Hotel Indigo

by Aubrey Parker

  “Third floor, huh?” she says.

  “Excuse me?”

  The woman points at the panel. Lucy’s floor is private, and requires a key to access. I snatched the master to push that button.

  “Are you some sort of a high roller?”

  “I’m visiting someone.” I return my eyes to the front.

  But the woman keeps flicking her gaze toward me, as if hoping I’ll notice. “You know, I wanted to book the Emperor Suite.”

  “You don’t say.”

  She sighs. “But it was already taken, and this was a last-minute trip. I should have planned ahead.”

  She frowns. Her eyes sparkle. She’s gorgeous and knows it. Her clothes are couture. She has a perfectly toned body and ably displays it without flaunting.

  When I don’t reply, she whispers, “I heard Caspian White’s sister is staying there.”

  “Hmm.”

  “Is that who you’re going to see?”

  I don’t want to tell her. I’m not even sure, for privacy reasons, if I’m allowed to. But she’s turned on all her weapons and keeps touching me a little, batting her lashes, demurring in a way that I have to admit is definitely sexy.

  “It is, isn’t it?” She nudges me. “Are you a … friend of hers?”

  “I guess you could say that.”

  “Score for you then, huh?” She looks me over, then says, “Do you know how much money that family has?” She emphasizes how much money in such a way that her meaning is clear. She’s not insulting me, but I’m still apparently the gold digger in this imagined scenario, and I’ve landed a whale.

  I must look the part, dressed in shorts and a T-shirt, several days unshaven. She must see a piece of rich-girl man-candy … which right there proves she doesn’t know the quiet and vulnerable Lucy that I do.

  The elevator hasn’t moved. I push a button to start it. “It’s not like that. I’m a masseur.”

  She must think it’s bullshit, because I don’t have any gear. She’s practically winking. “I see.”

  “I am. Ask up front. My name is Marco.”

  She looks me over again. Maybe I’m a masseur, but I’m obviously not headed to the private floor for a massage. I’m not in my hotel shirt and shorts, and I’ve got nothing to work with, unless massage takes on a less formal definition — which seems to be what’s in this woman’s head.

  She extends her hand, leans forward just a hair, little enough that it might be an accident. But her top is loose and I can see her breasts more than I should. I’m sure she’s doing it on purpose.

  “Marco,” she says, my name like dessert on her tongue. “I will ask. I could use a massage.” She extends a hand. “I’m Jill.”

  That’s when it hits me — why she looks so familiar. Jill Wyland. She’s a model. A lingerie model, if I remember right.

  The elevator dings. Jill steps out, looking me over from head to toe in a way that’s not remotely apologetic. “Maybe after you’re finished visiting the fabulous Miss White, I can get you to come and visit me.” A tiny smile. “For a massage, I mean.”

  The doors close before I can tell her that I conduct all massages down in my cabana by the pool. But maybe that’s not right — Lucy got hers in the room, because she’s a VIP.

  Jill Wyland.

  Just the kind of guest, I’m sure, that Thomas Booth will insist I do anything to please.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  LUCY

  WE SPEND ALL OF SUNDAY in and out of bed. Between bouts, Marco continues the tour that was cut short yesterday, when we settled into our argument about fears. It still strikes me as unfair that I had to face mine and he didn’t.

  And what a bullshit fear, anyway. Singing in public? It’s like when I heard some celebrity was afraid of dolphins. Singing and dolphins are both easy to avoid, so neither of them count.

  But then again, the results are hard to argue with.

  First of all, his unconventional approach worked. Heights don’t seem as terrifying as they did, because whenever I think of high vistas now, fear mingles with a specific sort of tingle.

  And second of all, I don’t need to know his fears, don’t really need to know anything more about Marco than I already do. When you’re only with someone for a week to get your hedonistic jollies, rules are blissfully simple. I find myself coming to love the simplicity more and more as I consider it.

