Chapter 5 Fired
“Fucking rich people.”
Fucking rude, elitist son of a bitch. It wasn’t her fault he didn’t take the time to read or utilize the Resort’s Do Not Disturb policy while on this particular binger. Did the fucker think she wanted to do her job while he was busy fucking?
She dragged the cleaning cart to the golf cart, hissing as she checked the time. Barely half an hour on the clock, and the bastard didn’t tip! She was going to fucking hear about it. She hoped whoever would pick up the call whenever he deigned to reschedule would make even more noise than she did. Break something completely by accident. Something priceless.
No. That would be mean. Maybe just something mildly inconvenient that would irritate him, like one of those terrible pipes or his fancy imported, crystal-clear glasses. Fuck him. She stopped in front of her cart, noting her coffee was missing.
“What the…”
The slowly shrinking figure of a woman in hot purple caught her eye. She stopped in front of a trash can, tipped up a cup, and tossed it. So not only was Knox an ass, his fuck buddy was a thief. A coffee thief. There was a special place in hell for people who stole coffee, especially this early in the morning. She hauled the cart back onto the back, grumbling the whole way and hoping she might get an emergency assignment
She threw the cart into reverse and backed up, taking off toward the dispatch office. As she passed the woman, she glared at her.
“Enjoyed my coffee?”
She pinked and pointedly didn’t speak. She hobbled a little, carrying her heels. Lydia pulled to a stop, sighing heavily and wishing she could ignore the little twinge of concern in her gut.
“Get in.”
Her eyes widened. “Really?”
“Yes,” Lydia grit out. “I can’t fuck up my own karma, and you’re hobbling. Running late, aren’t you?”
She chuckled and bobbed her head before climbing into the passenger seat.
“I’m in Villa 943. Thank you, really.”
Lydia nodded. “You’re welcome… you don’t need a doctor?”
She laughed. “No. Maybe a cushion and some ice, though.” She looked down at her phone and opened her clutch as Lydia pulled up in front of 943. It was much smaller than Knox’s, and the numbered villas were usually reserved for business retreats.
“Oh my god, you are a lifesaver. If I had cash right now—I’ll find you,” she said, slipping out of the seat with a soft hiss of pain. “Thank you!”
“No problem.” Though she swallowed the question about how someone who didn’t know her name was going to find her.
In reality, any person at the Resort who said they’d do something that didn’t directly benefit them was probably lying. She turned back to base and parked. She emptied the wet vacuum and cleaned it before carrying the tablet back into the docking area. No sooner had she plugged it up did the familiar, irritated thump of the manager’s kitten heels came up behind her.
“People like you really have no sense.”
Lydia bristled at that.
“Ungrateful, lazy, terrible employees with the worst attitudes!”
Lydia turned to her, blinking. “What—“
“Do you have any idea who you’ve offended?” She hissed. “Don’t answer that. I’m not interested in whatever idiocy you could spew.”
“He asked me to leave—“
“You’re fired!” She snapped. “We can’t have people like you, offending our most esteemed owners. He’s a founder’s son.”
She’d heard that phrase a lot, and it meant even less to her now than it had the first time she’d heard it. She blinked at her. A full tidal wave of things she could say barely held back as she stared into the woman’s malicious, glinting eyes.
Lydia picked up the tablet, logged out, and untied her apron, passing her without a word. She made herself another cup of coffee, tossed the apron in the dirty bin, and pulled her things out of her locker. The mocking giggles drifted around her, but they dulled to a distant roar as she tightened the grip on her emotions.
Do not blow up.
Do not scream.
Do not spiral.
She had too much to worry about, too much to lose, to humor that bitch today, and a large part of her was grateful she wouldn’t have to humor her anymore. Lydia took the fastest path out of the clubhouse at a slow saunter. As soon as she hit the paved, traffic circle, she headed toward the campus.
Fuck him.
Fuck her.
Fuck the resort as a whole with their stupid rules and their terrible fucking tenants and guests.
She blinked through the burning in her eyes. She wouldn’t starve, but she also wouldn’t hit her next goal if she didn’t get another job within the next few days.
“Selfish, arrogant, fucking prick,” she grumbled.
May all of his bacon burn, no matter who cooked it. May his next maid never make him infused water and leave regular mints. May every parking spot have a motorcycle. She wished him a long, healthy career, too, full of fucking inconvenience every season, all season.
She hoped all of the manager’s socks went missing, and she was always out of spoons when she decided to park her skinny ass in front of the TV with a pint of ice cream.
Giving the ride to the coffee thief had probably paid for these petty little curses.
She pulled out her phone, sighing at the crack running across the screen and the chip in the casing. No way was she going to be getting it repaired or replaced anytime soon, thanks to that paycheck-ruining asshole.
It was still early. Later, she could slide into the campus library and work on her social media. The sooner that gained traction, the better.
Until then…
"Fuck..."
She stopped, letting her shoulders slump, her eyes burn, and her throat tighten.
“Fuck!”
She really fucking needed that job. She'd survived the summers on that pay for four years.
She'd never been late, never made a fucking mistake, and here she was: fired.
They all deserved every drop of karma coming at them, racist, snooty, bastards.
She got onto campus and caught the shuttle to the administrative office, where the Bursar and Financial Aid Office were housed.
If she could swing a TA position, she could, maybe, replace her income from the Resort, but she’d rather have another job to replace her job at the Bar, if possible.
Ideally, she’d have three jobs, carefully balanced around her senior year schedule, because more money was always welcome: fixed phone, new flat iron, more money for Quillan’s legal fees…
When classes started again, she’d have to adjust… or sleep even less than she already did. She didn’t have much choice on that front. Aegis’ BA-MFA program in the Visual Arts was world-class and intensive enough that people have had to take sabbatical years.
Senior year was the threshold. If she didn’t finish strong, she wouldn’t cross over into the MFA program, which came with a teaching stipend, more opportunities, and a broader network.
She should slow down before her art suffered, but that wasn’t an option.
For Quillan.
