Rebound Roommate

by Jules Barnard

  “Nessa and Zach still work there too. I wouldn’t be alone,” I say.

  Zach met Nessa when she first started working at Blue, and she’s slowly become a part of the gang. She’s even a regular at Zach’s taco dinner nights. Nessa and I aren’t close, but we’ve hung out a few times.

  Gen props her head on her hand, her elbow on the kitchen island. “You know, there might be other jobs. Have you looked everywhere?”

  “I’ve looked, but this is Lake Tahoe. Other than the casinos, there’s not much that pays well for someone with only a high-school diploma.”

  She gives me a sympathetic nod. “I’ll give Maryanne a heads-up. See if she can do anything to get you in.” She blinks, forehead furrowing as if she’s having second thoughts.

  “That’d be great,” I say before she can change her mind.

  I grab a sliced apple from the appetizer dish and shove it in my mouth, frowning as I chew. I rely on a heavy dose of junk food from the Sallee pantry. Becky’s health kick is like a forced diet.

  Gen shakes her head at the appetizer plate and returns to hunting the cupboards. She pulls down a bag of rice crackers. Not the most promising processed food, but better than fruits and vegetables.

  I grab a cracker from the bag. “So you don’t think it will be weird if Maryanne puts in a good reference for me? Upstairs suits and floor employees work in parallel at my casino, not so much together.”

  And that’s another thing. I put feelers out with a few people at work. They said it wasn’t likely the casino would allow me to keep my job if I decide to work at another casino. Some kind of conflict of interest. I’m going to try to pull strings, but it doesn’t look good.

  “Nah,” Gen says, opening the fridge and rummaging around in one of the bins. “Maryanne’s badass. She manages the floor waitresses, but she’s also influential upstairs. I think management is afraid of her.” Gen pauses. “She’s kind of scary. Totally hazed me when I first got there.” Returning her attention to the bin, she says, “I’m not sure what changed. Could have been the Drake thing, but she’s shown a different side and now we’re friends.” Gen reaches deep into the fridge, her face brightening as she pulls out something wrapped in plastic. She slaps it on the island.

  My eyes light up at the half-eaten block of cheese. I’ve scoured this kitchen high and low for days with nary a sign of trans fats. Gen’s putting in serious time at the Sallees’ if she knows where to find fatty stashes I’m not even aware of.

  “I like Maryanne,” Gen continues. “She reminds me of Cali and Tyler’s mom. No-nonsense and down-to-earth. Just don’t get on her bad side.”

  I’ve always wondered what Tyler’s mom was like. That Gen knows and I don’t is another reminder of the distance between me and Tyler. We may live together, but that doesn’t mean we are close.

  And I don’t know why that makes me sad, but it does.

  Gen hands me the slice of cheese I’m ogling. “If anyone can get balls rolling, it’s Maryanne.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  A week later, I realize Maryanne doesn’t just have pull at Blue, she’s a rock star. She put in a good word for me about the assistant position, and I received a call back, which is a miracle when I think about it. The job description for the assistant to the human resources director doesn’t state it, but candidates typically have college degrees, or at least prior experience in the field, and I have neither.

  I pretended I didn’t want to go to college when the Sallees offered to pay, because I wasn’t sure I could do it. The only time I felt book smart was when Tyler helped me with math in school, and I chalked that up to his tutelage.

  Using a lint roller Cali left behind, I swipe the black pencil skirt and white blouse Gen lent me for the interview this morning. I own black heels, so I didn’t need to borrow those, not that I’d fit in Gen’s shoes. She’s slender, but tall. The skirt is a little big in the waist and hips, and I had to roll the sleeves of the blouse, but the outfit works. My size-six feet in Gen’s size-eight heels would not.

  I arrange my hair three different ways this morning: a ponytail, a bun, a French twist, each one so not me and worse than the last. I’m trying too hard, and I worry that the minute I walk into Blue, people will recognize me for the fraud I am. Somehow, I have to get through this interview and prove against all the odds that I belong.

