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Now the second man looks at me, a bemused expression on his face as he searches my expression. His gaze dips down, and I can literally feel him surveying my body like he can somehow see through my t-shirt.

Fucking disgusting. He doesn’t hide the look as he drags his eyes back up to my face, and before his compatriot can say anything else, he leans himself on the desk, the fluorescent lights unkind on his balding head.

“You work the night shift here all alone, miss?” he asks in a voice that’s supposed to be charming. “Your manager lets you do that? What if you get someone in here that wants to cause you a problem?”

I’ve never in my life been less attracted to the male species than I am right now. I still wear my cheek-burning smile that can’t look at all authentic, and I pull my hands off the desk to create as much space between us as politely possible. “I’ve never had any problems I can’t handle, sir,” I assure him. “And I suppose if someone did come here looking to be a problem and I couldn’t convince them otherwise, I could always call the cops. They’re used to coming out here. The gas station down the road gets robbed quite a bit, so at least I know their response time is solid.”

The man snorts out a laugh, but his sallow face stays upturned, dark eyes on mine. “We’ll take a room,” he says. “For two nights. That won’t be a problem, will it? We can pay in cash.”

Ah yes. Cash. The age-old indicator of either someone not wanting to be noticed, or someone who just likes to throw around money.

…Or my dad, who has never accepted the whole ‘credit card conspiracy’ that dominates the world nowadays.

“Okay. We certainly have rooms.” I reach out to take the money, but the shorter man with the bald spot suddenly slaps his hand down on it, flashing me a condescending grin.

“You won’t mind if I watch you count it, will you sweetheart?” he drawls in a sickly sweet voice.

I barely stop myself from sneering. In fact, it takes a monumental effort on my part not to do something stupid like shred the money or stab him with my keys. “Well, I figure since you’re standing right there, it would be pretty hard not to watch me count it,” I reply sweetly. “So please. Go ahead with my blessing.”

The second man, taller and gaunt looking, with a watch on his wrist that glitters like it cost more than what I make in a year, suddenly snorts. Both of us look at him, but he doesn’t say anything. He turns away and goes back to the pamphlets to browse, as if he cares about what little there is to do in the area.

I doubt men who dress like this have anything they want to do in Gull Haven, and it’s more likely they’re on their way north to NYC, or south to the beach. Not this weird middle ground that had its tourism peak in the nineties.

It’s hard not to count out the money on the desk like I would for a child. Especially since Short and Shitty stares at me with his beady eyes the whole time I do it. But I count it twice and get him a ten in change, brandishing it between us like it’s his prize for paying attention. “Thank you so much. Do you have a preference on first or second floor?”

“Second,” the taller man murmurs, putting in his two cents for the first time. When I glance his way, he offers me a wan smile. “Just a preference.”

Most people want first, but I shrug and tap a few keys on the ancient computer, not needing to pay attention to check them in. Especially once Short and Shitty has entered their information into the tablet on his side of the desk, though he takes long enough that I can’t help excusing myself to go to the sideboard, where the coffee from before my shift still sits. We’re lucky it isn’t sludge by now. One day, I hope, Roger will indulge in a Keurig so I don’t have to do this a few times a night, but for now, I take the coffee pot into the staff bathroom and dump it into the sink.

After rinsing it out, I fill it back up with water, glancing up on my way back to see the short man still mumbling over some option or another on the check in tablet. That tells me I have a few more seconds, so I quickly scoop coffee into the filter and set up the coffee machine, the pot once more in my hand as I prefer to pour it into the machine. Without Mrs. Richards here tonight, I doubt it will get drank. But I still have to have a fresh pot out at all times, according to the boss.

When I take a step, I jump, stumbling forward as I feel the brush of someone behind me. “I’m so sorry–” But my words die in my throat when I turn to see Short and Shitty behind me, looking way too interested in what I’m doing and standing close enough that his cloying cologne coats my throat.

“What’s your name anyway, night manager?” the man asks, his beady eyes fixed nowhere near my face. The audacity is staggering, but I remind myself that paychecks come to those who suffer. Fixing my smile back in place, I pull the edge of my hoodie down to show the name tag pinned to my tee, just under the zipper.

“Sable Carver. Night shift manager at the Rest Easy Inn. I’m here all night, so if you need something–”

“You really work here all alone at night.” it’s not a question and he finally meets my gaze. “What happens to the desk when you’re called away? If a room has….complex issues they need you to fix.”

When he adjusts himself in his fucking jeans, I swear I must be seeing things. There’s no way in hell this is happening, or that he’s being so obvious about it, right?

Right?

But then he steps closer, and whatever arguments I have for ensuring my job security fly out the window.

The water isn’t hot. It doesn’t burn when I tip the coffee pot forward and onto his shirt. But Short and Shitty squeals like a pig anyway, jerking backward with his hands up in front of him. His face reddens as I just stare at him, silently wishing I’d dumped the whole pot on him instead of just half.

“Oh my God, I’m so sorry,” I deadpan, watching him flounder. “Gosh, that was crazy clumsy of me. Here.” I set the pot down and pick up a small paper napkin. The flimsy, cheap kind that’s barely better than a tissue and half the size. “Here you go.” I hand it to him, which of course only adds insult to injury.

The other man suddenly snickers. A quick, mean-spirited laugh that has his compatriot glaring at him.

“You can’t–that’s–” His eyes bulge and flick down to the name tag that’s still visible. To help him out, I adjust it, making sure the name tag is perfectly visible in the shine of the shitty fluorescent lighting. If he wants to call my manager, then I am more than happy to give him that opportunity. His face gets red, then even redder, until I worry that he’s going to stroke out.

“Fuck you,” he snarls as he wads up the napkin and tosses it down. But, given that it’s barely damp, the paper flutters to the ground instead of plummets. I glance at it, then at him, standing my ground. “We don’t need a fucking room.”

“Okay. That’s a real shame, but I’m happy to get you a refund.” In seconds I’m back at the desk, register open. “If you’re looking for another place to stay, you could try–”

The bell on the door jingles and I look up, perplexed, their cash in my hand but no one to give it to.