𝑂𝑛 𝐴𝑠𝑠𝑖𝑔𝑛𝑚𝑒𝑛𝑡

Chapter 3 • One Hell of a Coincidence

MILA

The employee manning the front desk, Alonzo, was a little bit too nice.

He helped carry my luggage, brought me to my room, and also convinced me to order a bottle of red wine from the room service menu. I hate red wine. That was fifteen bucks down the drain all because I couldn't say no to the sweet old man. He was a great marketing tactic, that's for sure.

The second Alonzo left I had already began to unpack. Organizing calmed me down. My parents say I have OCD, but I just like my space to be neat. If I was going to be staying here for a month then I didn't want to be picking my outfits out of a messy suitcase the entire time. I neatly hanged and folded my clothes, put my shampoo and conditioner inside the shower, and stored all my make up and hair products inside the medicine cabinet.

I was hoping this would take me longer then twenty minutes, but it didn't. It felt like as soon as I had started, I already finished. I was trying to follow what Ally said as best I could, distract myself for the night and dive into the case tomorrow morning. I walked out from the bathroom and my eyes connected with the lone folder thrown loosely onto the bed. I wanted to obsess over it, scan every detail they gave me and stress myself out until I would have to call Ally to come help calm me down. I know I have time. I have an entire month to build up a solid article, but that doesn't stop my mind from imagining every little possibility of missing my deadline.

I took a step forward and then paused, my hand still gripped onto the door handle to the bathroom. In my head I was thinking of how relieved I'll be tomorrow if I get help from Ally instead of going through it all on my own. The spa she mentioned sounded like a much better option out of the two, the bar better than both of them. I wanted to relax a bit. Trying to go through that entire folder this late at night wouldn't get me anywhere. The bar could get me somewhere, though. It could get me to place where I didn't have to worry so much about my career and future.

I walked over and opened the dresser. My favorite pair of dark blue jeans was sitting right on top of the stack for me to grab, a white tank making it's way into my hands as well. I got dressed quickly, touched up my mascara and lipstick and then made my way down to the lounge. Even though it was late, people were still bustling around, all of them in executive-like business attire. I felt out of place. I hustled past the crowd, hoping no one paid any attention to how under dressed I was compared to them.

As I sat down at the bar, I couldn't help but notice a few people giving me criticizing looks. They're better then me, both myself and them know that, but there's no reason to stare. They should all know that making it plainly obvious that you're judging a person is rude. The least you could do is just give a small glance and then continue on with your presuming thoughts in your mind. I didn't know why I cared so much about them judging me. I'd never been the type of person to purposely try to fit in with others, but I did care, only the tiniest bit though. Just enough for it to sit uncomfortably in the back of my mind.

"Excuse me? Bartender?" I called down the counter toward the woman. She held up a pointer finger, telling me to give her a minute. After attending to the person she was helping she made her way down to me, a white rag drying off her french manicured hands.

"What can I get for you?" Her voice came across half-shouted, just loud enough to hear over the music and chatter.

"A Manhattan, please." She nodded, but just as she turned around I stopped her. "Wait." If I really wanted to distract myself I was going to need something stronger than my go-to. "Make that a bourbon. Neat."

The woman gave a soft laugh, "That's the fastest I've ever seen anybody make that heavy of a jump." She grabbed a glass from under the bar and a bottle of Four Roses. My favorite. Somewhat affordable, but still tastes like a fifty dollar bottle. "You here on business?"

She finished pouring the drink and I took a sip, my lips pursing. "Something like that." I looked around the bar, "Not the kind you're probably referring to, though."

"Let me guess what you do for work..." She eyed me up and down as I gulped down another swig. "You're a make-up artist?"

I let out a laugh, "No."

"A model?"

"I wish."

"I've got it." She shot me a smile, "You're a accountant."

"Please tell me I don't actually look like an accountant." I laughed, silently hiding my worry that I did in fact look like I crunched numbers all day. "I'm actually a journalist."

"Oh, so I was way off." After downing the last of my drink the woman poured me another one that was soon up to my lips once again. "Are you in town chasing some big story."

"I guess you could put it like that." I was only one glass in, but being the light weight I am, I was prepared to tell this woman everything about my life. "I'm on a sort of trial-run for the New York Magazine. I just flew in today from Chicago."

She looked stunned for a moment, "Damn, you must be good then, huh?"

"I hope so." I sighed, taking another sip. "I've been dreaming of this since I was six."

"I'm pretty sure when I was six my dreams consisted of my monster high dolls and how to sucker my mom into giving me extra desert." The woman laughed, "Just by looking at you I bet you'll go far. Don't stress yourself out so much. You're gonna do great here. I have a feeling that you're going to make more money then some of the people in this hotel."

I smiled to her, "That means a lot, actually. Thank you."

"Happy to help."

And with that she walked away, on to her next customer. I finished the bourbon and swiveled around in my chair, leaning my elbows back against the counter. The atmosphere smelled of high-end brands and hundred dollar tips. There were men and women in suits, sipping away at glasses of whiskey. People typing away at their computers or going over books, still working even this late into the night. It was a Monday, normal bars wouldn't even be close to this full, but people like the ones here seem to like drinking on the job. I would too if I was them.

I scanned my eyes over the lounge, people watching being one of my favorite hobbies. I watched as a woman spilled her martini down her blouse, cursing under her breath as she blotted it with a napkin. I watched as a sixty something year old man rested his arm over his wife's shoulders, leaning over to hear what she was saying over the noise. And then I froze. Out of the corner of my eye I caught someone familiar, a tanned and perfectly shaved face that I had gotten to know quite well the night before in that hotel.

What is he doing here?

His arms were crossed over his chest, the bottom of his tattoo sleeve trailing down from his dark grey button down shirt. He looked pissed, jaw clenched and fists tights, as he spoke to the pale blonde man in front of him. The blondes only response was him nodding to what he was saying, maintaining eye contact the entire time. Then, the two set off straight in my direction. The man picked his phone from his pocket and placed it next to his ear, that terrifyingly furious look not leaving his face.

I had never left a bar so quickly in my entire life. Before he could see me I had placed a ten on the counter and was gone. I had a feeling that even if he did notice I was here that he wouldn't remember who I was, but just to be careful I made sure to disappear into the crowd before he even got close.

This is one hell of a coincidence, though. I mean, seriously, we're both in New York at the same hotel after being in Chicago the night before? How does that even happen?

As soon as I was back in my room, my phone was up to my ear, dialing Ally.

"You're never going to believe what just happened."

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