Getting What I Deserve

I figured it was about time I wrote a Hanukkah story. The Petrotel Adams (West) has appeared in another of my stories; the night manager likes to get up to little shenanigans sometimes. But of course this story stands alone.

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* * *

"Hello, Ronnie." I twisted around on the sleek, high stool, annoyed as I always was by my boss' tendency to be just appear out of nowhere. "I need to see you in the office."

"Just a sec. I've got one more card to do." It was getting to be the end of my shift, the grey light giving way to orange in the east as I processed the early-morning checkouts. "I'll be back there in a bit."

He frowned, and I wasn't sure whether it was because he was unhappy that I wasn't immediately obeying, or because he couldn't understand my fast, chirpy just a sec. Tony had been working in the States for, hell, over a decade? Something like that. But my fast, sassy mouth sometimes gave him linguistic fits. "Well. Please hurry, Ronnie."

"Got it." I knew what it was about. I wasn't going to get the Assistant Manager promotion, which made sense: sure I was a college graduate, and sure I'd been working at Petrotel since it opened, but Becca had a lot more hotel experience. It was fine; I got along fine with her.

The raise would have been nice, though. Dammit. My sister was graduating in the spring and my brother was about to need driving lessons. There was no fucking telling when my mom would come home. I sighed and punched the last of the card info in. I'd felt good about the interview, but I hadn't really expected to get the gig. Nights suited me better anyway, as far as the hours went. I turned to Lucy, on the desk with me. "If anyone else comes down while I'm talking to Tony, just run the card as far as you can. That fourth screen. I'll do the authorization later."

"Sure thing." She wasn't the most efficient employee in the world, but at least Lucy could be trusted with credit cards. I wasn't going to give her my management ID to do the whole entry, though. Nope.

I slid off the stool, straightened my skirt, and went chopping back to Tony's office on my heels. The hotel was fully awake around me, buzzing smoothly: Jules was serving breakfast, Jackson the valet was... valet-ing, or whatever it was he did, and guests passed to and fro. It had been like this yesterday morning, too, until suddenly it hadn't. I knocked on the office door and slipped inside.

He was sitting there in his suit, newly arrived with one of those ridiculously small cups of coffee they drank wherever he came from. "Sit down, Ronnie."

"I just wanted to say that I appreciated the opportunity to interview, Tony, and I'm very happy in my current gig."

He blinked at me through his thick glasses. "The fuck you talking about?"

I cocked my head. "Um. The assistant manager position?"

"That?" He blinked some more, then shook his head. "No. This is not about that.

"Oh." I blinked. "So... the Hanukkah decorations, then?"

"I told you, I'll discuss those another time," he sighed.

I arched an eyebrow. "I mean, you know there is a point where it'll be too late, right? It's not like we can postpone Hanukkah." My little sister had guilt-tripped me into asking to light up a menorah at work, mostly as an antidote to what she called the hotel's tired Germano-Scandinavian Christian traditions. I wondered whether I'd ever been as certain about anything at eighteen.

He blew out a long breath. "I'm happy with the holiday decorations we usually put up," he said coolly. "I know you want to add Hanukkah things, but I always question their... their... what's the word? Utility?"

I just stared. I had no clue what he was saying, but that was okay. He didn't either. He just didn't want to do Jewish things.

"This is about yesterday morning," he sighed. He lifted a piece of paper off his crowded desk and shook it with a faint air of menace. "This was awaiting for me in my office box this morning. What is it?"

"I dunno." I was lying, of course; I thought I did. I stretched out my hand and took the paper, and a single glance at the first couple of lines told me my thought had been right. I tossed the paper back on his desk. "I handled that just fine, Tony," I groused. "He was an asshole. I got the girl out and I started getting the room cleaned up and then Brandon was able to get a head on that pillow the same afternoon." I leaned forward to remind myself what the room number was. "I think they, like, just checked out. It was all good, Tony."

"That's not what the complaint form says." He pursed his lips, a petulant detective with a clever suspect.

I sighed, not feeling so clever. Yesterday morning had exploded, and fast. It had started with a call on the staff line around 7:30. "Jesus," Lucy had whined, holding the phone away from her ear. "I think it's Elaine. She's being bitchy."

I'd rolled my eyes and headed up to 309, where one of the maids (and yes, she could indeed be bitchy) was singing a horrific tale, the lyrics of which boiled down to you're the manager, Ronnie, so get the fuck up here and solve my problem.

