Excerpt
Love You To Death
Chapter OneThursdayHousekeeping at the Chamberlain Hotel is a thankless profession. We clean strangers’ semen-stained sheets, scrub their pissy toilets, and vacuum their disgusting floors, all for them to f*** up our pristine work as soon as they return to their overpriced rooms with the sad interstate views. I’d quit, but the only job around here willing to pay more per hour than the cost of a value meal at the Tasty Freeze is, well, the Tasty Freeze, and I’d rather wear an apron than a hairnet.
“Room 314 left me twenty dollars, and forty dollars from 322.” My best friend, Zorie, waves three crisp twenty-dollar bills at me. “How’d you do?”
“Suite on seven left me a bathtub full of pubes.”
We stop at the supply room, and I swipe my ID card across the reader. A green light flashes, followed by a click, and I push open the door. The smell of vinegar is overwhelming. Our hotel manager, Leslie Grace, insists on using vinegar for cleaning, even though guests constantly complain about the smell. I toss two bottles and an armful of toilet paper onto my cart. Zorie swipes two rolls from the shelf and places them inside a laundry bag. She stocks it throughout the day with assorted boxes of cereal from the kitchen, individual soaps, and toilet paper and then empties it into her trunk on her breaks. Good thing we’re roommates, or I’d probably starve to death or, worse, never wipe my ass again.
“They’re gonna fire you one of these days for stealing,” I say.
Zorie winks at me. “They have to catch me first.”
Last month, rumors started circulating that Leslie Grace installed cameras inside the housekeeping supply room to catch thieves, but all they caught was the housekeeping manager going down on the sales manager. They were both fired, and Leslie Grace has been on my ass about applying for the housekeeping manager position.
“You know if I become manager, you have to stop stealing from the supply room,” I say.
“Does that mean you’re applying?”
“Are you gonna stop stealing?”
Zorie lifts her left hand and places her right hand over her heart. “Best friend’s honor.”
Best friend’s honor is our version of swearing, like our own little sworn testimony, minus the Bible. It started in third grade when I accused Zorie of taking my favorite unicorn pen and she declared her innocence by placing her hand over her heart and announcing, “Best friend’s honor.” Now it’s our saying for anything needing more assurance, like Zorie swearing she paid the rent on time or me swearing I didn’t use the last tampon.
“I’m serious, Zo. If I do this, no more f***ing around.”
Zorie looks at me like she’s not sure if she should laugh, so she nods instead. “I still don’t know why you want that job. More hours and more of Leslie Grace’s bullshit. Sounds like hell to me.”
“Then it’s a good thing you’re not applying,” I say and poke her in the side with my finger.
“Just the two ladies I wanted to see.” Leslie Grace stands in the doorway, her blood-red lips twitching as though she forgot how to smile. The sleeves of her white button-down are rolled up to her elbows, with a visible sweat ring under each arm. Leslie Grace loves to look like she’s been hard at work, but the truth is she’s just premenopausal. “Would either of you be willing to work second shift tonight?” she asks, fanning herself with her clipboard.
“I can take the shift,” Zorie says. Then, to me, she adds, “You have dinner with your folks tonight.”
“Right,” I say, thinking how I’d much rather spend the evening cleaning extra rooms than enduring another dinner of awkward conversation and insults disguised as encouragement.
“I knew I could count on you two,” Leslie Grace says. She shifts her weight from one foot to the other, hugging her clipboard to her chest. “Teamwork and outstanding service is what this company is all about.”
I nod and go back to sorting shampoos and lotions on my cart. Nothing gave Leslie Grace a bigger lady boner than reciting the company’s mission statement. Her dedication to the Chamberlain Hotel would be impressive if it weren’t so pathetic. The woman’s entire life’s purpose was defined by her ability to fill eight floors of a three-star hotel located in the heart of Redwood Springs, Georgia.
“Kayla is always talking about teamwork,” Zorie says.
