Hotel Indigo

by Aubrey Parker

  I’ll want her to unzip me. So I’ll order her to do it, and I’ll bet I can make her. Women like Lucy have a shell. But there’s always an animal beneath it, cooped up for too long, waiting for a time away from the norm to emerge.

  I imagine her soft hand, taking me out.

  I imagine her wet lips.

  But she’s still face-down on the table.

  And she says, “Get out.”

  My response is almost like panic. I move the sheet, tugging it northward, bringing it to full length above her. If she turns now, I won’t see anything. Then I’ll lay it atop her, cover her, watch the way it drapes her, find the shape of her breasts and the peaks of her nipples.

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Get out,” she repeats. “Just go. Leave your fucking supplies and table. I’ll call the desk and have them retrieve it later.”

  “I think you misunderstand. I just need you to turn so I can—”

  She reaches up and rips the sheet from my hands, wrapping herself in it. Then her head lifts and rage is all I can see in her big brown eyes.

  “Get the fuck out of my room, or I’ll call the front desk.”

  Feeling punched, I step away.

  I open the door.

  And then I’m out in the hallway, wondering what I’ve done.

  Maybe I’ll be fired.

  Maybe I’ll be arrested, for sexual assault.

  I’ll have to tell Mimi.

  The door rattles as Lucy turns the bolt and runs the chain.

  My fists clench.

  This is all Booth’s fault.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  LUCY

  I PICK UP THE PHONE. Put it back. Dial the front desk. Hang up when Kendall answers.

  Again.

  What the hell is wrong with me?

  I turn on the TV, still wearing only panties and wrapped in the sheet. The massage table stays where it was, with Marco’s caddy of supplies sitting on a fancy end table. For a while I feel traumatized, but have no luck explaining to myself why that is. I watch some stupid show about home remodeling, then another about finding junk at swap meets.

  It’s almost four, so I check for messages on my phone, wondering if nerves over lost connections are contributing to my agitated state. But there are no new texts or calls from Mom, nor from Caspian. Knowing I shouldn’t, I check email, sure that I’ve forgotten something vital that’s causing my unease. I check LiveLyfe, then the GameStorming app, and finally the LinkedIn profile that I have but never, ever use.

  Nobody’s trying to reach me. There are no fires.

  Mom either got the message or gave up for now. But there’s a third possibility, so I ring her neighbor Irene to make sure the house didn’t blow up or something. Irene reports that Evelyn is out on the patio, clearly visible from where Irene is standing.

  “Would you like to talk to her?” Irene asks.

  But no, no, no, I definitely don’t.

  When I finally put the phone down, it’s 4:30, and I realize I have no explanation for my thoughts and behavior other than that I’ve finally lost my mind.

  To the phone, I say, “He was harassing me. He had me all alone in here. He might have been planning to rape me.”

  The phone says nothing.

  I do an inventory. I look at the massage table, which now seems to be staring at me in accusation. I look down at myself, still a topless mummy. I try to remember the last few minutes before Marco left. What did he do that bothered me so much? What did he say that set off all of my alarms?

  The feeling of his fingers on my bra clasp.

  The warm, sliding sensation of his hands on my skin.

  And his words: If you want to relax, you have to step out of your past. To take risks and explore new things.

  At no point did he say he wanted to touch my tits. Though I sort of remember imagining that happening, and it not being such a terrible thing.

  At no point did he reach below the belt — had I been wearing one.

  At no point did his hand do what my hand is doing now, as my fingers flick at the elastic of my panties.

  He was only giving me a massage. Touching me all over with his big, strong hands. He’d just oiled my skin and was covering me with his hot caresses. He was asking me to turn over so he could work on the fronts of my shoulders. On my chest. So he could slip those warm hands all the way down my belly until they slipped inside my panties.

  And then, when he challenged me again, maybe I’d rise to his taunt. Maybe he’d say, Women who aren’t uptight let me massage them without underwear on. So maybe I’d lift my hips and dare him to slide my panties down my bare legs. And he’d work the insides of my thighs. And higher up. And if he did that, it’d be okay, because fuck that guy. He doesn’t know me at all.

