Strike

by Cora Brent

  All morning I couldn’t keep my mind on booking appointments for seaweed facials when my thoughts kept veering back to Dalton. Even soft-spoken Eleanor became a little exasperated when I screwed up the scheduling book and entered information on the wrong day. It was a small relief to be sent to the back to fold towels for a while.

  One of the massage therapists walked in and I struggled for a second to remember her name.

  “Okay if I grab some of these?” she asked while I searched my memory for the faces I’d been introduced to yesterday.

  I handed her a pile of luxurious cream-colored towels embroidered with the resort logo. “With my compliments.”

  She took the towels and gave me a friendly smile. “Are you mad with boredom sitting up front yet? I started out with that job.”

  “I’m keeping busy so far,” I said, remembering the girl’s name was Holly. The job was far from terrible but even if it was my worst nightmare I wouldn’t have the bad taste to say so on my second day.

  Holly tucked the towels under one arm. “Did I hear you say you’re just here for the summer?”

  “Yeah, I go back to San Diego at the end of August to finish my senior year. Journalism major.”

  “So you’re like, gonna be a writer or something?”

  “A reporter. I hope so. I’ve been dreaming of investigative journalism since I was ten years old. You know, searching for the truth, uncovering the sordid underbelly of the rich and powerful.”

  Holly snorted a little. “Well, I doubt you’ll find anything worth writing about around here. The most excitement we get is when a third tier celebrity comes in for an agave wrap. But we do get some pro athletes now and then too. Have you met Griffin Sullivan yet?”

  “The resort director and owner? No.”

  Holly smiled. “You will. You’re a pretty girl so he’ll make sure he introduces himself. Anyway, his family owns the place and he used to be a ball player. Sometimes his old buddies show up here as guests. Sometimes they’re nice guys, Sometimes they’re assholes who expect to be treated like kings.”

  “Noted.” I paused. “What sport did Griffin Sullivan play?”

  She thought for a moment. “Baseball. Last year he brought his best friend on staff to manage Aqua Room when it opened. I forget what their story is. They were on the same team for a while or something.”

  I was startled. “The Aqua Room manager? You mean Dalton Tremaine?”

  “Yeah. Have you been lucky enough to see him yet?” Holly fanned herself with the hand that wasn’t holding the towels. “Wouldn’t mind giving that muscled body a deep tissue massage.”

  I digested the news that Dalton was a former pro athlete. It hadn’t occurred to me before but now that I knew I wasn’t surprised. He was obviously in superior physical shape and there was something about his air of overconfidence that made me think he was a guy who was used to being good at whatever he did. If I hadn’t been so stubborn about pushing him out of my mind last night a quick internet search would have already produced this information.

  Suddenly I realized Holly was still talking.

  “You might also see political types hanging around now and then, senators or mayors and such. I hate politics so I don’t keep track of who’s who and anyway they seem like a boring crowd who mostly sticks to the golf course.”

  “Interesting. I’ll keep an eye out.”

  Holly checked her watch and grimaced. “I should go get the room set up. My appointment will be here any minute and from past experience she can be kind of bitchy if she has to wait for more than five seconds.” She leaned forward conspiratorially and lowered her voice. “Which is pretty goddamn ridiculous considering she’s practically a freaking hooker.”

  I was startled. “What?”

  Holly shrugged. “A hooker. Prostitute, streetwalker, whatever you want to call it.”

  It sounded like a nasty brand of gossip but my curiosity got the better of me. “How do you know?”

  “She lives here in a suite, lounges by the pool all day sipping margaritas and visits the spa twice a week. And the word is it’s all on the dime of some political dude. But there’s also a theory that she’s general house entertainment over at the club.”

  I wasn’t sure I believed any of it. “Seriously?”

  Holly started to answer, then stopped and stared at me. “I don’t know what’s true or not,” she said quickly. “That’s just what someone else told me.”

  “I won’t repeat it,” I assured her but Holly was looking down and heading for the back.

  “Thanks for the towels,” she said on her way out. “Maybe we could grab a cup of coffee sometime.”

  “I’d like that,” I said, thinking of my last words to Dalton this morning.

  “If you buy me a cup of coffee I might drink it.”

  It was a nonchalant, flirty comment and since I didn’t have a talent for being either nonchalant or flirty I was very proud of myself. That feeling lasted about five seconds. Then it occurred to me that I sounded like a kid in search of cool one-liners. To a man like Dalton I probably came off as obnoxious.

  I grimaced and buried my face in a warm towel, wishing I knew what it was about Dalton that made my heart pound so hard. I’d just met him and while I was no femme fatale I wasn’t devoid of all experience with guys. I was attracted to him, that’s all. And maybe I was looking for a little something to distract me from an otherwise boring summer.

  There wasn’t much time to dwell on my new infatuation for Dalton Tremaine because Eleanor poked her head into the room and asked me to return to the front desk.

  I’d barely settled into my chair when the main door opened and I found myself facing former classmate and ditzy party girl Debra Martinez. She wore a coral-colored sundress that complimented her tan skin and black hair and even to my untrained eye I could tell the bag on her shoulder was expensive. Debra paused only for a split second and if I hadn’t been looking at her face I would have missed the flash of recognition in her eyes. But a bored, haughty expression took over and she walked briskly over to the desk.

