by Rachel Woods
“I could start over,” he said. “I was just a little nervous. I’ve never done a premium deluxe fantasy before, and I’ve been anxious about getting it right, and, naturally, I fuck it up.”
“Really, Joshua, it’s okay. I understand about you being nervous,” I said. “To be honest with you, I’m nervous, too. I’ve never had a premium deluxe fantasy come true for me. I’ve never had any of my fantasies come true.”
“This would have been your first fantasy experience?” Joshua asked, a shocked, stricken look on his face.
“Um …” I faltered, not wanting to lie but not ready to talk about the encounter with Icarus. “What I meant was, I’m not used to the things I want to happen happening for me, you know.”
“Why not?”
“Well …”
“I mean, you got money, right? Because you’re at this hotel and it ain’t cheap,” he said. “Most people that have money can make stuff happen.”
“Well, yes, but …”
“But?” Joshua prompted, as though he was genuinely interested.
“But, sometimes, the things you want to happen are things that you can’t pay for,” I said, wondering if maybe he’d remembered his lines and was playing the attentive potential lover. “Things you can’t buy, you know.”
Nodding, Joshua claimed to understand me, but I didn’t believe him. I didn’t fault him for not understanding because I wasn’t entirely sure I’d done a good job of explaining my feelings. Not that my explanations mattered. I wasn’t at the Heliconia for sympathy and understanding. How could I make Joshua understand that I was here to figure out why I was having recurring nightmares about shooting myself?
“So, what didn’t happen for you that you wanted to happen?” Joshua asked.
“What?” I asked, surprised by his question, shocked he hadn’t lost interest in that particular thread of our conversation. “Oh, um … too many things to get into right at this moment.”
“Yeah, I get it,” he said. “You didn’t come to this hotel to talk, right?”
“I don’t mind conversation,” I said, maybe a bit too quickly.
“Okay, well …” He sighed and then smiled a little and said, “Anything in particular you want to talk about?”
“Tell me about yourself,” I said, grabbing my half-empty wine glass, hoping to steer the conversation away from anything about me. “You said you were new, right? Where did you work before you came here?”
“I didn’t quit my job to work here,” he said. “This is like a part-time gig. I’m really a bartender but not at this hotel. At the sister property, the Hibiscus.”
“How did you end up at the Heliconia?” I asked.
“My friend recruited me,” Joshua said. “He’s been working here for a few years. He was always telling me I could make way more money at the Heliconia doing fantasies. Plus, I’d have all the pussy I want.”
Clearing my throat, I said, “Is that right?”
Sheepish, he laughed. “Anyway, my friend was always telling me that the women who come here, they’re horny and lonely. Most of them are married to rich old farts that can’t get it up, no matter how much Viagra they pop. The women haven’t been screwed right in years. They’re eager for some good dick.”
Affronted, I glared at him.
“Sorry.” He gave me an apologetic smile. “But I’m sure that’s not the case with you.”
Taking a sip of wine, l looked away from Joshua’s gaze, which held traces of sympathy and pity he couldn’t hide, and said nothing. The woman he’d described, the typical woman who came to the hotel, sounded nothing like me. I was at the hotel to distract myself from anxiety-fueled nightmares, but I didn’t really belong at this place.
So, why the hell was I booked in a premium deluxe suite at the Heliconia? I wasn’t the type of woman who visited a sex hotel to deal with anxiety caused by acute onset career failure. I was the type of woman who would develop a pragmatic strategy to combat anxiety. Or, I used to be. Obviously, that woman wasn’t me anymore. Maybe I would never be that woman again. Maybe I was a failure, especially in my ability to make sound choices critical to my success and well-being.
Not one to throw pity parties, I sighed and pushed the defeatist thoughts away.