  My finger is on my clit. It moves lower, the tip popping into my wetness.

  Jesus Christ. What’s wrong with me?

  I walk to the bathroom, leaving the sheet in a pile on the floor. I strip my panties, now as bare as the women Marco said he usually massages. How does that work, anyway? I think Marco is a presumptuous, brutish asshole, but plenty of women probably find him attractive. I wonder if he gives happy endings. I wonder, if a client spreads her legs when he’s working down there, if he’ll massage it all.

  I get in the shower.

  Somehow the massager ends up detached from the clamp and I’m using it manually, spraying myself by hand.

  Somehow, when a stream of water is focused between my legs for five minutes, I have an orgasm. It’s crippling, almost causing me to fall. I wonder at the rate of orgasm-induced shower falls. It must happen. Horny women with excellent shower heads might even wear those MedicAlert things around their necks, just in case. And when the operator picks up, they hear something like: I’ve come twice thinking of my masseur’s dick in my mouth and I can’t get up!

  Yes, well, that orgasm had nothing to do with Marco. Not the real Marco, anyway. I’ve had a rough week — a difficult six months or more, if we’re being honest. Of course getting off helps. It doesn’t mean I would have been okay with some hired grunt molesting me, or that thinking of what might have happened was mental fodder for making me come.

  I dry myself, but only after the shower is done and my legs are weak do I remember that I’ve left my suitcase in the front room. It’s right beside the massage table, which now appears to be mocking me.

  I get fresh clothes without looking at the table.

  But when I turn back to the bathroom, my eyes fall on it anyway, and I notice the now-dried wet spot, right where I’d been laying while Marco threatened all those unsaid deeds.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  LUCY

  THE HONEYMOON DOESN’T LAST LONG. Five minutes after Kendall runs up to my room to retrieve the massage supplies herself (asking many questions that suggest she knows the massage was cut short), my phone is buzzing.

  Mom texts, Where did you hide all my soup?

  Then, not two minutes later: You never told me where the can opener was.

  Which is absurd, because I’ve literally never known my mother to eat soup. I think she’s allergic to anything in broth form. I’m sure she’s asking me about it now because I discovered a big box of bargain club soup with Mom’s moving stuff — probably something she got years ago for a canned food drive, then forgot about until the movers tossed it onto the truck.

  We’ve talked about that soup, as a joke. Not long after moving, I donated it to a food pantry. And that means she’s asking me now because it’s the only food she’s able to complain about not being able to find.

  Mom texts: When people are guests in other people’s houses, they shouldn’t move around things that might be needed.

  Even her texts sound like they have a stick up their butt.

  I’m staring at her latest when the phone rings in my hand. I’m so surprised, I jump. It’s like something out of a horror show, where the quiet monster suddenly leaps toward the screen.

  It’s Hunter Altman,
the hotshot music producer Caspian works with.

  “Hunter?”

  “Caspian?”

  I want to say something sarcastic, like,Yes, it’s Caspian and I’ve had a sex change. Instead I say, “This is Lucy.”

  “Lucy?”

  I can tell from his voice that he’s drunk. Or high. Or getting a blowjob. Or, knowing Hunter, all three.

  “Yes, Hunter.”

  “Where is Caspian?”

  “You didn’t call Caspian. You called my phone by mistake.” Again, I mentally add. Hunter is the world’s heartthrob right now, and his tour de force band, Blonde Ambition, is taking the music world by storm. Hunter’s even been on more magazine covers than Caspian, because he doesn’t loathe the attention as much.

  He’s hot as hell, but I’ve never done more than to joke about being into him. In reality, Hunter’s a train wreck. I always figured he’d be dead before thirty, but with only a few months before he hits his big birthday, he’s still alive and as fucked up as ever.

  “Maybe I called you on purpose.”

  “I’ve gotta go, Hunter. I’m in the middle of something.”

  “You always liked me, didn’t you?”

  “You’re a charmer. I love you like a brother that I wish would finally check into rehab.”