And it really was a problem, to be fair.

I'd found Elaine, fuming, arms crossed as she stood in the doorway of one of the king-bed rooms. I could smell the problem before I peeked around the jamb: urine. Sweat. Sex. Pot. Beer. She glared at me as I sighed into the room. "The people you guys allow in this hotel," she frumped.

"What the hell is this?" I said it in a low, even voice, worried about waking the woman on the bed. Though, as I soon figured out, she wasn't waking up for jack shit.

"It's what you see," she snapped. "I haven't touched anything. Look around; it doesn't get any better." She buffed her nails self-consciously against her uniform. "I ain't cleaning this shit."

"No," I agreed dully; the room was a goddamn mess. Cups and bottles and mugs littered the floor, the toilet looked like it hadn't been flushed in weeks, and the sheets were torn to pieces, but I was mostly worried about the woman. "Is she dead?"

"How would I know? I'm not touching that whore." In another era, she'd have leaned against the wall and obstinately lit up a Camel. She obviously couldn't smoke now, but that hadn't stopped the guests last night. Fried-out joints floated in the dingy yellow toilet water, and the comforter had fresh burns on it. I glanced up with horror at the smoke detector: yep. Trashed.

"Whore?" I squinted at the woman. "No need for that kind of language, Elaine..." I trailed off as I noticed something. "Dude. Is that semen? In her, uh, her butt?"

"It sure ain't buttermilk," she replied grimly, if not quite sensically. The woman on the bed was a looker, or at least should be: in her present condition, she looked grim indeed. She lay sprawled on her stomach (or at least mostly), stark naked but for a ripped pair of fishnet stockings. I could now tell that she was breathing, at least, but her ass and inner thighs were flecked with crusty white patches, and something more recent: the trickle I'd seen creeping from her buttcrack was still liquid. I sniffed.

"Smells like spooge in here, definitely," I decided, though I was really just playing the odds. It seemed to make sense. We stood a few seconds, staring at the woman. "Whoever she is, she definitely puts out."

"And then some." Elaine shook her head. "Think she charges by the hour, or is there an all-night bulk rate?"

"It's fascinating," came a loud, boorish voice from right behind me, "to hear hospitality professionals employed by a reputable hotel refer to their guests in that kind of demeaning way."

I turned slowly, eyebrow pre-raised before I even got all the way around. I was opening my mouth to speak when Elaine beat me to the punch in the most acerbic way possible. "You the sperm donor?" she asked, deadpan.

"That's my good friend over there. I'd appreciate a little respect." He raised a couple of croissants, wrapped crudely in a paper napkin. "I just left to fetch breakfast."

"Sir," I began, putting on a smile I thought of as pleasant, "we meant no offense. We're just concerned for her, uh, welfare."

"She was doing just fine a half hour ago," he snickered. "That's when I woke her up and put a load in her shitter." He nodded toward the bed. "Look at that ass. So fucking hot."

I wrinkled my nose as I studied the man. He was only a little taller than me, meaning he was pretty short. He wore last night's clubbing outfit, a pair of Lucky jeans and a very nice-looking long sleeved shirt. He would probably look okay, if he bothered with a close shave and a shower. He smelled like rye whiskey and ass. "Breakfast, huh?"

He grinned and held up his croissants. "You guys should really do muffins."

I scowled. "They're by the orange juice. You must've missed them." I gestured to the bed behind me. "You, um, left her like this?"

"I cuddled her," he shrugged. "She fell asleep. Big deal." A slow smirk spread across his unshaven face. "If you're not sure whether she enjoyed it, just ask the people in the next room. I guarantee you, they got an earful." He winked at Elaine. "She's a screamer. Well, sort of a sobber, too..."

"Disgusting." It was a low, savage whisper from Elaine, and we both glanced at her. It occurred to me that I should probably invite her to leave, but the man apparently got a different vibe from the maid.

He looked her up and down. "You look like a screamer, too," he mused, laying the croissants down by the TV. "What are you, about fifty? You must have been a fine-looking piece of ass when you were younger, because I'll tell you: even now, I'd do ya." He winked, and I felt Elaine tense up.

"Elaine?" I said loudly, "why don't you just continue your rounds. We'll figure out a plan to get this place shaped up. I'll come talk to you later, okay?"

