Page 2 of The Irish Redemption

“The fuck is going on here?” With a bundle of papers in hand and a chewed toothpick hanging from his fat lips, my boss rounds the corner with a dark scowl on his face.

Never have I been gladder to see my horrible boss than at this moment.

“Nothing,” I say quickly, stepping around Dillon. “I was just?—”

“Who the fuck are you?” Gerald tilts his head back, creating the illusion that his fat neck is only swollen due to his hunched form. “You’re not a guest.”

“No.” Dillon sighs and shoves his hands deep into the pockets of his jacket. “A friend.”

“I don’t give a fuck. Either buy a room or get the fuck out,” Gerald barks.

I can feel Dillon staring at me, perhaps hoping I will speak up and save him from my boss’s wrath, but I won’t help. I’m more than happy for Gerald to send him packing.

“Well?” Gerald barks when Dillon doesn’t reply. “You forget how to speak, boy? Buy a room or get the fuck off my property.”

“Alright, Gramps,” Dillon grumbles. “Don’t have a heart attack.” He slouches away, leaving Gerald to grumble darkly about insolent young men and how if he were twenty years younger, he would teach that fucker a lesson. His face reddens with each passing second, and then he fixes his beady eyes on me, and my heart sinks.

Looks like it’s me who will get that lesson.

“I don’t pay you to stand around flirting on my time,” Gerald barks. “I pay you to clean. It’s not fucking hard, Evelyn. In fact, the only thing easier than this would be if I paid you to fuck each guest. Should I be doing that instead? Would I make more money off you then? I wouldn’t have to put up with complaints about your shoddy work or how you disturb guests who want to be left alone, would I? The dirtiest thing about that job would be your cunt, but no one would complain, would they? Should I add self-service to your duties, Evelyn?”

My stomach churns hotly and disgust worms its way up my throat as we stare at one another. As he talks, little flecks of spittle fly past his fat lips, raining through the air toward me. It takes all my restraint not to flinch, and I’m amazed that his toothpick hasn’t dislodged from his lip. Maybe it’s been there so long that it’s become part of him.

I’ve never seen him without it.

“No, sir,” I say when Gerald finally pauses for breath. “I didn’t know he was here so I?—”

“I don’t care,” Gerald yells, making me jump. “There are a thousand girls who would kill for this job, understand? You’re more trouble than you’re worth.”

“No!” The word bursts out of me before I can stop it. “Please, sir. You know how much I need this job. Please, I promise this won’t happen again!”

A shitty job in a seedy motel that’s more like a reputable drug den is the only thing I have. I made some bad decisions when I was ateenager, seeking love and comfort in material things I could only afford with credit cards. A lot of credit cards. With my financial history in ruins, getting a job to pay off the debt had been almost impossible until I found this place. I can’t afford to lose it.

Gerald steps forward, and while the anger lingers in his eyes, there’s something else there too. A glint of something dark, like he knows exactly how to wear me down and get what he really wants from me. The skimpy maid outfit was hint enough that it’s not just my stellar cleaning skills he wants from me.

“No more boyfriends in my motel, you hear me?” Gerald snaps.

“He’s not my boyfriend, trust me,” I say, fighting to keep the shake out of my voice when Gerald’s meaty hand lands on my upper arm. For a man so rotund, his grip is alarmingly powerful. It feels like he could snap my arm in two with just a flex of his fingers.

“Good,” Gerald replies breathily, and when he breathes in through his mouth, there’s a gurgling sound at the back of his throat. “You can apologize to me later. Back to work, there’s a good girl.”

My skin crawls fiercely with disgust as I force a smile, grab my cleaning cart, and run toward the elevator. His gaze remains on me, heavy and unrelenting as I wait for the doors to slide open and whisk me away to the next floor.

I need this job, I tell myself as I force myself to wave at him when I step into the elevator. I need this job, I need this job, I need this job.

The mantra continues until the doors close, sealing me away from the disgusting, hungry look in my boss’s eyes. I sag back against the wall with a groan and close my eyes. What I would give for the elevator to just keep going up, carrying me away to a life better than this one.

My debt is my own fault, although deep down, I blame my mother’s neglect for pushing me toward seeking validation in material items. I just need to keep my head down, away from any kind of drama andjust work until my credit is back to a place where I can get a better job.

And a better apartment. My shitty home is the only apartment in the whole of New York City that makes this motel look like a five-star. Burned credit gets you a waterlogged shoebox.

I take several deep breaths of acidic, smoke-tainted air to calm myself and slide my earphones back in place. Eight more rooms, then I can go home.

Eight more.

‘relate to desperation. My give-a-fucks are on vacation.’Espressofilters into my mind, chasing away the lingering negativity from my boss and Dillon.

Focusing on the lyrics, I find my rhythm once more and hum softly while changing my gloves. Cleaning has always been therapeutic for me in a way I don’t fully understand. It might be because my own life is such a mess, so there’s something satisfying about wiping stains away, cleaning up a mess, and tidying up a place like it’s my own mind. Leaving a freshly cleaned room is like the first burst of crisp, cold air in your lungs when you open a window on a wintry morning.

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