  He seems to consider. “Are you around tonight?”

  “No. I’m out of town.”

  “I could send a helicopter.”

  “I’m pretty far out of town,” I clarify.

  “A jet, then.”

  There’s silence. I listen to his drunken breathing. Such a waste. Hunter is beautiful and rich. When he isn’t shitfaced, the man is a total sweetheart under the tough armor of a badass. People think he’s a cock, and he is. But I’ve seen his other side — the why behind who he is — and it breaks my heart.

  “Goodbye, Hunter.”

  “Do you know how much richer I’m going to be when we start this thing?”

  I don’t even want to know what he means. We implies Hunter and Caspian. And probably his other billionaire buddies. I’ve been hearing hints about “something big” for a while now, but it only happens when they’re drunk or high or getting a blowjob. Or all three.

  “I need to go, Hunter.” My finger moves toward the End key.

  “Wait!”

  I put the phone back to my ear.

  “You’re pretty smart, Lucy. And I’d totally fuck you.”

  I roll my eyes. “Thanks.”

  “Maybe you could give me some advice. I made a mistake. A really big one.”

  “Okay.” I wonder if, thanks to his inebriation, I can get away with not asking for details on this really big mistake. Based on past drunk calls from Hunter, and a few similar in-person encounters, I know that his regrets seem to center on a past indiscretion and some girl named Angela. Who that is, I don’t know. Probably one of the endless line of skanks he amuses himself with to numb a long-denied pain.

  “What should I do?” he asks, failing to provide any details.

  I’d need backstory to understand his incoherent question. So I say, “Sleep it off.”

  Hunter mumbles something.

  “Is that all, Hunter?” I ask, assuming I should wait to be formally dismissed.

  “I might be coming to Inferno soon, Lucy. Can I see you?”

  “That seems like a bad idea.”

  “I’ve always liked you, you know.”

  I repress a laugh. Hunter likes many young women. The guy practically has a harem. His current girlfriend is a stone-cold bitch named Samantha, but that just means she’s the whore at the peak of his heap. He fucks whoever he wants and she takes it because she’s his alpha, so as long as she’s first in line for the diamonds, things work out. It’s hardly a healthy relationship, but maybe it’s the best he can do, despite his money and fame and rugged good looks. He’d sleep with me in a second, if I were into booty calls, but that’s all I need in my life: one drugged-out lost party boy nearing crisis as his thirtieth birthday approaches.

  “Let me come and see you, Lucy.”

  “No thanks, Hunter.”

  He sighs.

  And I hang up.

  The phone buzzes again. I’m ready to pick it up and tell Hunter to stop bothering me about his One That Got Away, but the screen says it’s my mother this time, asking if I can run home and show her how to work the can opener.

  I’m rolling my eyes when the phone shows me a new notification: an email from Caspian. He lets me know that he just left Hunter, and that I might get drunk calls, because we both know how he is. Then Caspian appends a trademark P.S.: he hopes I’m having fun on my vacation, but lets me know that he hasn’t stopped adding to my to-dos in the meantime. He helpfully tells me (just so I know) that if I were anyone else, I’d be fired by now.

  I love my brother. I love my mother. I even love my brother’s drunk friends.

  But I turn on my app to disable the phone for another block — this time for twelve hours. I do it quickly, before I can reconsider whether it’s smart to go radio silent for such a long time.

  This done, I call down to the front desk and ask Kendall to look up an old friend’s local number. I don’t have her new cell number, but I know she still has a house phone.

  “Her name is Anna Dufresne,” I say, and then I spell the last name. “Oh, and Kendall?”

  Kendall’s voice brightens as she asks how else she can help me.

  “While you’re at it, please find me a good restaurant to meet her at nearby.”

  I look at my phone. I think of Mom, Hunter, and Caspian.

  “A restaurant with really strong drinks,” I add.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  MARCO

  I’M IN MY CABANA AFTER hitting the employee weight room for an afternoon session. I’m sweaty, and trying to decide if I can get away with being clammy for my female clients rather than spritzing myself with oil. It’d save so much time. I wouldn’t need to shower or need to spritz. Win-win.

