Hotel Indigo

by Aubrey Parker

  “Okay.”

  “That’s Hunter Altman’s personal assistant,” Booth says when I’m unimpressed.

  “The producer?”

  “The billionaire producer. And one of Caspian White’s friends.”

  “Oh, I say. Great.” And I understand the greeting. Booth thinks I had something to do with Lucy talking the Indigo up to her network of bigwigs. But it wasn’t at my urging if she did. I’ve barely seen her on the phone in the last few days, and I’ve been around enough to know.

  “Goddamn right it’s great. He’s coming into town and wants to stay here. They’re trying to figure out when, but he wants to come now.”

  “Now?” It seems sudden; whenever I book a trip, I’m getting plane tickets months in advance. But I suppose billionaires do things differently than the rest of us, so flitting off without notice is probably typical. I’m sure he has a private jet or a helicopter, probably both.

  “Well, he wants the Emperor Suite. But there’s a problem.” Booth is still smiling.

  “Sure,” I say, playing along.

  “Miss White called down this morning to extend her stay another three days. At the normal rate.”

  A curious sensation swells in my chest. I feel suddenly lighter, more interested in joining Booth in celebrating … well, whatever he wants to celebrate.

  “That’s great.” I point over my shoulder in the lobby’s general direction. “Well, I should be going.”

  “No need. I told Kendall not to book any massages for you today.”

  Well, sure. That was kind of the point and what I’d been assuming.

  “Thanks,” I say. “I’ll just head up.”

  “Head up where?”

  “To Lucy’s …” I stop, then reverse course. I’m supposed to be a professional. “To Miss White’s room.”

  “Why?” He looks genuinely perplexed.

  I don’t want to spell this out, and it’s annoying that he seems determined to make me do so. Officially, as far as Booth is concerned, I’m acting as Lucy’s personal concierge. I’m paying attention to her, taking her places, selling the benefits of a well-spent vacation that she should tell all of her rich friends about. Unofficially, he probably assumes I’m keeping her “happy” in more overt ways.

  In any case, I have places to go and things to do. Prodding me for details complicates something that’s already working, by both definitions.

  “Maybe I’ll take her to breakfast,” I say. Although to be honest, I had different activities in mind. I’m full of testosterone from my workout, and it needs an outlet. I figure Lucy will agree.

  He sort of nods, as if realizing the problem. “You didn’t talk to Kendall.”

  “About what?”

  “We have another guest that needs some VIP attention. You were with Miss White, so I’ve been trying to divert, and throw a lot of free services her way. But it isn’t working. She’s fixed on you specifically, and seems increasingly annoyed every time she calls for a massage and is told you’re not available.”

  “Who?”

  “She said you met. Jill Wyland?”

  The woman from the elevator. The one who might soon be battling Hunter Altman for the Emperor Suite, if either of them manages to successfully get Lucy out of it. That suite is almost never booked at full price, and now we have three contenders. Magic’s in the air.

  “Tall woman. Brown hair. Brown eyes.” Booth’s eyes dart toward the door and I know he’s about to add something borderline inappropriate. “Unnaturally gorgeous.”

  “I remember.”

  “She’s been calling for days, asking for Marco. Kendall can’t put her off anymore. I get the feeling she’s not used to begging, so now she’s getting mad and impatient.” Booth gives an ain’t-we-rascals sort of shrug, meant to convey the situation’s overflowing ease and fortune. “She keeps hinting that she’d like to stay longer if there’s a reason. Upgrading her to the Emperor Suite the second White checks out should be shooting fish in a barrel, for a man of your charms.”

  “But Miss White,” I say.

  “She’s already extended her stay. Mission accomplished, Marco.”

  “We still need to keep her happy.”

  “Not full time, we don’t. If she extends her stay further, so what? It’ll only eat into Wyland’s time in the suite.”

  “But if she’s telling her friends about the Indigo …” I’m stretching. Lucy’s brother knows Hunter Altman, but that doesn’t mean Lucy’s responsible for his booking. It’s probably coincidence. I pull at the thread anyway, feeling something slip from my grasp no matter how tightly I’m trying to hold it.