  Relationships are complex, and everything has at least two meanings. With Aaron, it was hard to let go because we lived together and our ambitions were tangled. Because I eventually had to choose between my career and my relationship, I ended up with neither; Aaron split and I lost my little business. Caspian’s juggernaut swallowed it. Gamble once, lose twice. The risk isn’t worth the reward.

  But with Marco, things are straightforward.

  We have sex. The hottest I’ve ever had.

  In between bouts of sex, we talk and walk around. This is mainly to give Marco time to refill his tanks, and often to tease about upcoming sex we’ll be getting into once the time is right.

  I feel myself blossoming. It’s easier to let go. Each morning I’ve been checking my phone, dodging my mother’s and Caspian’s bullets in the fastest, most cursory way, then turning the Liberty app back on to keep my world quiet for another 23 1/2 hours. Mom’s still alive, and GameStorming survives without me. Even Hunter Altman, who keeps leaving messages with thinly veiled come-ons about his forthcoming visit to Inferno Falls, is learning I won’t be his crutch.

  Marco was right: I don’t always need to be under stress, in demand, and on call.

  The more I relax, the more aroused I allow myself to be. It’s like this new part of my mind is finally free, whereas before it was covered in loyalty’s gunk. I can’t banish the dirty, experimental thoughts from my mind — nor do I want to. I’m enjoying the obscenities, rather than believing that they’re a bad thing.

  Hell, I even want to go back to that tower. Let Marco reframe my perceptions some more. Then we can stare out across the valley, learning more, being more, feeling more than I’ve ever let myself feel before.

  Marco shows me the Indigo’s back places, where only employees are supposed to go. We christen a few, and I leave more than one assprint on a stainless steel surface.

  Marco introduces me to the Indigo’s chefs, whom he knows better than he knows his fellow masseuses. There’s a big woman named Gloria. She’s in her sixties, and as Italian as a person can get while still being American. But nobody calls her Gloria, especially not Marco. He calls her “Mama.” And, just like a stereotype, Mama shouts at me each time she sees me — I’m too skinny and need to mangia, mangia.

  And because there’s only so much sex to have, and only so much of the Hotel to explore, we end up sharing many of our meals. The Indigo has two restaurants, and on Monday nights the better one is closed. So on Monday night, with the doors locked, we have a private dinner, at the restaurant’s most central table, with low lights and no one around. Mama cooks. I expect lasagna or chicken parmesan, but get something that Marco assures me is more authentic Northern Italian.

  I remember prosciutto and nothing else. I know I ate it all, but I don’t remember the tastes because they blended with other sensations. Mama cooked, then left.

  Once Marco and I were alone, we made creative use of the space. And the meal.

  On Wednesday, we wake up in my suite together. It’s the first time he’s spent the night. I open my eyes and see Marco lying there, his black hair, stubble, and Mediterranean skin all in sharp contrast with the snow-white sheets. And I think, for only a moment, of how this is all so different than it ever was with Aaron.

  Which, I immediately tell myself, it should be. I was with Aaron for almost a year. That was a relationship, and this is vacation.

  Marco opens his eyes, and as I look into them, I find it impossible to believe that I was ever afraid of this man. Others are, yes. But as long as he’s beside me, I have nothing to fear.

  “Stop staring at me,�
� he says.

  “I was just thinking.”

  “Don’t hurt yourself.”

  “I was wondering whether you need to work today.”

  Marco stretches. He hasn’t worked since Saturday. I’m not sure why, because he told me he’s overworked, not underworked. And yet here we are, after three days without Marco working — but always checking in with his manager, as if he might be called up at any moment — and there’s been no explanation.

  “I need to talk to Thomas.” His eyes flick away for just a second, unreadable. “But I’m pretty sure I won’t have to work.”

  “Why?”

  Another pause. Then: “Just let me talk to Thomas.”

  There’s still this odd, almost guilty look on his face. But I must be imagining the conflict, because Marco’s clearly not dodging his duty. Every day, like clockwork, he “talks to Thomas.” So all this time off — even if he’s using vacation days — must be aboveboard.