She shot the man a venomous look as she stomped off, muttering about unions. The man shook his head after her, gazing thoughtfully. "Nice ass," he observed casually.

"That was a terrible thing to say to her," I spat.

He looked back at me, really noticing me now, and as he took me in I felt like a lab insect under a magnifying glass. I drew myself up to my full height, which was hardly impressive. "I was complimenting her," he shrugged. "What woman doesn't like to be told she's fuckable?"

I felt my face grow hot. "Still."

"Because it's true," he went on coolly. "Nice little body on her. Though, to be honest, some of the other employees look a whole lot hotter." He said that slowly, pointedly, his eyes on my chest in the hotel sweater.

"Look. You need to focus, here." He was right, in a way; I didn't mind at all when a man wanted to fuck me, but it wasn't generally something I talked about five minutes after meeting a fellow. Especially when he was an asshole. And particularly when his last... friend? Girlfriend? Conquest? Rental? was still passed out ten feet away with his cum in her ass. "Are you here? You sober? You focusing?" I pressed.

This was not the first time I'd dealt with this sort of thing. You grow up fast, working nights at hotels. "I'm clear as a bell," he replied, his voice heavy and flat like a skillet. "And you're being rude. Veronica." He raised a deliberate finger and poked my nametag gently, my breast protesting for a moment or two before he pushed it in.

"Excuse me!" I took a deep breath and gestured powerlessly behind me. "Sir. You can see, right? How terrible this place looks?"

He made a show of peering around me. "Looks like a great night to me," he smirked. "I'm telling you, if she was awake? Right now? She'd tell you to get the fuck out, too." He shrugged. "I'd have said the same by now, but I'm trying to be polite. Checkout's not 'til ten." He stood aside. "You can come back then. Meanwhile..." he cupped his crotch, "I've got to feed the lady over there." His eyebrows rose. "Unless, you know, you want to stay and join us?"

"Eww." I sighed. "Listen. Mr... what'd you say your name was?"

"Donald Duck."

"Of course." I made myself calm down and smile. "You've got to see that we can't expect our staff to clean up after this kind of a... an event. Right? And it looks like there's damage to the sheets and the smoke detector, which is more serious." He was already unbuttoning his shirt. "Hey! Focus!"

"What?" His lips curled into an impudent grin. "We're clearly done. I get that you're pissed about the damage and all, but hell." He winked. "Love, right? What are you gonna do?" He'd moved down to the third button now.

"Look," I grunted, "clean this place up. Okay?"

"What?" His shirt gaped open now, showing sparse chest hair and a decently developed stomach. I made myself keep looking at his face. "The room's in her name. Quit bitching at me." His face went cold suddenly. "We're done, Veronica. Unless I need more soap and towels, at which point I know where to find you." He turned away, shrugging out of his shirt. "Bye, now!"

I'd been incensed, striding out of the room, wondering whether I'd made any kind of point. Now, from the completeness of the report Tony had handed me, I could see that I had. "He's not very thorough," I sniffed "Left a lot out."

Tony shrugged tiredly. "I get it. He was, you know, the asshole. But did you accuse a guest of prostitution?"

I chose not to answer, really. "I had a long talk with Elaine. She says she'll watch her mouth in the future."

He nodded slowly. "Did you run a UV light over the room?"

"Me? No. By that time, I was home and Brandon was on. Like I said, it was occupied last night, so... hey. Must've been fine."

"Well. I'll go take a look." He sighed. "I'll call the man on the complaint form, but there's a good chance you'll need to apologize to him."

"He's an asshole."

"He's a customer. If he wants the apology, you give the apology." He sounded more and more Euro when he got to the ends of conversations like these. Now he gave a faintly Continental wave of his hand, as if I was a fly he wanted to shoo away. "I'll be in touch. You have the nice day, Ronnie, and drive safely."

I nodded with a fake smile, then got up to go. Before I did, I scanned the complaint form once again. The top, where the name went. It said Jason Genther. So at least now I knew the asshole's name.

* * *

The internet didn't tell me much about him. He didn't seem to be a sex offender and I couldn't find him on the police blotter, but I also couldn't find out what he did for a living. What I did know was that I didn't really want anything to do with him, though once Tony called Genther that didn't really matter: I was about to have to meet the guy, regardless. "He is coming to the hotel to receive an apology and a dinner," he explained when he called me to his office that same night.