  “Split your time. Check in on them both. But if you have to pick one or the other, focus on Jill. She needs soothing after the past few days of putting her off. Turn on the magic, okay? Whatever you did to hook Lucy White, do the same with Jill.”

  I don’t like that word, hook. I want to protest, tell Booth that I didn’t hook her. I didn’t bamboozle or railroad or con her. But doing so will only make things harder, and get me in trouble for all the work I’ve missed under what he’ll realize were false pretenses.

  I’m reeling. I came in here as a courtesy, my feet already moving on to Lucy’s room, and the next thing on my list. I’ve mapped out the day in my head. I thought Lucy only had one full day left, so I figured we should make the most of it. Now that she’s extended her stay, I’m torn.

  I’m delighted that we’ll have more time, given that we both agreed our little whatever would end the minute she checks out. We said this affair would last a week; now it’s ten days, and that should feel fantastic. But Booth’s declaration changes everything.

  Turns out I won’t have as much time with Lucy today as I’d hoped, if any. And forget about capitalizing on the rest of her stay. I’m on Jill duty now.

  “You’re a miracle worker, Marco. Maybe I should move you to sales.” Booth slaps me on the shoulder and adds, “Maybe it’s time for a big raise.” He’s grinning at me like a co-conspirator, and I realize how much I prefer being against rather than with him. I’m sick, having Thomas Booth on my side.

  We’re about to part ways when Kendall knocks, then sticks her head into the office. She looks at me apologetically, as if she didn’t realize the office had a visitor.

  “Sorry to interrupt, Mr. Booth, but Jill Wyland is on the phone again. She wants a massage, but this time she’s flat-out insisting on Marco.” Kendall’s eyes flick toward me, then back to Booth. “If he’s on staff, she says, she doesn’t understand why she can’t request him. She’s sort of threatening to—”

  “I’ll talk to her. Thanks, Kendall.”

  She backs out and closes the door, looking relieved. Booth picks up the receiver. He’s about to stab one of the flashing buttons when he pauses and looks up at me.

  “Looks like I lied to you. Turns out you’ve got a massage scheduled this morning after all.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  LUCY

  MARCO TEXTS, BREAKFAST AT SEVEN?

  I’m in bed when I read it. I shouldn’t keep my phone in the sanctity of my bedroom, especially on vacation. But with the thing neutered so much by the Liberty app, it’s ceased to be a source of stress. Marco’s been texting and calling over these past few days, and that’s turned the phone into a source of small pleasures. Now I’ve come to anticipate these windows of connectivity, between the app’s blockout period expiring and a new one starting.

  The bed is a cloud. I wiggle my back and sink deeper, cradled by luxury as I look at the screen. The app lets my stalled traffic through bit by bit, so a moment later I see a second text from Marco: You know what I just realized? I never actually gave you a massage.

  Then a third: We should do that after breakfast.

  A fourth: Just a warning. It might be the kind of massage that’s technically illegal. And there’s a little devious-looking emoji beside it.

  I nuzzle deeper. And to think, I hesitated to book this trip. I didn’t realize how
stressed-out I was. I’d grown used to living in a state of high-tension. I might have snapped if I hadn’t come to the Indigo, if I’d gone another eon without getting laid. And there’s more — something that bothered me deeply last night but that now, snuggled in the protective confines of my heavenly bed, I’ve allowed myself to consider from a distance.

  What if this doesn’t have to end?

  I feel guilty just thinking it. Because it’s not the way things are supposed to be, and I’m so guarded even now, even as I think the unthinkable thought. Because we agreed, both saying that this would last a week, then end forever.

  But that was when I thought that Marco was just some macho asshole.

  That was when I thought he was only a fantastic lay, and that I was using him as much as he was using me.

  But after last night, I see this new side. Beneath his hard, gruff exterior, he’s this wounded soul that I want to hold close. After he left, I couldn’t stop thinking of how his face had looked at our parting — the small, mutual hesitation before we’d embraced at the door for our longest kiss yet. There was fear in that hesitation, as if we were both thinking the unthinkable.

