Chapter 5
No, no, no, no, no!
My phone is buzzing on the bed beside me. I don’t have to look. I already know who it is. This is what she does. She waits. She pressures. She attacks. It’s all designed to wear me down so I give in to her demands. I know her methods by now. It’s more of an inconvenience now.
I reach for the phone and stare down at the five missed calls. And almost like clockwork, her go-to text messages start coming in.
Sherry
You owe me this money, Suzanne. I gave you life, and I don’t even get a thank you for it.
Sherry
I need the money by Friday.
Sherry
Don’t make me find you.
Sherry
I don’t understand why you’ll deny your own mother in a moment of need after everything I’ve done.
Sherry
If it were Marguerite, you wouldn’t even hesitate. Why do you hate your mother?
I don’t want to respond. I know better than that. Whenever my mother is in this mode, the best tactic is not to engage. Let it boil down. She’ll find another family member to pester. Maybe Darryl would end up stealing it from someone.
But it’s 5:00 a.m. I’m not thinking clearly, and I’m fed up. My fingers start moving across the screen.
Suzanne
Why don’t you get a life and leave me alone? I’m not giving you any money. Not ever. Don’t call me again.
I hold the phone in my hands and wait. No response. Now that the wave of anger has passed, I see clearly. I shouldn’t have engaged with her. I just gave her ammunition. The fact that she’s not responding proves that she’s gone past demanding. She’s going to do something about it.
I’m going to have to tell Maeve not to let anyone claiming to be my mother into the apartment.
There’s no point going back to sleep. I’m too riled up, and I have to get ready for work soon anyway.
I get up and paint for ten minutes because I need to.
I don’t look at what I’m painting. I’m still not sure what it is.
Sometimes I see a face, other times I see a heart, and on rare occasions, it looks like a man.
I sing under my breath as I work. Hopefully, the painting will take shape soon. The image in my head isn’t clear yet. Maybe I need some inspiration, wherever that might come from.
Finally, I step back and admire it. I see a face. Strong, long raven-black hair, gray eyes. I blink, and it’s gone. Red paint stares back at me.
I know what I saw — who, actually. His NDA is still sitting in my bag. I didn’t read it. I don’t intend to. He’s another person I’m hoping to wear down. As soon as he’s out of the hotel, all of this should blow over. I just need to make him think I’m actually considering it.
I clean my brushes, cap the tube, and get ready for my shift. I catch the bus to the hotel. Since I already have a set schedule, I don’t bother finding Roger. I start toward the equipment room when I see Carmen walking past with an armful of pillowcases.
“Roger’s in a mood,” she hisses.
“Did something happen?” I ask.
She shrugs. “Does something have to? Just stay out of his way today. He might be looking for a show.”
I walk faster. I need to get my cart and hide out in the penthouse suite — at least Mr. Nightingale isn’t trying to get me fired. Crossing paths with Roger right now will prove to be more dangerous than sitting in a room with the naked man for the whole day.
As soon as I enter the equipment room, I reach for my cart, but I’m already too late. I hear angry footsteps coming from behind me, and I already know things are about to be very chaotic.
“Jenkins!”
I turn around to find Roger glaring at me, glasses sliding down his face. He pushes them back up violently. He holds up a set of towels. “What. Are. These?”
I take them from him. I inspect them for any stain, but there's nothing. I stare at him blankly. “They’re towels?”
He grinds his teeth. That’s clearly not the answer he was looking for. “I can see that. What I want to know is why they aren’t where they’re supposed to be?”
I wrack my brain. Towels, towels, towels… But nothing comes to mind. I don’t remember anything that has to do with towels. I want to say something, offer up a defense or an excuse, but I have nothing.
“I don’t — ”
He suddenly wraps his fingers around my wrist and yanks me out to the hallway, where everyone can see. I glance around, and sure enough, we’re already creating a scene.
“You don’t what? You don’t know what I’m talking about? You weren’t aware you were supposed to change the towels in the Sonoma suite?”
“But I’ve been assigned to the penthouse suite exclusively. I assumed — ”
“You assumed, huh? In the years you’ve worked here, have I ever asked for your opinion? Have I asked what you think? I give orders, and you follow without a thought. That’s how this works. We don’t pay you to think.”
From the corner of my eye, I see Frank standing by the far end, watching quietly. Then I see Carmen approaching. Her fingers are balled into fists, and I recognize the look in her eyes. She’s coming to defend me.
I quickly make eye contact and shake my head. She glares at me. I shake my head again, then stare at the floor. If I keep quiet and just let him yell, it’ll be over. I won’t lose my job today.
“You should be grateful you even have a job, Jenkins, considering how careless and replaceable you are. You have no value, no worth. I’m sick and tired of — ”
A door suddenly opens, and a hush falls over the hallway.
Curiosity forces me to look up. Mr. Nightingale is watching. His gray eyes are still, like a storm that’s quietly brewing. His eyes aren’t fixed on me, though; they’re on Roger.
I hear Roger swallow. He fixes his ugly brown tie and drops his hand from my wrist. "M-Mr. Nightingale, sir…we were just, um…going over some housekeeping issues… That's all."
“Hmm…” Mr. Nightingale’s eyes find mine. I’m transfixed. I hold my breath as he walks to me. He doesn’t look at Roger. His eyes remain on mine. They’re searching, looking for something, I’m not sure what. He takes the towels from me and sets them on my cart.
Then he turns slowly, and over his shoulder, he growls, "If I hear you speak to her like that again, I'll buy this hotel and fire you myself."
“Mr. Nightingale, I — ”
“Do I make myself clear?”