“Listen, I don’t mean to be pushy, but …” He cleared his throat and glanced to the left, toward the French doors that opened to the bedroom, and then back at me. “Do you want to—”
“No,” I blurted out, knowing what he’d been about to ask me. “I mean, I don’t but … not because of you or anything that you did wrong.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m positive,” I told him and tried to give him a reassuring smile. “It’s me, I’m just … still sort of nervous and trying to wrap my mind around all of this, you know?”
“Yeah, I get it,” he said. “This place is kind of intense.”
“Can I ask you,” I started, curious about something. “Earlier, you said your friend who recruited you said you’d have the opportunity to be with a lot of women.”
“But, he only said that because he was trying to convince me to apply for the job,” Joshua said with a quickness that suggested he was worried he’d offended me or said something that would get him terminated.
“I was just going to ask about the men who come here,” I said. “Would you have to—”
“Oh, this hotel is for females only,” he said. “It’s unique that way. Women are not usually catered to, you know. Men have always had the opportunity to live out their fantasies in real life and they are encouraged to, with high-class escorts. But, women are expected to just go buy a romance novel and take care of themselves.”
I nodded, thinking his little speech sounded like something he’d heard from the HR manager.
“This hotel will give you whatever fantasy you want,” he said. “Well, not whatever you want. Nothing that would hurt anybody.”
“Oh, yeah, I get that.”
“Some women want just guys to be in their fantasies,” he said. “Some just want girls. Some want a combination of both.”
“Hmmm …” I said, distracted, thinking that I just wanted Icarus.
“Well, Ms. Miller.” Joshua stood, holding a hand out to me, and I knew the curtain was about to close.
I placed my palm over his and rose. He told me he enjoyed meeting me, said dinner with me was wonderful, and again reiterated how beautiful I was. After he walked me into the bedroom, he gave me a kiss on the cheek and wished me sweet dreams.
Once the door closed behind me, I sank down on the bed, flooded with remorse and relief. Kicking off my heels, I lay back against the pillows and looked up at the ceiling.
I wasn’t sure what to think or feel.
I was starting to wonder if coming to the hotel had been a mistake.
DAY TWO
Chapter Five
The next morning, I woke with a massive case of overwhelming regret and panic.
Staring at the ceiling, I tried to remember how the hell I’d allowed Lisa to convince me to come to this place. Why the hell had I thought it would be a good idea? With a shaky sigh, I tried to take a deep breath and calm down. Maybe I should just leave the island, I thought. Or, if not the island, then I could leave the Heliconia Hotel. Maybe I could check into another seven-star resort, one that had a nice relaxing spa, and spend the remainder of my time on the island having my skin scrubbed, polished, and wrapped in seaweed or volcanic ash or whatever.
Maybe I needed to forget all this fantasy nonsense and get back to reality. I needed to get on a plane, fly home, and deal with my damn anxiety. Jetting off to some island to screw anonymous men wasn’t the answer. Sex wasn’t going to restore my career.
Pushing the linens away, I swung my legs over the side of the bed, staring around the bedroom. Early morning light streamed through the French doors like golden gossamer, beautiful and ethereal, filling me with a strange sense of peace and wonder despite the panic fluttering in my stomach. It really was
a glorious hotel, and I felt special, cocooned in the majestic, luxurious surroundings.
After freshening up in the bathroom, I went back into the bedroom. Sitting on the edge of the king-sized bed, I picked up the phone on the bed table and pressed the number five, which would connect me with my personal assistant.
“Good morning,” chirped Liberada, cheerful. “How did you sleep?”
“Fine,” I said. “Can I get a bath and then breakfast?”
“Of course,” Liberada sang out. “I’ll send Esmerelda immediately. And after breakfast, the concierge will come to see you.”
“Why?” I asked, wary.
“He’s going to help you plan your day,” she explained.
“And by helping me plan my day,” I started, probing. “Does that mean he’s going to plan another fantasy for me?”
“No, he’s really going to help you find something interesting to do today,” Liberada said, laughing a bit. “And he doesn’t plan your fantasies. Actually, fantasies aren’t planned, they are imagined. And your fantasies have already been imagined for you. All you have to do is live them out.”