  “I have a standing eleven o’clock appointment,” she said, clicking her long French manicured nails on the long marble counter attached to the desk. “The name is Deb Martin.”

  Okay, so Debra or Deb or whatever she was calling herself obviously didn’t want to chat. I didn’t understand the reason for the whole name change but it wasn’t my business. I scanned the appointment book, which was an old fashioned wide black ledger.

  “Right,” I said. “Here you are. Deb Martin at eleven o’clock. You can take a seat if you’d like.”

  “I’d rather not. Is Holly running late again?”

  “No, I don’t think so.” The time was actually two minutes before the hour but I didn’t think there was anything to gain by pointing that out.

  “Could you please go do your job and check?”

  I closed the appointment book. “Sure thing, Debra,” I said pointedly and saw how her eyes narrowed. “My apologies, I meant sure thing, Deb.”

  Luckily Holly materialized and put an end to the awkward exchange. “Deb!” she exclaimed, beaming so sweetly there would be no way to guess that a few minutes ago she was wondering aloud if her client was a prostitute. “I’m all set up for you so please, come on back.”

  Deb/Debra didn’t respond. She just stiffly followed Holly down the hall in her stiletto heels while I wondered if Holly had something in her bag of spa tricks to dissolve the iron rod my old classmate had stuck up her ass. We weren’t exactly bosom buddies in high school but we weren’t enemies either. I’d known Debra since elementary school when she moved here from New Mexico and I couldn’t remember having done anything to piss her off. Our high school wasn’t that big and it would be really weird if she didn’t recognize me. I hadn’t changed much over the last three years.

  When the front desk phone rang I was preoccupied so I just answered it with a simple, “Hello.”

  “Ah, dammit,” said a man’s v
oice. “Did I hit the wrong extension?”

  “No. I mean, I don’t know. But this is Blue Rain Spa.”

  “Good. Then I did do something right today. This is Griffin Sullivan.”

  I suppressed a gasp and took a breath before answering. “Hello, Mr. Sullivan.”

  Fuck fuck fuck.

  Of course the owner of the entire damn resort had to call right at that moment and witness the fact that his newest employee couldn’t even answer the phone correctly. It didn’t matter that this was only a summer job and I’d be out of here in a few months. I hated screwing up.

  “And who do I have the pleasure of speaking to?” Griffin Sullivan wanted to know. It sounded like he was amused.

  “Sorry, this is Camille Gentry. It’s my second day here.”

  “Gentry. I know that name.”

  “It’s not uncommon. And I have a large extended family. I’m really sorry about answering the phone so informally. It won’t happen again.”

  The man chuckled. “No worries. I think we can cut you a little slack since you’re new.”

  I relaxed. “Thank you. Did you want to book an appointment, Mr. Sullivan?”

  “It’s Griffin. Whenever someone says Mr. Sullivan I start looking around for my father. Tell me, Camille, were you hired as a massage therapist?”

  “No. I’m just the receptionist.”

  “Too bad,” he said in a low, sultry voice that hummed with innuendo. “I might have been tempted to step out on my regular therapist and give you a try.”

  Before I had time to process the uncomfortable fact that the owner of a five star resort didn’t know any better than to make a sexually charged comment to his new employee, he abruptly switched his tone.

  “Camille, I need a favor. Do you think you could please connect me to Eleanor?”

  “Sure, I can do that. Hold on.”

  For a second I stared at the colorful phone buttons and tried to remember if anyone had shown me how to transfer a call. I didn’t see anything that looked appropriate and I didn’t remember Eleanor’s extension anyway so I ended up setting the phone on the desk, sprinting down the hall to Eleanor’s closet-sized office and blurting, “Griffin Sullivan is calling for you!”

  Eleanor had been tending to the tiny Zen rock garden on her desk when I flung the door open. She sighed, set down the miniature rake and followed me back to the front desk. I hovered nearby and listened to Eleanor’s side of the phone conversation that seemed to involve some important guests who were going to be visiting the spa later this week.

  After she ended the call, Eleanor turned to me. “Good work, Cami. You made an impression on Mr. Sullivan. He said he was pleased to know that we hired such a conscientious employee.”

  Given our conversation, I was pretty sure his words were sarcastic but explaining that to Eleanor would only distress her so I said, “I’m glad he thinks so.”

  Eleanor gave me a warm smile and returned to her Zen meditations. The phone rang again and this time I managed to answer correctly. The caller was a sweet, confused elderly woman who was staying at the resort and thought she was calling for room service. When I explained to her that she’d called the spa and not the kitchen, she paused and asked if I could please see to it that her garden salad contained no shredded carrots. I said that wouldn’t be a problem, took down her information, then found the real room service extension and gave them the woman’s order.