  “We could go the park today,” Marco says, his sly grin returning. “I’ll bet you have a fear of sex in public.”

  “I think we busted that fear behind the sprinkler shed.” I think for a moment. “Then in the middle of the pool.”

  The thought chills me in the most scintillating way. The deck was quiet, but anyone could have seen into the courtyard from their windows. We embraced; I pulled my suit bottoms aside; Marco hiked his up, snaked his cock out of the leg, and slipped it inside me. We moved slowly, but to anyone watching it might have seemed odd, the two of us kissing for so long in the pool.

  “No harm in busting it again,” Marco says.

  But I’ve been mulling this over since Marco introduced me to Mama, and have had time to marinate. What I have in mind would have been absurd, before all of this. Now it almost makes sense.

  “I was actually wondering if you’d like to meet my mother,” I say.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  LUCY

  I REALIZE I’VE MADE A terrible suggestion six seconds after Marco agrees.

  First of all, I love my mother … but she’s an asshole.

  Second, I’ve managed to enjoy an uninterrupted bubble here at the Indigo. I left thinking that guilt and/or Mom’s demands would have me running home to check on her daily, but I’ve somehow managed to escape. She barely even texts me.

  I’m going to pop that bubble and let my ordinary, untidy reality come leaking back in? That’s stupid. I love it here. I love myself here, and who I’m allowing myself to be. Vacations have to end, but I still have two full days. Why would I run home now and invite my mom to break the spell?

  Third, why would I ever take my vacation fling to meet my mother? No good can come of it. She won’t like Marco. He looks way too ethnic for her blue blood. He’s rough and uncouth; he’s working class. Mom will see him as a spoiler of my innocence, even though my innocence has been gone for a while.

  Even that might all be worth fighting through, if there was more permanence to our relationship. But in two days, Marco and I will be over. We’ll have had our fun and we’ll both return, however reluctantly, to our day-to-day grind. All I’m doing, by presenting a man who will vanish, is rubbing my sexual tryst in her face.

  Hi, Mom, meet Marco. No, we’re not dating. He’s been plugging my holes for a few days while I’ve been away. Don’t worry, he’ll be gone soon.

  But all of that — my asshole mother, the intrusion of real life, and Mom’s judgment of something she doesn’t need to know about — pales in comparison to the fourth reason this strikes me as an awful idea.

  Why would I introduce my tryst to Mom? Is it possible that a part of me deep down has been duped into believing that Marco is — or could ever be — something more?

  And why did he agree to go, unless some part of him has this all wrong as well?

  We agreed that this was a one-week thing. A requirement of our hooking up in the first place. Neither of us wants more and neither of us can accept more, particularly from each other.

  Marco works at Hotel Indigo in Inferno Falls, putting in long hours rubbing naked women for a tiny fraction of my salary. I live in San Francisco, on call for my brother every second I’m not on call for Mom. And, for some reason, I keep getting calls from Hunter Altman, who’s a misogynistic mess — but still makes more sense in my life than some über-hot masseur from my hometown.

  But once I make the suggestion and Marco agrees, the issue’s out of my hands. So my mind turns from introductions to damage control — or possibly sabotage.

  I briefly consider some sort of high-stakes dodge. I’ll call Mom and get her to leave the house, then arrive with Marco and announce that she stood us up. But I don’t have the guts to try the gambit, knowing my mother’s ability to smell a lie even out of state.

  I try telling Marco terrible things about Mom that will make him want to bail. But the awful things I say somehow seem affectionate, and he becomes even more eager to meet this “character” in my life.

  I could just lie to Marco. That would be easy. So I tell him it won’t work out, that Mom is busy. But then he walks in while I’m on the phone with her because she’s forgotten how to do laundry. He loudly makes his presence known, then one thing leads to another and I’m making the invite from both ends.

  Horribly, they both agree.

  We don’t stay long. It’s the only way to mitigate the damage — though Marco somehow finds clothing that’s neither too dressy nor too casual, that makes him look more respectable than sexy, fit rather than huge. He lucks into choosing Mom’s favorite colors, which she immediately remarks on favorably.