  I’m interrupted by Roger, the bellhop with the harelip. Roger has it in for me. He seems to think he’s a ladies’ man, but similarly thinks I’m deliberately trying to steal every female guest out from under him. I used to point out the many ways in which he’s living a deluded fantasy, but I’ve given up.

  “Thomas wants to see you,” he says.

  “I have a client in ten minutes.”

  “Chloe is going to cover for you.”

  “Chloe is a woman.”

  “And your first client is a lesbian.”

  I consider this bit of gossip. I didn’t know Paulette was a lesbian, but it might explain why I’ve never had her. Chloe isn’t going to do sexy stuff to Paulette or anyone — it’s possible, in fact, that I’m the only one encouraged to cross certain lines of propriety as part of the job. But what Roger’s implying is true, and Booth would agree: there’s little to be lost by letting a woman uninterested in men be traded away from this facility’s only real man-whore.

  I meet Roger's eyes and tell myself what I told Mimi: despite the joking, I’m not a gigolo. But I know what Roger thinks.

  Two minutes later I’m wearing a shirt and opening Booth’s office door. He’s on the phone but looks up to see me and offers a come-and-sit gesture. The way his eyes linger tells me all I need to know.

  I’m in trouble.

  Booth hangs up, then folds his hands on the desk blotter and looks me over. This appraisal lasts a long ten seconds, then: “What happened earlier?”

  “I don’t know. Check the CNN homepage.”

  “Don’t be a smartass, Marco. You know what I mean.”

  “No, I don’t.”

  I can guess, of course. I’ve had an unshakable gnawing in my gut ever since leaving Lucy White’s room. I’ve had two massage appointments — both in my cabana, as things should be — since then, but I can still feel Lucy on my fingertips. I keep seeing the way she looked at me. Even my workout, which I sacrificed my afternoon break to do, couldn’t shed my troub
lesome thoughts. I did the most brutal routine I could think of, a Russian squat progression that’s left me a bit nauseated and barely able to stand on my beat-to-shit legs. Still, I see the way things ended with Miss White, and can feel her accusations behind my boss’s stare now.

  But I’m not volunteering anything. I don’t know if Lucy called down here to complain about me, or kept it to herself. If Booth plans to hang me, fine. I won’t hang myself.

  “Lucy White.”

  “What about her?”

  “How did her massage go?”

  So he doesn’t know. He’s fishing for answers, knowing only that something’s amiss.

  “It went fine.”

  “Roger says you were back in your cabana twenty minutes after going up to her room.”

  “Maybe Roger should mind his own business.”

  Booth raises his eyebrows.

  “What if I came down to get some hot rocks? Or did Roger follow me around like the sniveling little weasel he is?”

  “Did you?”

  I consider. I can’t get away with this. Others surely saw me, too. “It was a short massage.”

  “I’ll say. Kendall said that Miss White called down around the same time, maybe twenty minutes after you went up.”

  “And? What did she say?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Well. That’s some damning evidence. I see why you called me in here.”

  “Kendall says that Miss White called a few more times after that. That she seemed strange.”

  “Based on what I’ve read about Caspian White, that family is strange.”

  “What have you read?”

  I shrug. I’m not exactly a news junkie. “More money than God.”

  “And does that bother you, Marco?”

  “Why? Does it bother you?”

  “You went up there with a chip on your shoulder.”

  “Because you cut my break.”

  “In part. But I keep hearing buzz about things you say. Things you do. You dislike people with money.”

  “Not at all. I hope to be one myself someday.”

  I shift in the chair, more uncomfortable than I’m letting on. I’ve been waiting to be called in for hours, and now I’m sitting here as my expectations unfold. I can’t shake Lucy from my thoughts. I’ve felt her lurking behind my eyelids ever since leaving her room. The emotion is strange. It’s as if I fear being punished for something I didn’t even do, but there’s more to it. I feel a sense of something missing inside. Am I only worried about my job?