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I was in the middle of a management meeting when the head of our security burst into the conference room. All heads snapped in his direction, and I stopped mid-sentence impatiently. The staff knew meetings were important and that someone should be dying if they dared interrupt me.
But the security person had been red in the face, and sweat beaded down his cheeks when he told me there was a fight by the pool. When I asked who it was, he told me it was Reagan.
Angry, I ran to the elevator, praying that I wasn’t too late and that whatever Reagan was doing wouldn’t escalate to a lawsuit.
When I got to the pool area, staff and guests alike gathered around the deck, phones out, and I heard the screaming of two people, one hoarse and smoky. The other voice belonged to Reagan. And I could tell that she was the one struggling.
“You think you’re so perfect with your little family, you bitch!” I heard the guest yell, and I could hear Reagan gurgling and panicking as the other person threatened to push her underwater.
Reagan yelled something that was supposed to be comedic about the guest’s words, but no one was laughing. Me, especially.
“Reagan!” My voice was loud enough to compete with the hum of activities, and both heads snapped in my direction. The guest was Elouisa Giovanni—Eloise to the public—daughter of Vittorio Giovanni who had made a name in the oil and energy business, and a name of being the infamous deadbeat father to sixteen of his children, each from a different woman.
“She pushed me in the pool!” Eloise complained and I didn’t give two shits about who pushed who, or a fuck about who started it. Reagan wasn’t supposed to be laying a finger on the guests even if she was in the right.
So, after I had apologized to Eloise and noted in my head to tell the front desk that the entire party was on us for compensation, I yelled at Reagan to go to my office. The public scolding was unnecessary and unprofessional, but I was fuming at her and couldn’t do anything about it.
“Start explaining yourself,” I demanded, slamming the door behind me, not caring that the entire floor could hear my outburst, nor the fact that Reagan was wet as a rat, dripping in my office, her hair sticking to the sides of her face.
I walked towards my desk, leaned against it, and crossed my arms across my chest as I waited for her response. And it killed me to see Reagan shivering like a leaf in the wind in front of me. Her blue uniform clung to their body like a second skin, saturated from head to toe.
“Did you have to embarrass me in front of everybody like that?” she snapped, sniffing water from her nose, and I could see the unmistakable sign of a busted lip from my spot. She reached up and touched the sore spot and then winced.
“I embarrassed you?” I seethed, grabbed a white handkerchief from the inner pocket of my suit, and swung it at her. She barely grabbed it, but it landed on her chest so she was able to keep it from dropping to the floor. “You’re the one who’s embarrassing yourself, Reagan. And me. You’re lucky I haven’t fired you yet.”
With a scowl on her face, she grabbed the handkerchief, oblivious as to why I tossed it in the first place. I motioned at her lip, and when she dapped the fabric on her mouth, blood stained it.
“Why haven’t you, then?” she snapped, unfolding the cloth and wiping her entire face. Great. I guess that would have to go in my drawer along with her underwear I had kept. It would smell like her, and I wouldn’t have the heart to launder it. “I fight with your guests, and I’m probably your worst employee to date. It’s only going to go downhill from here.”
“Just because we fool around, that doesn’t mean I can turn a blind eye,” I told her. I knew that when I started this thing with her and I knew that there would be no special treatment, no promotion for her because of it. Everything at the hotel had to remain as it was. “And yes, you are my worst employee. Do you think I don’t know how horrible you do your work around here? Your supervisor has complained to me many times about how careless your work is.”
“You can call me out, you can put me in place, you can scream at me all you like when we’re alone. But please don’t embarrass me in front of your staff because I’m not stupid. I’m not just skilled enough.”
“That isn’t an excuse, Reagan.”
“Then you could just fire me. If you don’t think that my work meets your expectations, just say that word and I’m out of here.”
That took me off guard. One, because I thought she’d beg to keep her job. And two, because I actually didn’t want to fire her ass. She had kept me entertained and on my toes for weeks. Sure, I was enjoying her silliness and how much she struggled to keep a civil tongue in her head, but now I could see how hard she was trying to excel at her job.
She might be sheltered, maybe she hadn’t lifted a finger to work her entire life, but she was here now, and if my speculations were right about what had happened and why she had left, then she was doing a tremendous job at surviving on her own for the first time.
Reagan crying was the as last thing I had expected to experience today. I expected her to fight back, to explain herself, and tell me what had gone down. But the tears were unexpected. It made me feel bad. But I didn’t let my guard down. If she was having a bad day, it wasn’t an excuse to treat people like shit.
It looked like she knew the guest, maybe she was a rival back in California. I didn’t know. And she could take the other woman down all she wanted, just not here in my hotel.
“Do you know what happened, Matthew?” she asked, wiping a tear from the side of her face. She was still wet, still shaking. A gentleman would have offered a change of clothes or a towel, but I wasn’t feeling like a gentleman right now. Besides, it could be a good punishment for her to enjoy the consequences of her actions for a little while.
“She said that my mother was going to be disappointed that I ended up working at a stupid hotel.” Reagan was trying to gasp in air as her voice shook from frustration. “And maybe she’s right. Maybe I should’ve just stayed home and submitted to whatever my father wanted me to do. Because I was better off that way.”
“You got upset because someone insulted you about your mother?” I asked, trying to comprehend where this was all coming from. She was genuinely upset, and in the few weeks I had known her, she wasn’t petty.
“My mother is dead,” she said with a stoic expression, breathing deeply, thick tears still rolling down her cheeks. But her shoulders remained upright, her head high. She looked up for a moment and breathed out through her nose. “Today’s her death anniversary. So I apologize for being such a bitch about it to our guest.”
That explained it. “I’m sorry about your mother,” I said. But she shook her head at my apology. Clearly, it wasn’t the only thing she was mad about. And I might be pussy whipped because I was letting her be mad when in fact, I was supposed to be the one angry at her for, once again, jeopardizing my hotel’s reputation. “But you need to try harder, Reagan. It’s not an excuse to be rude to my guests.”
“And do you know why I’m here? Working for your hotel when my father can buy this entire establishment?”
I didn’t dare answer her. Instead, I waited for her to spill everything she was keeping to herself. Clearly, she was upset and it looked like she needed to vent to someone. But my silence was mostly because I didn’t know what to say to a crying woman.
