Mogul (Manhattan #2)(10)

“Okay, first of all, I am not holding a manhunt,” I tell Carly determinedly, rolling my eyes. “And she’s fabulous. The stars are definitely smiling down on me.” I wink at them both, feeling positive.

“Did you get the tickets for Wicked for room 511?” Robert asks as the phone rings.

I hand him the envelope with the tickets as he picks up. “Concierge, this is Robert speaking.” There’s silence before he slides his gaze in my direction. “Sara, it’s Walter.” Then Robert hangs up the phone.

“Huh? Walter Walter?” I ask, confused.

Walter never calls for me. I doubt he knows my name. He’s a short little man who likes to gather us all in weekly meetings to tell us how we’re doing and how we can improve our jobs, while he skims his eyes down our skirts. He’s only ever looked, but the girls and I still like to wear pants on the days he schedules the weekly meetings.

“That’s right. Walter, the hotel manager. He wants to talk to you. Now,” Robert adds.

“On my way.” I run my hands down my uniform and head to the private offices in a secluded section of the hotel’s lobby floor.

Honestly, this can’t be good. I’m trembling so hard I need to press my lips together as I rap on Walter’s door. His name—engraved on the plaque—stares ominously back at me before I hear his voice from within the office saying, “Come in.”

My hand twists the doorknob and I force myself to stride inside with confidence.

I spot Walter behind his desk and instantly think, I’m getting fired.

He’s not making eye contact.

He’s not looking at my skirt.

Instead, he stares at a paper as he says, “Take a seat.”

You are so fucking fired, Sara.

Or maybe I’m getting a promotion?

Maybe I’ve done an outstanding job and am getting an employee-of-the-month award.

No, dumbass. You got caught fucking a hotel guest in room 1103 and now you’re doomed.

Well, he was a hot hotel guest! a part of me chirps in.

That is irrelevant, my bitch of a conscience insists. You fucked him at the hotel and you got caught. Now you’ll not only never see the guy again and never know his name—you also won’t have a job.

My whole body feels as taut as a bowstring. I’m so tense, if I move too fast or too brusquely, I might break. God, please don’t let Walter know about room 1103, I think, as I sit down.

“We’re letting you go.”

I swallow.

Fuck.

He really fired me.

He actually just fired me.

I am being let go.

Out of a job.

Completely and utterly… fucked.

Oh… my… God.

It’s hard to respond to him. This is the second time I’ve been fired in my life. And I’ve only had two jobs. What does that say about me?

I suddenly don’t like myself very much. I feel like a worm. A worm who’s scared shitless now that I’m going to be all alone, in a big bad city, job hunting again.

“I… is it something I did?” I wring my hands.

“Not really. More like didn’t do. We don’t feel you’re as passionate as some of your coworkers. We’re also making cuts, and when it came down to it, I believe you’re the weakest member of the team.” He pushes his glasses back up his nose and stares down at my file. “You can finish your shift and pick up your check on your way out.”

Wow. That’s it?

No “Have a good life, Sara.” Or “It was great working with you.”

No “Thanks for the tie you got me for my birthday.” Or, at the very least, “Sara, thanks for bringing us donuts out of the kindness of your heart all those times.”

Wow.

I’m surprised I manage to walk steadily to the door, because it feels as if my world is spinning like a carousel that is going faster and faster by the second. What am I going to do?

I stumble into the ladies’ room and quickly hide myself inside a stall. I exhale a very effusive “Fuck!” and put my hands on my temples and review my conversation with Walter. I’m an absolute wreck. My dad always said I’d turn out this way. My dad, who is divorcing my mom and seems to think we’re no good for him, was right; I’m apparently not good for anything.

Picking dancing as a career would lead me nowhere.

I’d end up with a dead-end job and no “decent” college degree to save me from it.

I groan and lean back against the stall door, blinking my eyes as I fight back tears. Maybe I deserved to be fired. Walter wasn’t wrong: I wasn’t in love with this job. I wanted to love it like I love dancing, but I don’t. It must have shown in my work.

I gather my shit and leave the restroom feeling drained and defeated, and like I’m the biggest loser on the planet. Don’t cry, I tell myself, as I head back to the concierge desk. You can cry all you want when you get back to your apartment. Focus on getting your shit and doing what’s left of your job until your time is up.

“What did Walter want?” Robert asks.

I swallow hard before squeaking out, “He fired me.”

“What? He fired you?” The flare in Robert’s eyes reveals his complete shock.

Carly doesn’t look nearly as surprised, though. “That’s sad… Oh, Sara, I’m so sorry,” she says.