  I shouldn’t even be considering this …

  But I have to wonder: could it work? Not because it should or will, and not in the sense that I plan to bring it up. But … as an academic exercise. From a purely logical, dispassionate standpoint, could we make it work?

  I’ve extended my stay another three days. I’ll tell Mom today, but doubt she’ll flinch. Not considering what her busybody nose is surely already thinking. Not after last night.

  And in those three days, I’ll feel Marco out. I still don’t want a relationship — no time for that. There’s still nothing here that makes sense; I’m an executive and Marco is working class; he lives in Inferno and my permanent home is in San Francisco. Ours is a fling, based on animal attraction and lust. We should (and will, I insist) stick to our original agreement.

  When this ends, it ends.

  But … what if?

  I look at the nightstand clock. It’s five minutes until seven.

  Breakfast first. An erotic massage after.

  And after that? It’s all the rich and exciting unknown.

  I allow myself another long minute in the luxury linens.

  Then I get up and hop into the shower, hoping Marco is right on time and catches me naked and wet.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  LUCY

  I LOOK AT THE CLOCK, already knowing what I’ll see. It’s 7:18, not even a full minute later than the last time I looked.

  I’m sitting cross-legged on my big bed, the farce of delay getting harder and harder to fake. I gave Marco the second copy of my room key a few days ago. He’s been coming and going as he pleases ever since. When my shower was over at five past seven, I lingered in the living room, noisy enough that it’d be plausible for me not to hear someone enter. I kept hoping that he’d catch me half-dressed. That he’d surprise me, and we’d celebrate before breakfast as well as after my massage.

  But I could only spend so long getting dressed, and making myself up. Normally I wouldn’t bother; I’m a mostly au natural girl and always have been. I only did it to eat minutes, and give Marco time to surprise me.

  But as I wasted those minutes, looking into the mirror while brushing on shadow and lipstick, the act of applying cosmetics turned a sinister screw inside me. With only quiet anticipation around me, my mind wanted to wander. Makeup turned my features exotic, and made me wonder if my usual au natural face was too plain. And that sent me down a meandering spiral.

  I thought of Marco and the hotel, then of how things must have been for him before I checked in — and, of course, how they’ll be after I’m gone and he’s left to forget me. To Marco, I’m one of a thousand single-serving guests. He’s beautiful, sexy, and strong. The women all want him. How could my plain face and body ever stack up?

  The women I’ve seen this week? Many were past their prime and trying too hard, but some were beautiful, and others flat-out stunning.

  I think of Marco, and the choices he must have.

  Then I looked in the mirror, and came to see that I wasn’t just applying makeup to kill time, but to be what he must want me to be. The women I’ve passed in the hallways all week suddenly strike me as being what they’ve actually been all along: competition.

  Why was I thinking this way and ruining the fun?

  I forced a laugh at my absurdity, then put the makeup away and crossed the room with inflated buoyancy, telling myself that all was well. We have four more days — at least that long to enjoy one another before facing my worries.

  It’s the thought of ending this all that’s doing it to me. My face is the kind that gets lost in a crowd. That’s usually an asset, because I’m not fond of attention. Now it feels like a curse. Because, in the timeline of Marco’s life, how could he ever remember a face like mine?

  So I sit on the bed, cross-legged, and compulsively check the clock.

  7:20.

  He could have skipped his workout and planned to meet me after driving in. If that’s the case, he could be stuck in traffic.

  Or there was an accident.

  Or — if I want to be truly paranoid — he might have been in an accident.

  Or …

  I almost laugh, seeing how stupid I’m being.

  Marco said breakfast at seven, but I didn’t even reply. I assumed he’d come here, when in fact he might have meant the restaurant.

  I text him back and I get his at-work do-not-disturb autoresponse, which he only turns on after starting his shift at the Indigo.

  I call the front desk and ask for Carlos, because Kendall will interpret any question as loaded. Carlos barely knows me. He’ll give me the facts and nothing more.

