Hotel Indigo

by Aubrey Parker

  This feels like something more.

  “Listen to me, Marco,” Booth says, and I can feel something coming. He readjusts both his body and his little folded hands, then sharpens his manner. Nobody — and I mean nobody — can condescend like Thomas Booth. I’ve seen him make chambermaids cry. I’ve seen him reduce strong men to yammering, unable to defend themselves against his verbal ninjutsu. “I don’t care even a little tiny bit if you don’t like the guests at this spa. I don’t care if you grew up poor, and if there was a group of rich kids in your school who used to wear fancy blazers and made fun of your short pants when you grew out of them too fast and your mommy and daddy couldn’t afford to buy you new ones. I don’t care if you’re haunted by visions of an orphanage in your past, where you used to take your tray up to the servers for another helping of gruel and they’d laugh in your face and push you around.”

  “I’m not an orphan.”

  Booth’s eyes say that I shouldn’t have interrupted. He continues his rant. “You’re my employee, and these people pay your salary. You only deserve that salary to the degree that you do your job in service of these people. And what is your job, Marco?”

  “To give massages.”

  “Wrong,” Booth snaps. “And I’m getting tired of telling you. Your job is to make these people happy. That’s it. If massages make them happy, great. But it’s the happy that matters, not the massage. So if someone wants a hot towel wrapped around her face during a massage, it’s your job to give her one. And if some shriveled-up old cooze feels happiest when you touch the places her husband ran away from decades ago, then that’s what you do. I don’t really care about your preferences, Marco, and I sure as fuck don’t care about your pride. If it amuses some VIP for you to run and get them drinks every five minutes until they pass out while yelling at you to move faster, then that’s exactly what you do. Are we clear?”

  I fantasize about standing up, plucking Thomas from his chair, and hurling him through the window into the Zen garden. But then I think of Mimi, counting on me. And I say, “Yes.”

  “Say it, Marco. Say that we’re clear.”

  “We’re clear.”

  “I don’t know what you did to Lucy White.”

  “I didn’t do anything!”

  “And maybe that right there is the problem. No anything at all. I’m thinking you just went up there, still pissed off at me, and went through the motions. You set up your table, said, ‘Get over here and lay down,’ then started beating her up like one of your old athlete clients. I think” — He makes a little pincer gesture by pressing his right thumb and forefinger together — “that you treated this hotel’s best and highest-profile guest like just another in the assembly line. No finesse. No niceties. And I think — let me know if I’m way off base here — that because of it, no matter what else is true, that Miss White did not enjoy her massage.” He enunciates the last three words carefully, as if they’re very important but hard to fathom.

  “I didn’t—”

  Thomas holds up a hand to stop me. “Do you feel,” he says, waving away all other concerns that might possibly enter the equation, “that Lucy White enjoyed her massage this afternoon.”

  “She stopped it before I could—”

  A bit more impatiently, hand still raised: “This isn’t a difficult concept, Marco. Did she enjoy her massage? Do you think that after you left, if there were someone else in the room, she’d have turned to that person and said, Wow, I just had a really enjoyable massage! I can’t wait for the next one. Do you?”

  I want to keep fighting, because what he’s asking isn’t fair. If there was no massage, she couldn’t have enjoyed it. But I know Booth, and he won’t let me win this. The sooner I say what he wants to hear, the sooner it’ll all be over.

  “No.”

  His face is faux-surprised. “And why not?”

  I meet his eyes, not replying. But finally he rolls them as if exasperated by my stupidity, then turns in his chair and stands.

  “Our job, in hospitality, is to know what a client wants better than she knows it herself. And perhaps more subtly, our job is to give her what she wants even if she’d deny wanting it. You’ve been here long enough, Marco. I wouldn’t think I’d need to spell these things out for you.” Booth glances toward his closed office door. Then, in a quieter voice, he says, “Maybe you’re not aware of this. But these women? They want to fuck you.”