  Marco catches Mom’s every little jab, deflecting without effort. It’s astonishing. He’s the Mother Whisperer. Watching him talk with her, I could almost believe that the things she’s saying aren’t actually passive-aggressive, and that she’s genuinely enjoying his company.

  We somehow avoid discussing whatever this is between us. It’s never mentioned that we’ve only just met, though neither of us tells any lies. Mom simply accepts it. Marco suits her like a favorite pair of shoes. I could believe they’ve known each other forever, the way they’re laughing by the end.

  Marco teases my mother just right. You’re not intrusive. You’re concerned. Ha-ha-ha.

  And he teases me just right, too. Lucy’s not high-strung. Her neuroses are adorable. Ha-ha-ha.

  And in this conversation, I somehow learn tidbits about Marco’s life that he’s never told me before. Details drop like silent bombs.

  He grew up in Italy, on the Amalfi Coast. Working class, his family waiting on rich people in hotels. Only Marco got out, brought to America by a grandfather. He has one sister, Mimi.

  He studied sports massage. It’s more like doctor’s work than relaxation. He got his degree, worked with a few famous athletes. But then the Indigo grabbed him, with a monetary offer too good to refuse.

  And, most wrenchingly, I learn the story behind his year of celibacy. Marco tells us matter-of-factly that he was almost married, to a girl named Karen. Then she left and he wanted to die, thinking he could never love again.

  I blink away tears, trying not to consider the truth that so far, I fit the bill of ever again. Without the love, of course, because what we have isn’t … well, it certainly isn’t that.

  And Marco, through my mother, learns more about Aaron. About my failed business. About Caspian, when he was younger, and how GameStorming got started. Listening to the family history on my mother’s lips, it’s like she’s forgotten the pain. She tells our story as if from a gilded photo album, not the black bible that Dad’s abuse actually made it.

  When we leave, Mom takes Marco’s hand and pats it with hers. “You’re good for Lucy. I worry about her so much sometimes.”

  I don’t rebuke my mother or roll my eyes.

  I get into the car with Marco and we drive back to the Indigo, with me looking out into the dark night beyond the passenger window, wondering what I’ve done.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

&nb
sp; MARCO

  I SLEEP AT MY OWN place after dropping Lucy off, then arrive fresh and early on Thursday morning. It’s my usual time, but now I have a new routine. I’d usually hit the gym, then my cabana, but my new regime is much better. It still earns me a paycheck, and has been operating smoothly for a few days, now that I’ve established a precedent of not booking up in advance.

  Somehow — and maybe this is a forced adaptation that’s happened while I’ve been on different duty — the front desk no longer has bookings for any given masseuse or masseur. There aren’t scheduled for me or Chloe or Rainfall or any of the guys specifically; there are bookings for massage in general. Kendall seems to divvy clients on the spot as though dealing a deck of cards — whoever’s on duty takes whoever is ready for a massage.

  So as I’ve been doing in my new routine, I drop by Booth’s office before hitting the gym. I leave him a note that we need to talk, then hit my workout as usual. I shower quickly, and with ten minutes to spare before what would have been my first scheduled slot, I return to catch Booth, and make my excuse.

  For the past few days we’ve developed a little back-and-forth. By now Booth must expect it. I pop in and announce that I’ll be spending the day with Lucy White, to keep her happy. Booth agrees and clears my schedule. Win-freaking-win. I’m getting paid for taking time off, seeing as “keeping Lucy White happy” is what I’d rather be doing anyway.

  But today when I stick my head in, Booth stands, like someone ready to greet a long-lost friend. He’s wearing this big, managerial-type smile, and his usually-serious face finally looks more like a human’s and less like a robot’s.

  He sticks out his hand. It takes me a moment to realize this is prelude to a handshake, so I shake it with questions circling my head.

  “Do you know who I just got off the phone with?” he asks.

  “Who?”

  “Elle Casey.”