  I pull out the pins from my latest hair disaster and settle for it parted to the side and hanging down my back in waves. Same way I always wear it. If you can’t be true to yourself, who can you be true to? Might as well begin with your hair.

  I walk out of the bedroom and Tyler is at the kitchen table typing on his computer. He’s shirtless, his hair sticking up on one side—basically, early-morning hot.

  I groan internally. It’s the worst torture to have the one thing I ever sought for myself dangled in front of my face. Close, yet infinitely out of reach.

  Even if I could have Tyler physically, as he seems to have turned into this manwhore, I’ve always wanted more with him. That was the problem.

  Despite my threat, Tyler brought a different girl home every night this week, the asshole. I don’t know how long the girls stayed or what he did with them. I didn’t want to know. I closed myself off in my room, earbuds in my ears, blocking it out of self-preservation. I’m trying to numb myself to Tyler. I could keep to my threat and bring home dates. I’ve not ruled it out. I’m just busy, that’s all.

  Tyler looks up and does a doubletake. His gaze takes in my outfit appreciatively, until his eyebrows pull together in suspicion. “Where’re you headed?”

  “You really think that’s your business?” I grab my black purse that has a little too much wear for the outfit, but whatever.

  “Yes. I’m keeping your secrets, aren’t I?”

  I stare incredulously. Was he always this manipulative? He used to be so sweet and accommodating.

  What could it hurt? He can’t tell me what to do, no matter how much he seems to think he can. “I have an interview.”

  Tyler slowly lifts his hands from the keyboard of his laptop and turns to me, revealing a full-frontal of his muscled chest. He’s lighter than I am, the dusting of hair on his arms a golden brown above a faint tan. His shoulders are wider than they were in high school, his chest chiseled and defined. Tyler was a beautiful boy back then. I try not to focus on how devastatingly handsome he’s become, but sometimes I can’t help it.

  I swallow, forcing my gaze to his eyes. He seems too focused on interrogating me to notice my distraction.

  “Where’s your interview?”

  He’ll find out eventually, whether Gen mentions it, or he figures it out because he reads me. Never thought I’d think it a pain in the ass to have a guy be so observant.

  “Blue,” I tell him, and check my phone for the time. The last thing I want is to be late for my interview.

  Because I can’t resist another glimpse of his chest—or his reaction, which I anticipate to be colorful—I glance up. He’s frowning, his shoulders and the muscles in The Chest taut and lightly bulging.

  Can’t he wear a T-shirt? How am I supposed to concentrate with him dressed like that?

  “Mira, we talked about this. You can’t work at Blue,” he says calmly, though his posture and the tension radiating off him tell another story.

  “Sure I can.” I apply lip gloss and press my lips together. His eyes focus on my mouth, his attention momentarily distracted.

  Good. I’m glad I’m not the only one. I was beginning to think I was the only female Tyler Morgan didn’t want to take home.

  Tyler turns back to his computer and begins typing rapidly.

  That’s it? No argument?

  Well, shit, that was no fun. Thought I’d get a bigger rise out of him than that.

  I roll my eyes. He’s hot, he’s cold, he’s pissed, he’s distracted. This new Tyler is all over the place and I can’t keep up. So I won’t even try. I grab my things and slip out the door.

  I’m not
sure what I thought an interview at Blue Casino would be like, but I didn’t think it would resemble a television casting call. The sheer number of people in the waiting area is making my head hurt. I don’t like to be alone. But crowds make me woozy. I think it has something to do with people getting too close. Freaks me out.

  I smooth a lock of hair off my face, as though I’m not bothered by it all. The guy next to me smiles. One of those smiles. The kind that says, I’d like to know what color your panties are, so how’s about we get together after?

  He’s in a tailored suit, a shoulder briefcase resting beside his fancy leather-clad feet. He pulls out his phone and scrolls the screen, glancing every few minutes to see if I’m watching. I’m not, but I sense his gaze landing on me every time he does it, and it’s not helping my paranoia about fitting in.