  “Good for them.”

  “Now of course, there’s ‘what they want but won’t admit’ and there’s ‘what’s reasonable.’ I’m not saying to give them all of what they want. Just make it safe for them to accept the core of their desires. Don’t make them ask, because they won’t. Just give. Be generous, Marco. You can be generous, can’t you?”

  When I don’t respond, Booth goes on, now pacing.

  “They want a big, sexy man. So be a big, sexy man. They want you to compliment their bodies, compliment their bodies. If they respond to something you’re doing, do it better. There are lines you shouldn’t cross, I suppose, but even if you crossed them, I’d never know.” He doesn’t wink, but he might as well. “You need to deliver on the experience they sincerely, deep down, hope to have with a guy like you, even if they’d never admit it. In brief, it’s the same thing I always say. You need to make them happy. In whatever way you can. Do I need to spell any of this out for you?”

  I grit my teeth.

  “When you went up to Miss White’s room, did you tell her how pretty she looked?”

  I didn’t. I was sort of dumbstruck — probably because I was still angry with Booth. Normally I tell all the women how nice they look, but not with Lucy. It seemed so obvious. I didn’t need to tell her she was beautiful — how hot she strikes me even now, as my mind keeps putting her front and center — because it was something the world certainly already knew.

  “When she was getting ready, did you take off your shirt and oil up?”

  “I was in her room, not by the pool. It felt inappropriate.”

  “You determine what’s appropriate. You set the mood. You lead, and she follows.”

  “I don’t think she was into me.”

  “They’re all into you,” he scoffs. “I don’t mean to be gay, but look at you.”

  I grunt.

  “Kendall gave her a restaurant recommendation a while ago. I watched her walk out. You didn’t see her, but she saw you. And I saw her see you. You should have seen the look on her face.”

  I can only imagine. Hate. Vitriol. Offense.

  “I don’t know what you did to her up there, Marco, but I think it’s safe to say that you fucked up.” He bends over me, sinking his hands into the arms of my chair. “Now listen to me. Lucy White — sister of Caspian Fucking White, founder of GameStorming and on the cover of three magazines I have at home right now — has booked a week with us. But rather than sporting that delightfully dazed look most guests have after a few hours here, she seems to be teetering on the edge, and she hasn’t even spent her first night. That’s your fault.”

  “You don’t know that it’s—”

  “That’s your fault,” Booth repeats, palms still on my chair. I can smell his breath. I can smell his aftershave. “But here’s the good news: I know you can be charming. I’ve seen it. You’re one of our biggest draws. You should be listed on the brochure: facials, seaweed wraps, mani-pedis, and Marco Mangano. Women line up for months to have you touch them and make them feel special. I wouldn’t have agreed not to split your tips if I didn’t believe you were magic.” His eyes grow serious. “But nobody is indispensable around here if it turns out they can’t do the job they’re paid to do — if they drop the ball when things matter most. Nobody. Do you hear me?”

  “Thomas, I didn’t do anything. I just don’t think she likes me.”

  “Everyone likes you. If you try.”

  “I’ll avoid her. Others can make her happy.”

  “You made the mess. Now you’ll clean it up.”

  “Bu
t Thomas—”

  “Lucy White is 23, single, straight, and looks from her LiveLyfe profile to be a fun girl. As far as targets for your formidable charms go, she’s an easy bullseye. You won’t even have to try. Find a way to make nice. Run into her and talk to her. Make her … happy.”

  I don’t like the way he stresses the last word.

  “I’m not sure what to do.”

  Booth straightens, takes a few steps, then looks back at me from the window. “Then I’ll make things simple. If Miss White checks out of this hotel without specifically mentioning you as a highlight of her stay, you’re fired.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  LUCY

  “SO LET ME GET THIS straight,” Anna says, an expression of faux-concern on her innocent, pale features. “You had a hot guy up in your room. He took off your bra. He was going to spend the next hour rubbing you into bliss. And so you snapped at him and ended it.”

