Tales of a Concierge: Sugar Edition

By Rachel

Jan 14, 2016

Being a tall, thin, blonde receptionist in an upscale highrise in Sin City has it’s perks. When the HOA decided to bill a resident for dog poop left unscoped, that disgruntled resident would come to me, mainly to complain but something about a blue-eyed girl with an infectious smile suddenly made them forget why they were in the lobby in the first place.

Majority of the residents in the towers were men. Young men, trust fund men, gay men, foreign men, and my personal favorite–older men. Something about a man who could go on about years of wisdom and success, his stocks, his vacation homes, reminded me of a song with the perfect melody flowing straight to my ears. While the rest of the 90s millennial girls were heart throbbing over Justin Timberlake, I found myself drooling over George Clooney. Perhaps it was the Daddy issues. All I knew was that this job was going to be painstakingly hard to remain a good girl at.

Rules of the HOA clearly dictated a “no fraternization policy.” Staff was not allowed to associate with residents outside of their daily duties. We were not allowed to go up to a condo, hang out around the premises, and of course date. Luckily for me, my intentions were pure, or so I thought. I had taken the job for the same reason we all do, to make money, pay bills or student loans, or meet new people.

It was my first day working in Tower Two. I had spent most my training in Tower One, where the HOA management office was. But in Tower Two, you’re on your own. There is no management hovering over your shoulder. No assistants walking behind you in passing. Asking if you’ve received a fax. Just you, the residents, and the blue light from the security camera above you.

Swing shift tended to be bustling the first few hours as residents returned home from work. The business on a Friday night, however, was non-stop. In the midst of chaos, of Christian Louboutin’s catwalking across the granite floor, and the phone calls now lighting up every line, I noticed an Italian man on his cellphone in the corner.

I don’t care what he says, I told him I’m not selling it.”

There was something in the sternness of his voice paired with light accent that made my heart race. He wasn’t tall, dark, and handsome to most–far from it. He had grey hair, dark caramel skin tone, and a belly. His physical appearance also included, a Breitling watch, and a gambler’s style in apparel. On his right wrist he had a masculine gold linked bracelet. He hung up his phone and looked toward my desk.

He smiled, walked over and was now leaning over toward me. “Well hello beautiful.”

I could hear my subconscious, Hello Daddy.