Marcia King-Gamble - Sex On Flamingo Beach

Emilie grabbed the folder and left. As she was crossing the employee parking lot her cell phone jingled. She glanced at the screen, smiling as she recognized the number.

“Hey, Chere,” Emilie said, after pressing the receiver to her ear.

“Hey, girl, what’s the deal? I haven’t heard from you lately. You still interested in buying my husband’s condo?”

“Of course I am. I’ve just been crazy busy and haven’t had the time to do much about it. “

“Well, I’ve had an out-of-town offer so huge I’m going to have to talk to Quen about it. I thought maybe you’d want to counter.”

“How much are we talking about?”

Chere named a figure.

Emilie’s stomach plummeted. “Ouch! I can’t come even close to that. You’ll have to start shopping for something else in my price range.”

Just the thought of having to pack up and move made Emilie groan. Plus moving was expensive. She’d have to cough up first month’s rent, last and security. It would be a sizeable chunk and she’d have nothing to show for it afterward. Maybe she should try to rustle up the money for a down payment for a condo from somewhere.

Hardly good timing though, especially since she had no assurance she’d be in Flamingo Beach long-term. Tom’s instructions were clear: the hotel’s occupancy rate needed boosting or she would be out of a job, and therefore unable to pay a mortgage. She had to think about this.

“Emilie, you there?”

“I’m here. Just wondering how I can swing this.”

“Get creative, child. If this doesn’t work out I’ll find you something else. You know I got your back.”

By the time Emilie got to her rented condo in Flamingo Place her head was pounding. She had so much to think about. Quen’s two-bedroom apartment with the view of the bay suited her perfectly. Not often did you find a twelve-hundred-square-foot apartment in a gated community with really nice oak floors, and a fireplace that was seldom used. She used that fireplace to stash candles. The spacious balcony held a table and two lounge chairs where she liked to get sun.

Emilie’s cat, a rust-colored tabby she had rescused from a Dumpster, greeted her as she entered. She squatted down to pet the beast behind the ear.

“Did you have a good day, Big Red?”

The cat’s answering meow indicated she wanted her meal. Emilie kicked off her heels at the front door and went off to feed her. There would be no relaxing until Big Red had her dinner.

She changed her clothing and quickly heated up yesterday’s leftovers. Emilie gobbled her meal and booted up her laptop. For the next two hours she worked on spreadsheets, inputting numbers and deliberately ignoring the ringing phone.

Room occupancy was nowhere close to the winter months but it was slowly improving. By the time next month’s report was due she’d be darn close to meeting that sixty-five percent goal. Maybe she should jump on Joya’s suggestion and market to the travel-industry crowd.

Emilie sent off her report then continued typing as a myriad of ideas popped into her head. By the time she was through she had four pages of notes and had earned herself a glass of wine. Taking the wine and the Flamingo Beach Chronicle with her, she went out to the balcony.

A cool breeze blew off the water and the twinkling lights signified there were boats on the bay. It was a peaceful time of evening and one of the few times she relaxed. For the next hour Emilie read the paper from cover to cover. All of the news centered on the casino and Keith Lightfoot’s plans for a mega entertainment center. Already the Flamingo Beach Spa and Resort was being upstaged by a property that hadn’t yet been built. She had to be proactive.

The residents were doing something. Some had written letters to the editor about the type of clientele that gambling would attract. Others felt that the money and jobs that would be created were well worth the additional traffic. One concerned citizen addressed the rumor that Mayor Rabinowitz was getting kickbacks to make the casino happen. The editor didn’t seem to want to touch that and the citizen was quickly squashed.

Emilie figured she had six months before she would seriously worry. In that time a lot could happen. The Flamingo Beach Spa and Resort was already up and running, and that in and of itself gave her an advantage. It was up to her to make it the “it” place to be.

She made a mental note to meet with Owen Schwartz, the hotel’s general manager, in the next few days. No point in selling rooms if their service wasn’t top notch. They needed to make a concerted effort to get the hotel there, and that might mean training employees or replacing a few. She needed his buy in for that.

Continuing to flip through pages, Emilie found the “Dear Jenna” column and settled in. She was prepared to read all about the latest romances that had been derailed. Flamingo Beach was heartbreak hotel.

The telephone rang inside as it had been doing off and on since she got home. It was close to her bedtime and she was tempted to ignore it, but what if it was the hotel?

“Yes,” she said, somewhat impatiently.

“Miss Woodward, you need to get over here. Now.”

“Who is this?”

“Melody at the front desk. Mr. Schwartz asked me to call you again. We’ve been trying both of your phones for half an hour.”

“What’s the problem?”

A moment of hesitation as the woman debated. “Ma’am, the police are here and Mr. Schwartz wants all management to get over here on the double.”

“I’m on my way.”

In a New Jersey minute she was back in the clothing she’d hastily discarded. Driving like a person possessed, she made it to the hotel in record time. A huge crowd was gathered out front and all four of the town’s police cars had their sirens going. The WARP van was parked down the street, which meant reporters were there. Cameramen from the local television station had zoomed into action.

Realizing it would be an impossible feat to walk into the lobby, Emilie opted for the employee entrance instead. Inside, she was greeted by total chaos. Guests from the singles party milled around and people lay facedown on the floor being handcuffed.

The general manager, Owen Schwartz, was barking orders at security guards who’d been called in for backup. On the fringe of all the activity were the management types she worked with. Judging by their outfits they’d all been at home relaxing before the call came in.

Emilie, spotting a visibly distressed Joya, made her way over to her friend’s side.

“This is a disaster. What the hell happened here?”

Joya wheezed out an exasperated sigh. “I wish I could tell you. Everything seemed to be going well until a woman said she felt woozy and accused one of the men of slipping something into her drink. There was a huge argument and others got involved.”

“Did he really put something in her drink?”

“Who knows, but it set off a chain reaction. Several women claimed they were dizzy and nauseous. And they all claimed to have had only one drink. There was a lot of finger-pointing and name-calling.”

“I bet. How did things get to the point that the police became involved?”

“In the midst of all the screaming a man came to the front desk claiming there were people doing drugs in the mens’ room. Melody from the front desk called her boss at home, who insisted she call the police. By the time Greg and Lionel got here with backup, the drug users panicked and were trying to flush the evidence down the toilet. They were caught climbing out the windows.”

“Must have been some scene,” Emilie said. She looked over at the two policemen who were handcuffing several empty-eyed guests. Joya had introduced her to Greg Santana and his partner, Lionel. They were two very visible members of the small Flamingo Beach police force.