Page 23 of Whiskey Splash

“It’syours!” she snips, and I shake my head.

“No, I didn’t drop this, or—uh, it probably belongs to a client. Maybe it fell out of their wallet?”

“Oh no, it’s definitely yours,” Mrs. Rose says again, her eyes narrowing, beady and impatient, like a disgruntled demon. “Our esteemed guest left you a tip—an exorbitant tip. My question iswhy?”

I stare at the crumpled cash. “I just got back from my break, Mrs. Rose. I don't even know who that's from.”

She glowers, not buying my explanation. And, of course, Idoknow who it's from. I’ve only had one client this morning. What I don’t understand iswhy.The point was for Desmond to leave graciously without making a scene. Giving me a three-hundred-dollar tip is the opposite of discreet!

What did Naomi tell him?

“This is a respectable establishment, Esme!” Ms. Rose barks, and I find myself teetering at the edge of my seat. “We have high-profile clientele come in here all the time. Musicians, businessmen,movie stars.” Her eyes narrow again, and I keep my face neutral, not wanting to give away the fact that I know what she’s talking about. “Famous men often expect a certain kind of treatment,but that's not how we do business. Do you understand!”

Holy Shit. She actually thinks I gave him a happy ending! She thinks I would comprise myself like that!

“I am aware of the company’s policies,” I say through gritted teeth, annoyed with her tone and implication. “I know I’m a newer employee here, but I’ve walked through that door every day and I’ve done my job with both professionalism and integrity. I know how to handle my clients. Even the high-profile ones.”

“So, you're saying this isn't payment for turning my spa into a brothel?”

I grit my teeth and stand my ground, forcing the streak of anger bubbling in my chest to back down. If I was Arie, Mrs. Rose’s face would already be stinging for saying that. And if I didn’t love my job, I’d probably be walking out.

“Mrs. Rose,” I say calmly, taking a breath. “I’m not a whore.”

She inhales sharply as if the word offends her, even though it’s exactly what she wanted to spit in my face a second ago. Memories of Jeremy and what happened freshman year of college start crawling through my mind. Memories of how those shitheads at school treated me after those photos got around, thinking I was a cheap piece of ass they could use however they wanted.

I’m not that girl! And there’s no way I’d do anything like that, especially at my job!

“I don't know what this tip is for,” I continue, looking down at the stack of bills. “But I didn't ask for it. And I sure as hell didn't do something unprofessional to get it. So, please, kindly return it to Mr. Clarke.” Mrs. Rose’s black eyes spit daggers at me. “And if you’re so damn curious, then I invite you to ask himwhy he felt so generous. Or, if what he says doesn’t convince you, then please ask him directly if I'm a whore.”

“Esme!” she hisses. “I’ll have you fired for speaking that way to me!”

“On what grounds?” I shoot back. “You're the one making false claims. If you don't believe me, please ask Mr. Clarke directly. Though, I'm pretty sure you're the one he'll complain to upper management about.”

Mrs. Rose's fingers wrap around the money with a disgruntled frown, her lips pursing together in an angry bud. Something about what I just said sounds like maybe I did pleasure Desmond, or at least I’ve got him wrapped around my finger enough to have him lie for me. Either way, that tip just put me on Mrs. Rose’s shit list.

“Take it then,” she says coldly, pinching the bills together between her manicured nails like it’s something dirty. “You obviously earned it.”

I don’t move, refusing to accept the money, and not liking the laced tone of her words. “I love my job, Mrs. Rose,” I say kindly, trying to diffuse this situation. “Whatever you think I did for that, you're wrong. I’m not taking that money. You can put it in the communal fund for everyone who works here, or return it.”

Mrs. Rose stares me down, her green eyes probing and waiting for me to reveal some truth she’s searching to find. I hold her gaze, and every second I do becomes another reason for Mrs. Rose to despise me.

“I don't want it,” I repeat, standing up and walking toward the door.

“Esme,” Mrs. Rose says sharply, and I stop with my hand on the doorknob. “Take the rest of the day off. And take tomorrow off too.”

“Why? Are you firing me?”

There's a long pause. She's got the money in her hands, which she's counting bill by bill. “No dear,” she says with mock flattery. “Please come back on Sunday. I'm sure you simply need a little fresh air to clear your head.” She shuffles the bills together against her desktop, making a clunking noise as she organizes them.

She lifts a hand and dismisses me. I walk out silently, not sure how I could have handled that differently. All I know is Mrs. Rose is going to be on my hide day-in and day-out till she finds some reason to fire me.

Chapter Six

Colorful sarongs hang like tapestries on the walls of my tiny bungalow rental in the Honolulu hills. I’m snuggled up on my bohemian couch surrounded by a mountain of pillows sporting mandalas and crochet swirls, doing my best to toss back martinis as I plot my new life as an alcoholic.

I’ve tried meditating.

I’ve tried staring at the mishmash of colorful dreamcatchers and star lamps and pompom strings that line my ceiling.

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