Ten minutes later, Esmerelda was in the bathroom, getting the bath ready as I stood in the closet trying to find something to wear. After deciding on an outfit, I walked to the claw foot tub, entranced by the spicy scent swirling through the steamy atmosphere. Esmerelda had created a bathing experience for me. In addition to candles and incense, rose petals floated on the water, and the window was slightly open, allowing a bit of the bathroom’s humidity to escape while inviting the song of birds to float in and serenade me as I sank into the water.
Leaning against the neck pillow, I thought about what Liberada had said about the fantasies. All you have to do is live them out. Did I want to live out the fantasies that had been imagined for me? If the fantasies were imagined for me, how could the hotel be sure that I would even want to live them out? The hotel didn’t really know anything about me. How could they know what I fantasized about? Shouldn’t the hotel make it possible for me to live out fantasies that were actually imagined by me?
Was I just overthinking things again?
An hour later, over an opulently presented breakfast of poached eggs, toast, and fresh fruit, I was once more wondering if I should leave the hotel or stick around to see what else they might have in store for me. The concierge, Mr. Queensly, showed up to create an itinerary of events for the day. Sitting across from me, he opened a crocodile planner, uncapped a Mont Blanc pen, and asked, “What would you like to do today?
“What would you suggest?” I asked and then took a sip of my third mimosa.
“You could go on a hike or do some watersports. You could go on a historical tour or do some shopping.”
“The historical tour sounds interesting,” I said, finishing the mimosa. “What’s it about?”
The concierge explained that on the tour, I would visit a series of sugar plantations, colonial mansions of European settlers, strategic outposts used during various wars, a coffee farm, and, finally, a cocoa farm. A private guide would accompany me, providing a running commentary about the history of the island with insight into the culture and economy of St. Mateo.
“You think you might be interested?” Mr. Queensly asked.
“Maybe …” I hedged, wanting more information about the private guide, wondering if this historical tour was the setting for another fantasy. For some reason, I hoped it wasn’t. After the encounter with Icarus, and the epic fail fantasy with Joshua, I wasn’t sure I wanted to make love with anyone else.
I was certain I wouldn’t do anything ridiculous like get addicted to Icarus—or any other guy the hotel hooked me up with—but once I left the hotel, I’d have to go back to my nonexistent sex life, and I didn’t want to be miles away with a craving for something I couldn’t have.
“All right, well …” Mr. Queensly scribbled some notes on a pad in his crocodile planner, closed it, and stood. “I will go and arrange everything, and someone will come for you in an hour or so.”
When the concierge left, I changed into linen shorts and a silk tank and then slipped on a pair of gold gladiator sandals with leather straps that ascended to just below my knees. I touched-up my hair, achieving that raven-haired Tinker Bell look I liked and then dusted on a little blush, mascara, and tinted lip gloss. All of that took about thirty minutes, less time than I realized. I wasn’t in the mood to spend a half hour pacing around the living room couches, so I called Lisa, something I was supposed to have done as soon as I’d checked into the hotel. But after the fantasy detour on the way to the hotel, I hadn’t been able to think straight.
When Lisa answered, she chewed me out for ten minutes for not calling her, venting about how worried she’d been, going on and on, which I let her do. Her bitching was a welcome distraction from the historical tour, which I was becoming more and more worried about. Did I want another living, breathing, live, and in-color sexual fantasy? Physically speaking, I didn’t know if I could take another large shaft rammed inside me. I was still a bit sore, although when I remembered why I was sore, it set off a mild throbbing.
Once Lisa got over my “thoughtless ungratefulness,” she wanted to know everything about the hotel, and she meant everything. I was forbidden to hold anything back. Naturally, as soon as I began giving her details, she interrupted to question me, which I was used to her doing. Our conversation went on this way until her need for information about the hotel was satisfied.