  Once I was finished with that there was a lull and I took the opportunity to pull out my phone and Google the name Griffin Sullivan. Immediately I let out a low whistle because the former ball player turned resort director was a piece of serious hotness. Then I typed in Dalton’s name and felt my heart skip when I found myself staring at his headshot in a baseball uniform. A quick scan of the Wikipedia entry told me he was originally from the Phoenix area and played pro baseball for the Texas Rangers before an injury sent him down to the minors. He’d quit the game for good last year, around the time that he broke up with his fiancée, a fashion model named Alexa Borker.

  My Dalton research was put on hold when a trio of chatty women in large hats arrived for their facials. I summoned the skin care technicians who would be taking care of them and grabbed a few bottles of cold water for the ladies. For that small effort I received a twenty dollar tip so I was enormously pleased.

  Eleanor had asked me to check out the online appointment booking system that she’d been trying to get up and running on the website. I was on hold with the company contracted for tech support when a flash of coral fabric caught my eye. Debra Martinez sauntered into the lobby and seemed to be headed for the door when suddenly she turned around and faced me. If she had planned to say anything she apparently changed her mind because a second later she turned around and her spindly high heels went clack clack right out the door.

  “Goodbye to you too,” I muttered.

  The whole encounter had been weird from the moment she walked in here. She obviously wasn’t happy to run into me but given the fact that she was living with a different name I probably shouldn’t take it personally. Deb Martin must want to escape from Debra Martinez for some unknown reason. But if she was trying for anonymity she would have been smart to not choose a place less than twenty miles away from where she grew up.

  The tech wizard who would solve all Blue Rain Day Spa’s website challenges hadn’t taken me off hold yet and I noticed that a stack of celebrity magazines on a small lobby table were just enough askew to bother my latent OCD. I set the phone to speaker in case the tech guy returned and walked over to neaten the pile. When I was done I wandered over to the tinted glass doors and stared out as a blast of cool air from the air conditioner overhead caused the skin on my arms to ripple.

  About thirty yards away there were two figures. They didn’t appear to be shouting but their body language was definitely tense. The man wore the kind of expensively casual outfit seen at exclusive golf resorts and probably nowhere else. He had to be around my parents’ age and when he turned his head I recognized him with a jolt.

  In my sophomore year of high school I had been granted an interview with a member of the Phoenix City Council who was running for Congress. He was energetic, articulate, and his wide office desk was crowded with photos of his lovely wife and four angelic children. I remembered leaving the interview impressed with his responses and I was glad when he was elected in a landslide that November. There were rumors he would run for Governor in the next election cycle and was being groomed as an eventual presidential candidate.

  But I couldn’t explain what Congressman Jeff Anders was doing here at the Wild Spring Resort. Or why he appeared to be having an intense conversation with Debra Martinez.

  I watched Debra reach up and kiss his lips, but he took a step back and swiveled his head from one side to the other, like he was paranoid about who might be watching. Debra wilted a little and lowered her head before crossing her arms over her chest and walking stiffly toward the main building.

  Congressman Anders watched her go, then climbed into a waiting golf cart with a rather husky man behind the wheel.

  “Hello? Hello?” An impatient nasal voice crackled over the phone speaker and I darted back behind the desk to answer.

  “Sorry, I’m here.”

  The tech guy started droning on about what he needed to do to fix our online booking issues but I wasn’t really listening. Instead I wondered about what kind of a place I’d landed in and what other surprises were in store. So far there were powerful politicians, snooty possible prostitutes and former pro athlete managers who resembled Greek gods.

  Maybe there was a story in there somewhere. And maybe this summer wouldn’t be so dull after all.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Dalton

  Thanks to some staff issues and a problem with the liquor supplier the next two days were pretty hectic. I hadn’t forgotten about Cami but between work and trying to put in some time at the youth training center there was no opportunity to chase her down.
>
  That might be for the best anyway.

  I didn’t really need any distractions right now but I knew if I spent too much time under the scrutiny of those green eyes I’d be tempted to do a whole lot more than flirt.

  Griffin texted me in the afternoon when I was on my way to my car, asking if I’d be back at the club before ten because he was bringing some people by. I knew he’d been holed up all day in meetings with some of his father’s associates who’d flown in from overseas and were staying at the resort. I’d seen them walking the grounds early this morning and they looked like a grim, darkly suited bunch that might be plotting world domination or something equally unwholesome. I was glad there was no need for me to get pulled into their meetings but it seemed I’d be dealing with them tonight.

  I texted Griffin back and let him know I was heading over to the training center but I’d be returning long before ten pm. I climbed into my truck and started up the engine, waiting to see if he had anything else to say. There were no more messages, which was a mild relief. The other day he’d made an offhand comment about finding some local entertainment for his guests and I wasn’t sure I wanted to know what he had in mind.

  After spending some time in the spotlight myself I became aware that there was a different set of rules for the rich and powerful. Griffin was comfortable in their company, probably because he was born into a formidable family. Since some of the club clientele was part of that elite class and they spent a lot of time and money in the club’s private back rooms, I had learned to tolerate them. Though I’d never get used to the power and influence that was traded among these men so casually.

  Still, they weren’t all bad and for now I was networking with some valuable contacts that might be interested in partnering up someday to achieve the things I really cared about. Griffin had to know that my heart wasn’t really in the club even if I did do a good job. I hoped he wouldn’t be surprised someday when I moved on.