Page 51 of One Big Little Secret

PLAYING CHICKEN (SALEM)

All things considered—and there’s a lot to consider—this gig could be worse.

Good pay, good benefits, I’m handling the responsibility, and there’s a lot of learning every week.

Of course, the downside hasn’t changed, and it’s a doozy.

It begins with Patton and ends with Rory.

One decent moment aside, I’m pretty sure working for him must be punishment for my sins from a past life. The job is perfectly rewarding—and although I don’t want to admit it, the company sitter has come in handy a few times when Mrs. Gabbard wanted to spend time with her new grandbaby—but I just want to gag every time he texts me.

As the weeks drag on, he sendsso many.

A few, I could cope with.

The odd request here and there, reasonable things like any normal bossman might ask. That’s fine. I’d expect that from any job, especially one that comes with a solid mentorship attached.

Not that he does much mentoring besides giving me the Falco book. I have to admit, it’s pretty good, an inspiring storyabout a driven man who worked his way up and carved his piece of the American dream.

It makes me wish I was doing something greater, rather than managing my way through the daily grind. But the book drives home the point that nobody ever gets anywhere without putting in the hours doing the boring crap no one else will.

And Patton Rory is very good at keeping me busy with drudgery.

One day, he wants me to round up data on what’s being used in the rooms. He wants me to make sure housekeeping keeps trying out the imported Egyptian towels he insisted on furnishing in the rooms. He wants shiny new brochures, shoving our growing list of spa services in the guest’s faces to boost profit margins.

Ugh.

There’s barely even a break from it at home.

Half of what Arlo draws is his new favorite person, Grumpybutt the Great. I shouldn’t, but I leave a few of his crayon sketches pinned next to my desk in the back office.

A few of the staff laugh whenever they come in, even though I don’t come out and say it’s our boss.

I guess the implication is clear in his mean blue eyes and scribbled eyebrows and that overly long tie. Always dark blue, just like his eyes. And sometimes my son goes the full mile, adding horns and a tail.

At least Patton Rory isn’t as popular as he likes to think, and it has nothing to do with our personal history.

I switch on the sleek computer, listening to the whir of the guts, and fan my notes out across the desk.

That’s how I like to work, making sense of the fragments in front of me.

It doesn’t take long to get sucked in.

A lot of guests send the surveys back with the tablets provided in the rooms. That data is easy to input, but others prefer old-school pen and paper. Particularly the older folks, who make up about a third of our current guests.

I figured that out fast the first week we opened and response rates climbed as soon as I started having physical survey cards left in each room.

I attack the physical copies first, making a pile of the completed questionnaires that grows quickly. I have my earbuds in and I’m humming to myself, jamming to my playlist and singing because I know it’s late enough to be alone back here.

I barely notice when a shadow falls over me.

And I know it’s him before I even turn.

He’s just got thataura.

Some people might call it magnetic. I’d say it’s more like he knows how to trigger my gag reflex without even being in my line of sight.

“What’s up?” I ask, swinging my chair around and hoping I don’t sound as instantly annoyed as I am.

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