"An apology? From me? For what?"

"For insulting his, ah, his girlfriend?" Tony looked delicately away. "He was most offended on her behalf, at the notion that she might be, you know, a prostitute. You cannot imply a thing like that, Ronnie."

"I didn't know he was standing there."

"That does not make it any better," he pointed out severely, and he was probably right about that. But I didn't have to like it.

"Did you talk to her?"

"No. Her credit card went through, for the new installation of the Co2 detector, which Brandon managed that afternoon. We had extra linens and billed the card for the damage there too. But she has not been in touch."

"I'd imagine not," I muttered viciously. "She's a hooker."

"Perhaps, perhaps not," Tony soothed. "I am not objecting to how you handled the situation, Ronnie, it was delicate. But this man, he wants the apology, so he will get it. And a dinner. And? Who knows? If he likes the food, he will perhaps bring a date later, and actually purchase a meal. Profits, Ronnie, and all it costs us is an apology."

"All it costs me is an apology."

He spread his hands. "I could tell Elaine to do it, but you are better-spoken. So you may do it."

"Yeah." I frowned. "So when's this apology shit going down?"

"Friday."

"My night off?" I took Thursdays and Fridays off so my little sister could do Shabbat properly instead of watching our brother. "I guess."

"Be a good, nice person, Ronnie."

"I'll be fucking amazing," I smiled. "I'll even look nice. Maybe put on something other than sweatpants. Oh, and... any word on my Hanukkah idea?"

He resisted rolling his eyes. "I am just not convinced it will help. I am happy to put out a menorah, but the candles? Is that necessary?"

"The candles are the whole point, Tony. I can light them each night, have my sister spread the word at Temple. I'm thinking we'd get a reputation for inclusivity and respect, and besides, I know the blessings. So."

He flapped his hands irritably. "This is America. Are there enough Jews here for this, this candle-lighting to matter?"

I stared levelly at him. "Do you realize how offensive that is?"

He sighed. "I did not mean it that way. I do not speak English perfectly, as you know." Bullshit. "I think I will say yes. You can light these candles in the Business Centre. Nobody uses it at the holidays, anyway."

"Aw, thanks Tony! I appreciate it." I did, too; my sister had laid a guilt trip on me last year, when she'd come in to visit me at my brand-new job in my brand-new hotel and seen nothing but Christmas trees. "You'll see. We'll get some restaurant business from this. Not much, but a little. It's eight days of goodwill from the local Jewish community, and I'm sure it'll carry over."

"Whatever." He clearly didn't care all that much about any of it. "Think about your apology, Ronnie. Be nice."

I decided I'd make an effort. The guy had been an asshole, but I told myself he might not be all that bad. He'd probably been hung over, or maybe still drunk; he'd been up all night, from the look of the hotel room, and from the amount of cum I'd seen he'd been... depleted. So I was prepared to believe that Jason Genther hadn't been at his best when I'd met him.

I showed up in a purple silk blouse and a pair of nice dark jeans, with boots. The boots gave me an extra couple of inches; I wouldn't need to look up at him so much. I'd even added makeup, some eye shit in addition to my usual dark lipstick. My sister Meghan had watched from the bathroom door. "You going out on a date?" she'd asked severely.

"No. Just something I have to do for work."

"Huh." She'd nodded knowingly. "It looks like a date. Does it involve a man?"

I'd glanced over. "It does, as a matter of fact."

"You have a boyfriend, Ronnie."

Yeah, I told myself, a great boyfriend whose dick is too big for me. I'd looked at myself in the mirror, remembered Genther poking my nametag into my tit, and thought about doing up another button on my blouse. "There's nothing romantic about it. It's more like a meeting. But it's always a good idea to make a strong impression." I left the button undone, in the end. When you've got cleavage like mine, might as well show it.

Meghan noticed, too. "You're going to make an impression," she told me, eyebrow firmly arched. "Two of 'em." I stuck my tongue out at her. I love Meghan and would gladly die for her, but she's a judgmental little bitch sometimes. Just a wee bit too serious; eighteen, going on fifty-four. I kept expecting her to go all ruined-Amish one day, go crazy, and let a bunch of guys run a train on her on Pixboox, but only after Mom came home. I didn't feel like that was something an older sister should need to deal with.

"I appreciate you agreeing to watch Aaron," I went on, "even on Shabbat and all. I'll make it up to you."