Hotel Indigo

by Aubrey Parker

  Lucy.

  I forgot to let her know I couldn’t meet her first thing. I sent her a bunch of texts last night, knowing she probably wouldn’t get them until this morning thanks to that blocker app on her phone, but those texts promised 7 a.m. According to my supply table clock, it’s 7:34 now.

  I had one thought, after Booth shanghaied me, then rushed me off to this impromptu 7:30 massage: that I needed to text Lucy with my regrets. But my arms were full. By the time I unloaded, bombarded by Kendall and her many neuroses about various guests and demands from Booth, it slipped my mind.

  Jesus. It’s been more than half an hour. She’s going to think I stood her up — because that’s exactly what I inadvertently did.

  I pick up a towel and mop off my hands, then reach into my pocket as Sleeping Beauty rolls toward me.

  “Hey,” she says, her tone good-natured but chiding, “no cell phones while with a client.”

  “I’m sorry. I just remembered something important.”

  “I feel your tip dwindling …” She stretches the last word out into a sing-song.

  “It’ll just be a second.”

  But as I try to stab out a rapid-fire message to Lucy, I realize that my do-not-disturb is still on. I’ve developed this automatic habit of turning it on right after grabbing my gym bag from the back of my truck. I don’t even think of it, and it seems I have to turn off DnD before I can send. A dumb feature, and one I’ve never had reason to notice before.

  I feel a tug. I reach down to see that Jill has hooked two fingers into my waistband and is pulling me toward her. She probably means to playfully drag me away from my obligations and back into the sphere of her attention (or rather, my attention upon her), but because I’m shirtless as ordered and the shorts have an elastic waist, they stretch before pulling me. A triangular window opens at my waist where she’s tugging, providing me a view of my own junk. But what’s worse, the shift exacerbates the position of my hard cock, which I’d managed to tuck up high to eliminate the tent. It’ll be tricky to get that thing back under control.

  “Put the phone down, Mr. Masseuse.”

  Her fingers are still in my waistband. She’s expertly shifted up on one elbow in just such a way that her boobs are pushed up, glistening with oil. Her torso is rotated but her ass is still flat, so her legs are at their slightly-opened angles. Her eyes flick toward her own crotch. I instinctively follow, then realize I’ve been rooked: caught looking at her pussy, she’d say if anyone asked.

  I want to smack her hand, say in no uncertain terms that this is not a sexual encounter and never will be. But two things stop me. The first is Booth’s demand that I make Miss Wyland happy and his concordant mention of a raise; the second is the simple fact that I’ve been wink-wink-less-than-professional in the past.

  I don’t ever do anything to get women off, but I let them look when they want to. And I pretend not to notice when they want to touch themselves or squeeze their thighs together under the sheet. More than one orgasm has happened in this place, no matter how innocent I’ve been — and those orgasms, in one way or another, have helped pay my salary. And my sister’s rent in Italy.

  Jill watches me with catlike eyes. She licks her lips, then bites the lower one. Out of the corner of my eye, I see her legs shift; she’s brought her feet up a little, knees bent, open like a gate. I won’t look over. Because her new position has practically given me a target — a ready hole, no longer the suggestion of a slit.

  She still has my waistband. We’re both perfectly still, as if waiting to see what will happen.

  Jill’s eyes look down, then up again. She raises her eyebrows slightly in an I-dare-you-to-stop-me expression, then pulls my waistband again to expand the gap I closed by moving toward her.

  My phone is still a brick in my hand.

  Jill rolls forward a little, then looks straight down my shorts. My cock is still hard, traitor that it is. “Look what we have here,” she purrs.

  Then Lucy enters my cabana, the wide smile retreating from her face.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  LUCY

  ONE PERK OF BEING IN the high-rolling Emperor Suite is the ability to lock out the elevator. Doing so feels far less dramatic than putting the chain on my door, so I do it. Marco isn’t stupid; he’ll know that I did it on purpose. But I can still lie when he asks, still pretend I wasn’t hurt by what I saw, even though it killed me.