“Okay, now let’s get to the important stuff,” she said, mischief in her tone. “Don’t keep me in suspense.”
“About what?” I asked.
“About the hot-as-hell human sex toys the hotel offers!” Lisa said. “Have you had your first fantasy yet? The hotel said the fantasies start as soon as you get off the plane? Did you have your first fantasy with some scorching hot bellboy? Or was it with the concierge? Or maybe with the chauffeur?”
“The chauffeur?” I squeaked, feeling as though I had to sit down before I fell down. But then I realized I was sitting down. So maybe I needed to put my head between my legs? Or blow into a paper bag? Honestly, I felt like I was going to faint. “Why would I have a fantasy with the chauffeur?”
“I don’t really think you would,” Lisa said. “I’m sure the hotel can come up with a better fantasy than ‘woman gets banged by the hot chauffeur’? That’s kind of unimaginative, don’t you think?”
“Yeah …” I stalled, realizing I wasn’t ready, for some reason, to tell Lisa about the fantasy experience with Icarus.
“So, have you had your first fantasy yet, or not?”
“You really think the hotel was serious when they said the fantasies would start immediately?” I asked, still wrestling with whether or not to admit the truth. “I’m sure that was just hyperbole.”
“I booked the premium deluxe package for you, and when I spoke to the manager, I was told that package includes fantasies that start immediately.”
“Well, it’s okay if they don’t start immediately.”
“No, it’s not okay,” Lisa said, her voice rising an octave. “You should have already had a fantasy experience by now. That’s what you paid for!”
My best friend’s words hit me like a series of punches in the gut. The sex with Icarus had been paid for. By me. He was, to be blunt, just a ... prostitute. I was just one of the many clients he’d serviced. That bungalow deluxe premium experience had just been some seedy, immoral transaction, sex for cash. An experience he’d probably provided before to countless other female guests.
The realization upset me, which was crazy. There was no reason to get upset. After all, it had been a fantasy experience. I couldn’t take any of it personally.
“Who’s your personal assistant?” Lisa demanded. “You need to call her and—”
Three sharp knocks on the door startled me, stealing my attention from Lisa’s outrage. “Hey, Lisa, listen, let me call you back, okay? Somebody is at the door.”
“Oka
y, but call your assistant and let her know you didn’t get—”
“I will, I will,” I said. “I have to go.”
“Just a minute,” I called out, tossing my cell phone on the coffee table and standing. Walking to the door, I took a deep breath and debated cancelling the historical tour. Whoever was at the door—probably one of the housekeepers—could relay the message to the concierge for me.
I opened the door and my heart damn near exploded, beating wild and frantic. Icarus stood just outside the door, tall and broad-shouldered, more handsome than I remembered.
Again, I thought my knees might buckle, but I somehow managed to stay on my feet.
“Ms. Miller,” he said. “How are you this morning?”
“Fine,” I said, disappointed by how whispery my voice sounded. “How are you?”
“I’m well,” he said. “Thank you for asking. Are you ready to go?”
“Go … where?” I asked, confused, reeling from his presence and the memories of what we’d done.
“The historical tour?” He gave me a slightly curious look.
“Oh, right …” Embarrassed, I mumbled something about getting my purse and then hurried away, into the bedroom, where I hyperventilated and then chastened myself for behaving like a silly fangirl and then took more deep breaths and admonished myself to snap out of it because he wasn’t the best-looking guy on earth.
Except, to me, he was …
Okay, so what? The point was I needed to act like a grown damn woman and not a silly virgin. Resisting the urge to scream, I grabbed my bag and headed back into the living room. I wished for the courage to saunter out, hips swaying provocatively, as if I was on the runway.
But my legs were still shaking, and it was all I could do to successfully put one foot in front of the other.
“So, you’re my tour guide?” I asked as we left my suite.
“Your tour guide will be Jessie,” he said, with brisk, detached efficiency. “I’ll be driving.”
“Oh,” I murmured, disappointed.