The lobby was a bustle of activity. Construction workers on scaffolding making adjustments to the lighting while another group was tiling a decorative fountain the size of a small pool. Deliveries were being dropped at the lobby retail shops as empty cardboard boxes were being broken down and carted away.
The casino floor was much the same. Gaming tables in place, but vacant. Rows of slot machines were lit up but silent, and the entire floor was empty of people save for a bar in the center that was still under construction.
It smelled of new paint and carpet, but something else too. It smelled like a first day. Like potential and untapped energy and the whispered promise of an impending adventure.
It was eerily cool.
"Lydia, focus." Payton shakes the ice in her cup before taking a sip. "I need details!"
"I saw him in the lobby. I think he works here?" I say, but it's more of a question than a statement because I don't have a clue. "He was standing near the front doors with a couple of other guys. They were looking at a tablet and pointing at different spots in the lobby ceiling. Oh! Maybe he's in security or something? Shoot, I don't really know, but he looked like he belonged here. I suppose it's possible he's a contractor and I'll never cross paths with him again." I wrinkle my nose and shrug. It'll really suck if that was my one shot and I blew it. Even if he does work here, will I ever cross paths with him? This place is the equivalent of a small city. With thousands of employees, there will be plenty of people I rarely, if ever, see.
Four
LYDIA
I don't see him again that day, or the next. But I practice. By practice, I mean I have imaginary conversations with him so I'll be ready for a real conversation when I see him again. Hey, remember me? I say to myself in the mirror while drying my hair in the morning. Oh, you! You work here? I work here! I repeat this on my drive to work over and over until it sounds natural. If I'm at a stoplight I add a shoulder shrug and a hand gesture to the mix. Hey, guy, would you believe I didn't catch your name?
That last one needs work, admittedly. It sorta sucks that I have to call him Hey during these fantasy practice runs, but it is what it is. I thought about making up a name for him until I find out what his name is, but I didn't want to get attached to the wrong name. Like what if I call him Sam as a temporary placeholder, but it sticks somewhere in my brain and then during sex I accidentally call him Sam? Can you even imagine?
I can imagine it. I did imagine it, actually, and I cringed a thousand cringes. I imagined it was going well—the sex—and I was enjoying myself and he was enjoying himself and I was doing a really good job at the sexing and then, bam. I called out the wrong name and ruined everything. If you want the details, he was on top of me, mid-thrust, my ankle hooked around his back as I groaned, "Harder, Sam." Then he stopped, as one does when called the wrong name during sex. And I turned a hundred shades of red in total humiliation while he got dressed and left.
And I didn't even come.
So Hey will have to do until I find out his name. I figure if I accidentally call him Hey during sex I can at least salvage the situation before I offend him. So I bide my time, keep my eyes open and work on my imaginary conversations.
I'm confident it will pay off, because in my experience when you work hard and have a positive attitude, it pays off. If nothing else, practice makes perfect, so I'll be ready when I see him again.
On Friday I get my own desk. I've never had a space of my own at work before, besides a locker in which to shove my handbag. It's actually a cubicle. I've got an entire five-by-five-foot space to call my own, complete with a name plate attached to the exterior of my cubicle wall.
Lydia Clark. I run my fingertip over the letters and grin before surveying my new space. I've got an L-shaped desk with a flat screen monitor already in place on the surface. There are three lined pads of paper, a package of pens and a six-pack of Post-It notes still wrapped in cellophane laying next to the keyboard. The cube walls are covered in some kind of taupe industrial-grade fabric, but they double as bulletin boards so I'll be able to pin notes for easy viewing.
Gah! I cannot wait to buy a cute pencil cup this weekend. Maybe I'll get a letter tray too, and colored file folders. I drop my handbag into the file cabinet drawer under the desk and text Payton.
Lydia: Office supply shopping this weekend?!
Payton: Can't wait!
Oh, wow. I didn't think she'd care. She had almost no opinion about any of the stuff we got for our apartment. I wonder if I can get her to go to Ikea with me again.
Lydia: Really??? Want to go to Ikea after work??
Payton: No, not really, nerd. It's our second weekend in Vegas. We are not spending Friday night at Ikea.
Oh. Well, maybe Saturday then.
I've got a team meeting in five minutes so I pocket my phone and make my way to the conference room. The second through fourth floors of this hotel are all office space. These floors aren't accessible from the guest elevators, so we're sorta hidden, like having a building within a building. We've got separate elevators from the employee entrance that service nothing but these three floors and the executive suites on thirty-four. Not that I've seen them—they're for senior-level employees who live on site. Can you even imagine?
My department—human resources—is on the fourth floor along with legal, accounting, security and the executive offices. I'm a human resource associate, reporting to the director of human resources, who reports to the vice-president of human resources. If it sounds like a lot of people, it's because it is. I'm one of seven associates. We all started together this week and we will eventually be divided up and assigned as the lead contact by department. Housekeeping, food services, front desk and bell services, entertainment, recreation, retail and gaming. That's just the front-of-house stuff.
This place really is a world all of its own.
There's a break room on each floor with free coffee, so I stop there on my way to the conference room. It's got one of those fancy coffee machines that make lattes and espresso and hot cocoa and even regular coffee. God, working here is like a day at Disney for me! There's fruit and snacks and bottled water too, and—oh, my God. I stop dead. That guy. The break room has that guy too. I mean, he's here, in the break room. Not that he's stocked in the break room, like a free packet of peanuts, which are indeed stocked in the break room. Gah, Lydia! Focus!
I've taken two steps into the room, my heeled feet clicking on the linoleum and announcing my presence before I can do so myself. He's in the midst of uncapping a bottle of water and I have half a second to observe him before he notices me.
Half a second to confirm he just does it for me.
Why is that? All I've done is kiss him. Why does he have this effect on me? It's not like I'm so innocent that a kiss sends me reeling. I've kissed guys before and none of them made me feel like this. They made me feel, if I'm being honest, apathetic. Hence why I'm still a virgin. Because why bother? If a guy makes you feel like you could take it or leave it, just why bother?
Yet this guy makes me feel like I could be actively promiscuous. Yup. When I see him I'm pretty sure I've got untapped slut potential. Holy all of everything that is good, why is he so attractive? It almost hurts to look directly at him. I feel all warm and turned on and weird.