  “Do you know where I can find Marco Mangano?” I ask.

  “I saw him a few minutes ago, leaving the restaurant with a room service tray,” Carlos says. “May I ask what this pertains to?”

  “I have a massage scheduled,” I say, improvising.

  Papers shuffle. “Are you his 7:30?”

  A smile finally returns to my lips.

  Breakfast.

  A massage.

  “Yes,” I say.

  “He should be in his cabana by the pool, Miss,” Carlos says, “waiting for you.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  MARCO

  JILL WON’T LET ME USE the top sheet.

  Just two minutes in, she’s discarded the thing, and I have to kick it into the corner to avoid tripping on it. I’ve tried several times to make arguments for keeping it on, ranging from modesty to warmth to some sort of masseur’s code of conduct that doesn’t technically exist. Jill bats them all away with a manner that’s both conclusive and a bit condescending. She tells me she’s a lingerie model, and hardly concerned with modesty. She tells me it’s hot in my cabana, even though at just past 7:30am it’s actually sort of chilly. And as to the code of conduct? I’m sure she’s actively trying to break it from her end.

  I turn for another squirt of oil and practically knock the silver room service tray to the ground. There’s no room in my cabana for extra shit, but Jill made me run down for mimosas and strawberries before starting. Somehow she effortlessly made it sound like a proper demand, because a VIP guest should be able to have a mimosa and strawberries with her massage. But that doesn’t explain why there are two mimosas instead of one, nor why she kept holding out strawberries when I returned with the tray, asking me to bite them from between her fingertips.

  Jill’s an unabashed tigress. She didn’t wait for me to invite her to slip beneath the sheets, or prepare herself while I was running to the kitchen like I asked. Instead, she waited for me to return, then casually stripped. She’d even come in street clothes, so there’d be more to slowly remove. Once down to her bra and panties, she gave me a little wink and said in an I’m-joking-but-not-really sort of voice, “Lucky you — do you know all the guys out there who’d pa
y to see me out of the stuff I model? And here I am, paying you.”

  A girlish giggle.

  Then a practiced, understatedly seductive reach behind her back, and the bra came off. She bent from the waist, giving me a rear view, as she slid her panties to the floor.

  From that point on, no matter how much I argued, there hasn’t been a stitch of fabric between me and the model now sprawled in my cabana.

  When I turn back to Jill, she strikes me as some sort of horny Sleeping Beauty. She’s flat on her back, arms at her sides, eyes closed, nude body tan and flawless. Her legs are slightly spread. No pubic hair whatsoever. Most of her is slick with massage oil, though I’ve assiduously avoided the hot zones. Still, her nipples are erect and it’s hard to miss the blush between her legs. And yet, as transparent as she’s being, it’s sort of working. My thoughts are on Lucy, but my dick still hardens at the sight of a gorgeous woman naked.

  Goddamn stupid cock, just does whatever the hell it wants without even checking in to see what I want. Who I want.

  I think about baseball scores. The Queen of England.

  It works, a little.

  Then I look down at the naked lingerie model on the table, and my cock sits up and takes notice again.

  Damn it.

  “I’ve really been needing this massage,” Jill says, opening her eyes. They’re soft brown and shaped like almonds. Her lips are a wide, blushed bow. It’s hard to believe her hair wasn’t just professionally styled.

  “We have many excellent masseuses and masseurs,” I say, moving up by her shoulders, rolling my fists into the hollow near her neck. This makes her close her eyes and moan with pleasure.

  When the moan passes, Jill says, “I tried them. But none were strong enough.”

  “Most clients don’t want ‘strong’ at the Indigo. That’s more of a deep-tissue thing.” Then to sharpen the point I add, “Painful rather than relaxing.”

  “And they don’t have your big hands.”

  I don’t think a response is required, so I let it go. Jill’s hand shifts, seemingly intent on “accidentally” brushing me. I dodge, and doing so makes me bump the table’s edge. I feel something in my pocket, and an oh-shit moment descends.