  This is very important. Because we’re temporary fuck buddies, and nothing more. Fuck buddies don’t get angry or upset when their opposite gets some wick-dipping on the side, because such relationships aren’t about feelings. They’re about sensations and pleasure. They’re about now, with no thought for the future.

  My phone rings. I forgot to turn Liberty back on after Marco’s morning texts, because I was all excited about an itinerary that now makes me feel like an idiot.

  The call is from Marco. I decline it.

  I’m being ridiculous. Fair or not — regardless of our fuck-buddy agreement — what happened today makes perfect sense. My more logical thoughts from earlier are all true. Marco does see beautiful women all day long, and they do throw themselves his way. Compared to them, I am plain.

  I’m not wild in bed. I’m not a free spirit without baggage. I’m not down for wild times other than right now, while on vacation. I live in San Francisco. We’re from vastly different backgrounds and social circles. What was he ever going to be, other than a cock to please me until it found a better place to play?

  The woman in Marco’s cabana — the one who was naked on his table without so much as a sheet over her, about to reach into his pants and grab for candy — was flawless. Stunningly beautiful. She had a body I could only dream of, with nary a bit of fat or single imperfection. Marco himself is flawless. So why would he not be with her?

  The phone rings again. Marco. Again I send it to voicemail.

  I call Anna. She doesn’t answer. But after I leave her a message, I can’t sit still, and the phone seems to vibrate in my trembling hand. A thousand emotions are fighting inside me — evidence that my hypothetical what if scenarios involving a future life with Marco weren’t as hypothetical as I pretended. I told myself they were academic exercises. But who was I fooling? I’ve let myself believe this could be something else, more than what it was supposed to be.

  I need to talk to Anna. I flat-out need her. So I try again, but of course I get voicemail.

  Who else?

  Caspian? No, we’ve never had that kind of relationship.

  Mom? Oh God no. For a thousand reasons.

  The phone rings in my hand again, but before I can hang up I see that this call isn’t from Marco.

  It’s Hunter.

  I must be desperate, because I answer the call. And when Hunter replies to my Hello, he sounds blessedly clean, not drunk or high at all. This is his PR voice, the one he uses in interviews.

  The public loves Hunter Altman. He’s rich, famous, funny, charismatic, and handsome as hell.

  “I’m in town, staying at the Hilton for a while since you’ve got the Indigo’s best suite,” he says, giving me the laugh that’s charmed the world. Then there’s a pause, into which I find myself tumbling like Alice through the looking glass. And when he speaks again, the laugh is gone, and Hunter Altman is uncharacteristically sober and serious.

  And he asks, “Can I see you, Lucy?”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  MARCO

  JILL WILL COMPLAIN. BUT FUCK her. I’m sure every straight guy here wants to take a ride on that woman, but to me she’s obnoxious. I stop to consider the irony as I walk away from the elevator: There was a day not long ago that I’d have given my left nut to fuck a woman like Jill Wyland. Goes to show that the minute we realize we can have something, pursuit becomes a lot less interesting.

  I left Jill in my cabana — to rub herself silly, if she wanted — and ran across the deck with a confused boner quickly deflating, losing ground to Lucy’s head start as some fat l
ady pushed an inflatable lounger out of the pool in front of me. By the time I hit the lobby, Lucy was on her way up to her room, and by the time I got another car, the elevator had decided it didn’t want to let anyone else ascend.

  She’d locked me out.

  Goddammit, I didn’t do anything!

  But that right there gives me pause, because it makes me wonder at everything that just happened. It shouldn’t matter if I “do anything,” given that Lucy and I are only a fling. But in the crazy event that I’d turn down a naked lingerie model for Lucy (which makes no sense), I shouldn’t care if I get credit for resisting.

  The way this should work is, I fuck who I want, and Lucy fucks who she wants. We don’t make dates. We don’t have unspoken agreements. Her reaction to finding me is as ludicrous as the knee-jerk way I sprinted after her to explain it was nothing. We’re both fools.

  Yet here I am, shirtless and oily outside the elevator with two declined calls, my stomach dropping like a plane without engines.

