Page 3 of Logan
Mr. Watson spins his chair to face me, the slow swivel somehow deliberate, like he’s setting the pace. “Thank you for being so prompt. Going through the topics on the evaluation, you placed at commendable on almost all of them. I’ve never gotten any feedback from customers about you aside from them loving you.”
Relief floods through me, and I can’t help the smile that spreads across my face. “I really like my job. The company is great to work for also, especially since I am looking to grow within it.”
Mr. Watson nods, leaning back in his chair. “I have been thinking about that too. We have a manager’s position open since Margie left last month.”
My pulse skips. This is it. The conversation I’ve been hoping for.
“I think you could be qualified, but I’d like to test your knowledge in a few areas. If you’re up for it.” He arches an eyebrow, almost in challenge.
“I would love that.” My voice is steady, confident, even though inside my heart is thudding in anticipation.
We both stand, and he leads me out of the office. The quiet of the back hallway gives way to the hum of activity as we pass through the kitchen pots clanging faintly in the distance, the smell of simmering stock drifting in the air. He quizzes me on different topics pertaining to employees and procedures. My answers come easily, as natural as breathing.
We take the elevator up, the soft mechanical hum filling the silence between questions. The ballroom doors open to a wide space lit by glittering chandeliers, their light bouncing off polished floors. He continues the questioning here, running through more scenarios. I feel good, like I’m proving myself with every response.
From there, we head up to the top floor the luxury suites where the VIP guests stay. These are the rooms where small mistakes can turn into big complaints, the kind that reach the owner’s desk. I know this territory well.
“Have you taken notice of the new mattress toppers that were ordered for these suites?” His hand smooths over the bedspread, flattening invisible wrinkles.
“I haven’t, but I have heard great things from the guests. They seem to really like them.”
He gestures toward the bed. “Have a seat.”
I hesitate, my mouth parting to protest, but he cuts me off smoothly. “How can you sell the luxury of something when you have no idea about it?”
I see his point, and with a small nod, I perch on the very corner of the bed, careful to keep my knees angled toward the door. Still, my senses heighten like my body knows something before my mind catches up.
“You know, Mackenzie…” Mr. Watson steps in front of me, closer than necessary. “I could make sure you get everything you want within this company.”
The words are wrong, his tone is too slow, too knowing and makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up. I shift my weight, trying to rise, but his hands clamp down on my shoulders, firm, unyielding.
“You should really think about your next move.”
I look up at him, my voice sharp. “Get your hands off of me.”
He chuckles, low and ugly, then shoves me. My balance slips, the mattress dipping beneath me, and I fall backward. Before I can react, he’s on top of me, the heat of his body pressing me into the bed, his hands rough at the hem of my skirt.
“Get off of me!” I yell, my hands braced against his chest, pushing, shoving, but he’s too heavy.
“Just let it happen and you won’t regret it.” His breath smells faintly of coffee and something sour as his hand brushes against my panties.
A surge of adrenaline slams into me. My vision tunnels, my heartbeat roaring in my ears. I push him with one hand and with the other, I swing upward, punching him hard in the throat.
The sound he makes is a strangled wheeze, his hands flying to his neck as he stumbles back and crumples to the floor.
I stand, my chest heaving, blood roaring in my veins. “Go to hell.”
My legs move on instinct as I walk out of the hotel. Each step feels both too fast and too slow, like I’m moving underwater. My body is on fire from the adrenaline pumping through me, skin prickling with the aftershock.
Sitting in my car, I grip the steering wheel so tightly my knuckles ache. I force myself to focus on my breathing in, out, in, out until my pulse starts to slow.
I need to go home. Have a drink. And start looking for a new job.
***
5 weeks later
As I unload the last box, I let it rest in my hands for a moment before setting it down beside the others. My old bedroom feels strange yet familiar in the way muscle memory is familiar, yet foreign because I’m not the same person who left it almost eight years ago.
