look at me when he said that? Do I appear desperate for cash? Is it because I almost flashed him at the loft? Most people I can read somewhat well, but he’s more like fogged glass. I hate that.
He flags down a petite girl around our age. With inky black hair in a cute, sleek pony, she’s dressed in the same black slacks and white button-down as us. “Chelsea,” he says. “This is Phoebe and Hailey. They’ll be your trainees.”
Chelsea plasters on a smile that seems artificial. “Great. Follow me.”
After Jake passes us over to Chelsea, my phone buzzes. Three times. He notices, side-eyeing me with too much interest, and I wait for him to disappear before checking the incoming texts.
206-555-1983: It’s Oliver. Now I’m seriously worried. Where are you??
206-555-1983: Just give me your coordinates. Nova & I will come to you wherever you are, no questions asked.
206-555-1983: If someone stole this phone and fucked with the girl who owns it, you’ve messed with the wrong person.
I type out three different responses and delete them just as fast.
I’m okay.
I’m fine.
Don’t worry.
I decide to do the worst sisterly thing and say nothing. A pit is in my heart and stomach. Rocky said he’d handle my brothers. I just hope I’m not making a mistake by letting him take the wheel.