  I call Lucy again. This time it rings several times before I get voicemail, as if she’s finally thrown her phone out the window instead of declining the second I call. Her recorded voice stirs a strange emotion. She’s vaguely happy in that recording, not knowing at the time how much something in the future might hurt her.

  “Lucy,” I say after the beep, “We need to talk. Call me back, okay?”

  But I don’t hang up. I’m talking to a computer, but I still imagine Lucy’s face, her hands on her hips, aching and waiting for more.

  “She’s a really important guest. That’s what Booth said, anyway. Whatever, fuck her. But Booth called me in. Told me I had to take this massage. I forgot to text you back. I’m sorry.” I feel myself rambling, but I can’t stop. If I pause for too long, Lucy’s voicemail will hear silence and decide the call is over, and I’ll be left with the incoherent mess I’ve already spewed. “I was going to just do the massage and come up to your room right after. I was going to text to let you know. I had my phone in my hand when you …” I feel dumb. This is unraveling like an ancient sweater. “Look. What you saw? Nothing happened. Nothing was going to happen. She’s … aggressive. And I guess she likes me. But that was all her doing. Her idea. She wouldn’t even wear the fucking top sheet, Lucy. Kept coming on to me. Saying stuff. Trying to touch me.”

  I’m failing miserably. In trying to defend myself, I sound like I’m bragging.

  I’m sorry; this hot woman couldn’t keep her hands off me because I’m so hunky. Poor me; please forgive me for my abject awesomeness.

  I’ve never felt such performance anxiety. I feel like I’m on the spot and this is my one and only chance to get it right. This is worse than my fear of public singing. I’m sweating, and not just from my sprint across the hotel.

  “Look, I was about to bolt out of there. I just remembered I didn’t text you back and was trying to do it when she … shit, she grabbed me, Lucy. I wasn’t going to let her get away with it.” The scene rushes through my mind while an invisible timer ticks, and I suddenly see the scene the way Lucy must have. Not only was Jill peeking into my shorts — not only was I hard — but she was nude, knees open, pussy probably dripping.

  If it were me getting this message, and our positions were reversed, I wouldn’t believe it. Oh, I’m sorry, Marco … I tripped and accidentally impaled myself on his cock! But there’s nothing I can do about it now.

  “Please just call me, Lucy. I need to see you. Booth told me that you extended your stay. I’ve been thinking all morning. And I wanted to ask you about—”

  I’m interrupted by a beep — Lucy’s voicemail reaching its limit and cutting me off.

  I think about calling back, but there isn’t any point.

  I need to see her. Look her in the eye and make her believe me.

  I pace the lobby for five minutes, keeping the elevators in sight just in case she decides to come down. She doesn’t. The elevator dings a few times, and each time I look over. But twice it’s other people and once the car arrives empty to taunt me. I prowl, see a few people eye me then move away. I must look like a predator hunting for prey.

  I need to see her.

  I spy the front desk. Kendall is arriving behind it, having come from out front.

  I march over.

  “Kendall.” My authoritative voice slips a notch as I realize I can’t threaten her into this. She’s good people. If I appeal to her kindly, I’ll have a better chance. So, more softly, I say, “I need you to do me a favor. I need you to unlock the elevator so it’ll go up to the Emperor Suite.”

  “Okay.” Then, as a purely secondary consideration — more curiosity than suspicion — Kendall says, “Why?”

  “I need to see Lucy.” I swallow. “Lucy White.”

  Kendall’s face becomes unreadable. Her smile fades and turns into something else. Her eyes sort of dodge away, her face cloudy.

  “What?” I ask.

  “Lucy White rode away in a limo.” She nods toward the front doors. “Just now … with a guy I’d swear I’ve seen somewhere before.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  LUCY

  “IT’S GOOD TO SEE YOU,” Hunter says.