  The woman next to me, about my age, but way classier in a flared skirt with a matching cropped jacket, is modern and sophisticated. I’m self-conscious in my too-large pencil skirt and nicked-up purse.

  I tuck my bag under my seat with my heel and fold my hands in my lap. What the hell was I thinking, applying for this job? Everyone waiting for an interview is out of my league. Stupid, stupid…I shouldn’t be here.

  The hiring manager scheduled appointments close together to screen for candidates in rapid-fire ten-minute interviews. I arrived early, and I’m seriously tempted to leave. No way will the director call me back after he meets me and sees the way I’m dressed. And once he goes over my background experience? It’s all over. I had no business applying for this job. This was a waste of time.

  “Mira Frasier?”

  My shoulders jerk at the sound of my name. Like most Washoe, my last name is as European as the people who stole our land. It’s all I’ve known, familiar, yet never fitting. Like me, here, now.

  For a moment, I sit, considering my options. Flee? Which isn’t really my style. I’m more a face-it-down-no-matter-the-consequences type of person. But at the moment, fleeing seems like a good alternative to the humiliate-self-in-extreme-fashion-and-lose-what-little-pride-you-have-left option.

  But then I remember the money I owe…and why I’m living with Tyler. Yeah, I will grovel to get this job.

  I take a deep breath and stand, smoothing out the ripples in my skirt. Flirty guy rakes his gaze over my body, staring at my ass as I bend to grab my purse off the floor. I ignore him and every other polished yuppie in the waiting area. I hold my head high as I follow the receptionist down a wide corridor.

  The receptionist is wearing a tailored navy suit that hardly sways when she walks, but her hair is this crazy, deep red—almost violet—color. She fits the environment. Professional business thinly veiled by casino smut. We round a corner and a woman stands at the entrance of a large office, greeting me with a kind smile. I’m surprised. In my experience, most managers are men who sit behind overlarge desks, expecting to be waited on.

  The manager is about my height, so average, with a slightly fuller figure, but curvy in all the ways guys appreciate. Her hair is a shiny, dirty blonde, her eyes a golden brown. She has great coloring. I always thought blond with brown eyes was pretty.

  “Hi, Mira. I’m Hayden Tate, the new human resources director.” She holds out her hand, and I shake it. I follow her into the office and sit across from her moderate-sized and unpretentious desk.

  Large shelves on either side of the room line the walls, filled with books, with more books stacked on the floor. There’s a colorful abstract on the wall that doesn’t fit the rest of the Blue décor, and I wonder if it’s something Hayden Tate brought in from home. The painting is a red, shadowed abstract of a woman’s torso as she holds herself, her shoulders curled in. None of the Blue paintings contain figures. They’re all squiggles or blotches, or whatever paint spread on canvas passes for abstract art. This painting is raw somehow. I can’t decide if the woman is holding herself together, or falling apart.

  “I apologize for the crowd out there,” Hayden says, and takes a seat, as my nerves return. “This department has experienced major losses of late.” Her eyes flicker away and she straightens a stack of papers, her movements strained. “We’re speeding up the hiring process for the assistant position, which will require possible evening and weekend work, depending on what the casino has going on. Would that be a problem for you?”

  “No.” I shake my head. “I’m used to working long hours. Weekends are fine.”

  I have too much time on my hands, now that Lewis is busy with Gen. I appreciate Cali letting me stay at her place, and I’ve even gotten used to the idea of living with Tyler temporarily. But with him on a manwhoring mission, I’d love any excuse to stay away.

  Hayden studies my face, and it takes all my willpower not to fidget.

  She glances at a sheet of paper on the desk in front of her. “It says here you’ve worked at a local casino for the last four years. You advanced from a hostess position to a dealer.” She looks up. “I see two other positions in between the dealer and hostess jobs, each with increasing levels of responsibility.”

  To keep from getting bored, I looked for new jobs that challenged me. And I needed more and more money over the years to support my mom.

  “This is a desk position,” Hayden continues. “Not that there isn’t room for growth, but I want you to understand the parameters of what I’m offering.” She lists the job duties, which, I must admit, sound foreign.