  I’ve had four drinks. I didn’t realize it until I’d finished the fourth and it was too late. So I ordered a fifth. It’s still sitting in front of me, taunting.

  “It wasn’t like that,” I say.

  “Then how was it?”

  I pause, then realize I have nothing to counter with.

  She sees it on my face and takes my silence as permission to continue. “What did he look like?”

  “Big. Very big, like arms this big around.” I realize my two hands can’t make a circle large enough. “Dark hair and eyes. Scary.”

  “Yum,” Anna says.

  “Scary is yum?”

  “Hell yeah, it is. Honey, you’ve got a problem. I’m worried about you.” She’s suddenly all serious. “You’re on vacation right now. This is as free as you get. And even on vacation, at a luxurious spa with palm trees and pool studs and whatever else, you can’t relax.”

  “I don’t see how this is me not relaxing. I’m drunk.”

  “Drunk is different. I’m talking about letting yourself feel.”

  “Okay. I feel drunk.”

  “When’s the last time you had sex?”

  I almost choke on my drink.

  “Sex is a biological need, hon.” Anna teaches yoga, only buys organic food, and is a vegan. She makes bedroom antics sound like a cleansing ritual.

  I grew up thinking that sex was fun but dirty.

  But she’s right. I haven’t been laid for … ugh, maybe years. And it’s not like I have all that many behind me.

  “This wasn’t about sex.”

  “You don’t know that,” Anna says.

  “He’s a professional.”

  “But he likes you.”

  This is too much. I give Anna a drunken I declare gesture by raising my finger into the air. “You don’t even know who he is!”

  “I know how you described him.”

  “Like an asshole?”

  “I meant when you sent him away. How did he react?”

  I think about it. There was a definite change. He looked almost offended rather than crude, but even “offended” feels wrong. “Rebuked” might be better. But that doesn’t mean Anna is right.

  “You weren’t even there.”

  She sighs, and I know she’s about to say something annoying.

  “Lucy?”

  “Yes?”

  “I know you think I’m crazy.”

  “I do.”

  “But I can see it in your aura.”

  I laugh.

  “You’re due for a change,” Anna continues, undaunted. “It’s in your energy. What you said about your mom and your job and your dad’s illness and death? It’s polluted your aura for sure. Your core is still there. But it’s hurt, honey. It pains me to see it.”

  “Okay. Thanks, Anna.”

  “I know you don’t believe this stuff.”

  I don’t reply. Of course I don’t believe it, but I do love Anna … and despite the fact that she’s always spouting this or that metaphysical bullshit, I can’t deny that she’s always given the best advice. She’s always had insight. I just don’t buy that it’s coming from auras and energy.

  Then again, I’m drunk. So who am I to say?

  “But when you talk about this guy—”

  “The one who almost raped me?”

  “Is that really how you feel about what happened, or are you just afraid?”

  I don’t reply to that, either.

  “When you talk about him,” Anna repeats, now that she’s defused my rebuttal, “I see you light up. There’s something between you.”

  I laugh again.

  “Don’t laugh.”

  “I’m sorry. You’re just being so ridiculous. I don’t know this guy. I don’t like him. And—”

  “Why don’t you like him?”

  I push on. So I don’t know why I don’t like him. Why does that matter? “We’ve met once. At an appointment. For a massage. That lasted ten minutes.”

  “Because you stopped it,” Anna says. “Because you were afraid.”

  “Okay. Yes. He scares me a little. And it was in my room, not someplace public.”

  “Maybe that’s why it scared you. Nobody to save you from what you need, but won’t allow yourself to have.”

  “So he was going to fuck me. Right there on the table.” My voice and face are deadpan.

  “You didn’t even give it a chance to see.”

  “Or was he going to fall in love with me? You can see the future. Is that what was going to happen?”