He nods vigorously. “I do.” Then Mr. Nightingale turns to the rest of the staff. “What are you looking at? Back to work, everyone.” Roger scurries down the hallway, but not before glancing over his shoulder to shoot me a glare.
My stomach drops. Mr. Nightingale just made me a target for Roger, and Roger is going to ensure he kicks me out of here for humiliating him.
This is all his fault. I didn’t need his help. I was handling it. Why did he have to butt in?
I can feel everyone’s eyes on me, but I don’t dare look at any of them. Mr. Nightingale taps my arm once. I’m not sure what it means. He doesn’t wait to give me an answer. He’s gone before I can even form a thought.
Carmen replaces him by my side. “Oh my god. Girl, what was that about? You didn’t tell me a guest had the hots for you.”
“He doesn’t,” I say, still watching him leave. I need to get him out of my life before he ruins everything. I remember the NDA in my bag. That’s what he wants, isn’t it? I’ll give it to him then, so he can finally let me be.
“You’re holding out on me, aren’t you? There’s something going on between you two, and you don’t want to tell me about it. Why not? I tell you everything.”
Why won’t people just stay out of my business?
I reach back into the equipment room and grab my cart. “It’s nothing, really. I have to go. I need to clean his room.” I don’t wait for her to respond. I push my cart past her. Before I head to the elevators, I make a stop at the locker room to grab the NDA from my bag.
I walk to the penthouse elevator with the back of my neck on fire. I press the card reader. The doors open, and I step in. The fury is building up inside me. I hold onto it. I’m going to need it.
My reflection stares back at me in the small mirrored box. My eyes burn red with tears streaming from sheer embarrassment or rage. I brush them away, unwilling to let Mr. Nightingale see me with anything but rage.
Having him defend me was embarrassing enough; crying in his suite will send me to the grave.
I don't announce myself when I enter the suite. I use my key and refuse to look at him as I push my cart in. He’s sitting on a couch in the living room. He has been waiting for me; I can tell. The fact that I don't speak throws him off balance.
I go straight to the cleaning. I go to the bathroom because he is not there, and I need to come up with a different approach. The NDA is sitting where my sketchbook used to be. Do I sign it here and thrust it at him? Or do I go out there and confront him?
For now, I focus on scrubbing a sink that is already clean because my hands are shaking, and I cannot — until the shaking stops — hold a bottle of glass cleaner without dropping it.
The shaking does not stop.
I see his face every time I close my eyes. Not the face he wore when he growled at Roger. No. It was the look he gave me after, the feel of his touch. Why is that what’s coming up? I need to be furious. I'm furious.
I go to the bedroom. I make the bed. I straighten a duvet. I lift a pillow. I set it down. I lift it again. I know I'm moving wrong.
Then I hear him come into the room, and the anger returns. Good. I know he is watching me. I will not look up. I finish in no time. I close my cart. I turn it toward the door.
“Suzanne…”
I stop. I let go of the handle and turn around. That’s the opening I needed. I lean down and yank the NDA from the cart. I march over to his desk, snatch a pen from it, and sign.
I thrust it at him. He doesn’t move. The document lands at his feet. “There. That’s what you wanted, isn’t it? Now, do me a favor and get out of my life.”
“Suzanne…”
“For the love of god, stop saying my name. I’ve given you what you want. Now you know I won’t tell anyone what I saw. You have no reason to be around me anymore. This is done. So you need to leave me alone.”
“Sit down, Suzanne.”
My ear starts ringing. There’s a boiling sensation in my head. If I were a cartoon, smoke would surely start coming out of my ears. “You can’t tell me what to do, and you can keep your dirty money. I don’t want it.”
I grab my cart and start pushing. His hand comes out of nowhere and closes around my wrist.
Why do people keep touching me today? Why won’t they leave me alone?
“Let me go.” I don’t turn around. I stand as still as a statue. “Let me go, Mr. Nightingale, or I’ll scream and — ”
His hand moves to the back of my neck. He angles my face so that I’m looking at him. But there’s one problem. He’s closer than I think. All the anger I feel suddenly flies out of my body. I’m left with a sensation. It bubbles up in the depths of my stomach, in my thighs, and in my chest.
I’m wrong. I feel it everywhere.
He is looking at my mouth.
Oh.
He kisses me.
My body melts. I don’t fight him. I don’t even think I want to.
I do the exact opposite. I grab his hair.
I pull him to me. My back is against the wall.
I don’t know how or when, but his body is against mine, and it feels…
Oh, I don’t have a word for it. His free hand moves to my waist. I arch against him.
His tongue begs for permission to enter. I don’t hesitate. I give in.
His mouth is warm. The hand on my neck has moved to my jaw. He tastes like coffee. I can smell sandalwood and the warm alcohol of expensive cologne.
The pen drops somewhere behind me on the desk.
I pull away, wondering what I’ve just done. He’s breathing hard. His eyes are dark with desire. He wants more. I can feel it…literally.
He does not let go of my jaw. His thumb is at the corner of my mouth. His face is an inch away. All I can do is stare at him. My thoughts are not organized yet. What do I say? What do I do?
Nothing. Nothing at all.
I push him away and ignore the chill that seeps into my skin. I take my jaw out of his hand. I step back. I walk to the door.
He does not stop me.
I open it. I push my cart through it. I walk down the corridor. I press the button for the service elevator. I get in. The doors close.
I press my palm to my mouth.
It is still warm.
I count down as the elevator drops — eighteen, seventeen, sixteen. I stand in the corner with my back to the mirrored wall, my fingers pressed flat across my lips, and I don't move them.
I know he’s going to kiss me again. It’s inevitable. My only prayer is that I’m strong enough to stop it.
I take my hand off my mouth.