  “I understand,” I tell her, nodding as if these are all tasks I can handle.

  “We’re short-staffed in human resources, as well as in our hospitality department. The assistant I hire will provide support to both departments until a replacement can be found for hospitality.”

  I’ll be filling two jobs I have no background in? Whatever; it’s not like I’m actually going to get the position. My résumé clearly shows that I don’t have the skill set she requires. She must give every applicant the same spiel.

  “Now that you know what I’m searching for, why don’t you tell me about yourself, Mira. Why are you looking to move from gaming to management?”

  I give her some bullshit story about how I’d like something with a higher ceiling for growth.

  “That all sounds good,” she says. “I’ll keep your application in mind as I wrap up the first round of interviews.”

  Hayden has been nice, but this whole interview felt scripted, as if she’s going through the motions. A part of me hoped I’d get lucky with this job, but I never really believed I had a chance. Not after I saw my competition in the lobby.

  Time for a new plan. This lead is a bust.

  The sound of knuckles rapping on the door comes from behind. Hayden looks up. “Drake,” she says in greeting, a rigid smile on her face.

  I don’t know Hayden, but she isn’t hiding her unease at seeing the man standing in the doorway.

  She called him Drake. He can’t be the same Drake that Gen told me about—he’s supposed to be on leave.

  “Good morning.” Drake gives Hayden a cursory glance, his gaze settling on me.

  He’s a fairly handsome man, wearing a dark suit with a blue checked tie that turns his amber eyes more demonic than I’d like. The look he gives me is assessing, a full-on check-out. Worse than the looks from the guy in the waiting room, because there’s a sense of possession behind this man’s gaze. As if he believes he could have me anytime he wants.

  These thoughts run through my mind, but they aren’t what has my stomach lurching, my hands sweating. It’s the man who approaches Drake in front of Hayden’s door who has my full, terrified attention.

  I’m ready to leap over the desk and put any large object between me and this other guy.

  Because I know him.

  Denim jacket guy.

  The man who hunted me in the woods, pinned me to the ground with his rough body, then proceeded to beat the crap out of me. That denim jacket guy.

  Denim Jacket mumbles something into Drake’s ear while peering at me, and Drake’s gaze turns eve
n more assessing, if that’s possible. He smiles, but it’s more smirky than kind, as if he, like Tyler, knows all my secrets. Only I trust Tyler a hell of a lot more than I do this Drake guy, which speaks volumes, because Tyler’s on my shit list.

  “Here for an interview, Mira?” Drake says.

  He used my name, though we haven’t been introduced. Because he knows of me, or because Denim Jacket said something?

  I need to get out. Like now. I glance around, but it’s either cower in the corner behind Hayden, or make a run for it past the two large men blocking the doorway. So, basically, suicide. No way am I escaping the situation without a confrontation of some sort.

  Hayden glances between me and Drake. “You two know each other?”

  “In a manner of speaking,” Drake says.

  I sense Hayden’s gaze on me. My face is flushed, and I won’t look at Drake or Denim Jacket. She walks around her desk and stands beside me in an almost protective manner.

  How is this Drake guy connected to the evil piece of shit next to him? None of this makes sense.

  Both Gen and Tyler warned me not to come here. Applying for this job may be the worst decision I’ve made yet. Because with running into Denim Jacket here, now, I’m certain I should have stayed home. Or moved out of the country.

  But I have nowhere to go. No one to go to…

  Stay calm. There’s no point in running. I’ll never get this job. I just need to wait out the interview until it’s over. Denim Jacket won’t do anything to me in a public place, right? Right?

  “Mira is applying for the assistant position,” Hayden says.

  Shit, don’t tell him that. These men don’t need to know any more about me than they already do.

  Her chin rises a notch. “She’s a strong candidate and I’m happy to have her come in today.”

  No, no, no! I’m not a strong candidate. What’s she saying? She’s making the situation worse.

  “But my interview is over,” I butt in, and grab my bag as I stand. “I was just leaving.” I attempt to scoot around Hayden.