  “Lucy …”

  “Anna,” I reply with a mocking sneer — the best comeback I’ve given anyone since sixth grade, when I pointed out that I was rubber and Joey Belfleur was glue.

  “All I’m saying is that you shut things down before they have a chance. Not just this time, but every time. It’s become your pattern, ever since Aaron.”

  “Ah. I was wondering how long it would take for Aaron to come up.”

  “You loved him, Lucy.”

  “Yes. Yes, I did. And he broke my heart.”

  “So you’re doomed forever? You’re just never going to give anyone else a chance?”

  “Aaron didn’t just hurt me, Anna. I invested so much of my hope in him, and doing so distracted me from Culture Shawk — from what should have, finally, been a fledgling business of my own. If things hadn’t gone south with Aaron, I wouldn’t have gone into a depression. And if I hadn’t gone into the depression, I wouldn’t have dropped the ball on Shawk.” I sigh. “If it wasn’t for Aaron, I’d be doing my own thing right now rather than being my brother’s lackey.”

  I sigh heavily, not wanting to sound ungrateful.

  “Look. I’m proud of GameStorming. And I know I’m responsible for a lot of its success. But that’s Caspian’s thing. When I’m gone, nobody will look at GameStorming and say, ‘Look what Lucy White built.’ I want my own legacy. I want my own identity. I want to make my mark on the world, and being second banana to Caspian isn’t the way to do it.”

  “A relationship makes you stronger, not weaker.”

  “For you, maybe. But what happened with Aaron cost me my best chance at a legacy so far. The idea of starting something new … of devoting my already-short time and energy to a relationship …” I make a vague gesture intended to indicate the futility of it all, then finally pick up my fifth drink and take an ill-advised sip. “And besides!” I slam the drink back down. “Why are we talking about relationships, anyway? Did I say anything about relationships? I was just telling you about this hot asshole who tried to grope me.”

  This time I smile. Anna’s talk about real relationships has made anything less serious seem mild by comparison. Like taking a cold shower before jumping into a slightly warmer pool.

  “You think I should have let him grope me, don’t you?”

  “You’re on vacation. If you can’t let yourself go then, when can you?”

  “I don’t think anything was going to happen, Anna. It was just a massage.”

  “Maybe, maybe not.”

  “I can’t just bo
ok another one. I can’t even look him in the eye. And besides, I’m telling you — the guy is trouble.”

  “Then just be open.” Anna puts a hand on mine. “Please. I’m worried about you.”

  “So … what?”

  Anna smiles. “Just tell me what he looked like again.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  LUCY

  ANNA LEAVES ME AFTER A bear hug at Hotel Indigo’s lobby door, demanding we never wait so long between meet-ups again. I’m still tipsy, but no longer flat-out drunk. I’m happy. Eager to tell Anna what she wants to hear, and believe it.

  It’s late. The lobby isn’t deserted, but it is quiet. There’s someone else behind the front desk now, and the door to Kendall’s office is closed. The new clerk is a girl who looks to be about eighteen. That was just five years ago for me, but it feels like forever. I left college early, but still — that was just around the last corner.

  I remember feeling as carefree as the girl behind the desk might feel. When her shift ends, she’ll probably hit the clubs. It was that way for me, those first years away from home. I was out from under my parents’ thumb for the first time, but not yet encumbered by a stressful career at my brother’s right hand.

  Right now, those days feel long ago.

  I look toward the elevators, but don’t like the idea of going up to my room, so I sink into a soft booth in a partitioned-off alcove where no one can bother me. My room feels like a crime scene, after all Anna had to say. It’s the location of my latest failure — my most recent self-sabotage, wherein a ball was offered and I refused to take it.

  Because lately I’ve felt so much like a responsible grownup.

  Because I have to take care of my mother and deal with my father’s estate.

  Because my brother won’t help. Because long ago, he divorced himself from their abuse.