I drop the shampoo bottle I’m holding, and it rolls across the floor to Leslie Grace’s foot. She’s wearing open-toed shoes even though her nails are jagged and uneven, with chipped green polish. Leslie Grace picks up the rogue bottle and carefully returns it to my cart.
“Keep up the good work, Kayla,” she says. “Teamwork makes the dream work.” She turns and takes off toward the door, her sandals slapping hard against her heels in sync with her swinging ponytail.
“What was that?” I say to Zorie.
“You want that manager job, don’t you? Think of me as your personal hype woman. I’m just reminding old girl how bomb you are.”
I roll my eyes dramatically and smile. “If you expect me to say thank you, I’m not going to.”
“Oh, really?” Zorie lifts an eyebrow, and I know what’s coming next. She tickles my sides, and I howl with laughter until tears stream from my eyes.
“Okay! Okay! Thank you, Zorie!” I choke out between giggles. I barely have time to catch my breath when I hear footsteps, followed by a loud grunt. Kevin from maintenance is beside me. I know this because I smell him: chewing tobacco, armpits, and beef jerky—his signature scent.
“Morning, friends,” he says. “You look awfully pretty today, Kayla.”
“She literally looks the same every day. We all do,” Zorie says, and gestures to her uniform.
“Can’t a man pay a beautiful woman a compliment?” he asks.
“Thanks, Kev,” I mumble but keep my eyes on my cart. Maybe if I avoid eye contact, he’ll go away. We’d shared a regrettable and drunken mistletoe kiss last year at Leslie Grace’s Christmas party, and now he’s like my shadow.
“Y’all hear about the lady on seven?” Kevin asks. He leans against Zorie’s cart, and she jerks it backward.
“What about her?” Zorie asks. “She die or something?”
Kevin stumbles backward into my cart and laughs. He’s close enough for me to see the enormous wad of tobacco stuffed in the middle of his lower lip. “This chick paid for a full week in cash, and I heard she tipped Geraldine a C-note for cleaning off her table at breakfast. That pocketbook must be deep.”
“A hundred dollars?” Zorie says, shaking her head. “Damn, how much extra bacon did Geraldine give her? Too bad she’s not on my floor.”
“She’s on mine,” I say. I try to keep my expression neutral, but my lips twitch up into a smile. I could really use my own C-note, especially since Freemont Debt Collections keeps garnishing my checks.
“You better get that money, girl!” Zorie high-fives me, and Kevin snorts. A trickle of tobacco juice slides down his chin. God, he’s disgusting. He’s also nosy as hell, always asking questions and watching us with that goofy grin on his face. Kevin’s nosiness has been at an all-time high since he saw me and Zorie going through the lost and found last month in search of outfits to wear to a wedding. Two days later, nosy Kevin spotted us leaving Chapel Ridge Baptist Church in those same floral dresses with an armful of gift bags. He’d asked me about it in the breakroom, and I’d played dumb.
“You must’ve confused us with some other ladies,” I’d told him.
If Kevin knew I was lying, I couldn’t tell. He never asked me about it again, but now he keeps a closer eye on the lost-and-found box, forcing me and Zorie to do our wedding-attire shopping at Goodwill.
Sometimes I wonder if Kevin knows how me and Zorie spend our weekends searching online for weddings we were never invited to, only to show up at their receptions disguised in cheap wigs and stolen dresses. We take what we can from the gift tables and slip out the back during the happy couple’s first dance. I should feel guilty, but most weeks, those wedding gifts are the only things keeping the lights on in our apartment.
“I better get back to work. You know how Leslie Grace hates distractions,” I say, and back my cart out of the room.
Kevin waves to me and spits out a long, dark string of tobacco juice into a Styrofoam cup.
“Lunch later?” Zorie calls after me.
“Only if you’re paying. My funds are kind of low this week.”
She smiles and points at me. “I got you, girl.”
“You always do. I love you big, Zo.”
“I love you bigger,” she says, then the door swings shut with a click.