  I try on a smile. Hunter is at his best today, as if he’s putting on a show to please me. The limousine is as nice as Caspian’s, and I’ve heard his private copter is even better. His suit probably cost nearly five figures. There’s no alcohol on his breath, or twitch in his eyes. He’s all charm, his smile wide. It’d be easy, seeing him now, to believe this handsome man from the cover of Rolling Stone isn’t the sad, screwed-up mess I know Hunter Altman to be.

  “You look nice,” he says.

  “Thanks.”

  There’s another long silence. If Hunter can’t see that there’s something very wrong inside my head right now, he’s blind. This isn’t a date, even if part of him hopes it might become one. I love Hunter as a person despite his many faults, but I’d never, ever go out with him. Too many issues. He’s hung up on some girl from his past whose backstory I’ve never fully heard, and screwing his way through San Francisco’s most gorgeous women in an attempt to forget her. It hurts to see.

  People think Hunter is an insufferable asshole when not mugging for the cameras, and it’s true. But there are actually three Hunters, and I best know the one at the core of the other two, like the smallest in a set of Russian nesting dolls. The only thing worse than seeing him protect his tender core with sex and drugs is seeing him now, feeling sorry for me.

  I don’t want Hunter’s pity. I’m not even sure why I’m here. Accepting his invitation seemed like a good idea while crying in my suite, because his call caught me at my weakest moment. He offered an ear, and in those seconds I wanted it. So I unlocked the elevator and took it downstairs to meet him, realizing just in time that Marco would probably be in the lobby waiting. I pressed another button and got off on the second floor instead, then took the fire stairs and left through the side entrance. But I didn’t want the spectacle Hunter brought to the Indigo’s front door. Kendall Sharpe practically held it for me before Hunter’s driver could, and I can only imagine what she’ll tell Marco about the splendor and wealth she saw.

  Fuck Marco. Fuck what she tells him. You’re not going to do anything with Hunter, but let him assume that you will. Marco got his jollies with that woman in the cabana, didn’t he? So he can choke on them for all I care.

  But as the thought rolls by and Hunter stays blessedly silent, I wonder at my ire. Why am I thinking such hateful thoughts? But I understand fine, no matter how much I try to pretend.

  I’ve fallen for Marco. That wasn’t our deal, but I did it all the same.

  “Lucy,” Hunter says, “are you okay?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Something’s wrong. I could tell on the phone.”

  “It’s nothing, Hunter.” And because I truly don’t want him to drag it out of me, I force a smile, taking pains to spoof something that feels genuine before turning from the vie
w to face him. It’s impossible, but I do my best. Something in me very much wants to wallow. To discuss this. To talk about all the ways that I’m right and Marco was wrong.

  I give Hunter the best look I can manage. Then, wondering more than ever why I allowed him to pick me up (if he’s not a substitute for Anna’s consolation, what is he?), I say, “Let’s not talk about me. Let’s talk about you. You said you wanted to see me.”

  He shifts uncomfortably in his seat. “I was in town anyway.”

  “Okay,” I say.

  “I’ve got a meeting Saturday in Austin with Nathan Turner — the founder of Learn.It? Do you know him?”

  I shake my head.

  “Nathan’s been bothering me for weeks about getting together. Has something important he wants to discuss. He talked to Caspian about it already, but I guess I’m about to get my own briefing. Daniel Rice, too. Anyway, Nathan’s in Las Orillas, so Inferno was an easy side trip.”

  I don’t comment. I’ve been riding on the wings of rich people since GameStorming blew up, but I’m only well-off myself. For me, a trip like Las Orillas to Inferno Falls isn’t a jaunt barely worth mention. For li’l old Lucy White, something like that still requires buying a plane ticket. I won’t let Caspian send me hither and yon in his jet like he wants to.

  “It’s a nice place,” Hunter says. “Inferno Falls.”

  “Hunter …” And I give him a look that says, Inferno Falls is hip these days, but nobody skips down here from Las Orillas to smell the flowers in Old Town’s square. You came for a reason. So whatever’s on your mind, stop stalling and spit it out.

  “You know I’ve always respected your opinion.” It’s only half a statement, so I wait through a long pause while he gathers himself enough to say the rest. “I guess I just …” Another sigh. “Wanted to talk.”