Hotel Indigo Read online

  Table of Contents

  Hotel Indigo

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Hotel Indigo

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  Chapter One - Marco

  Chapter Two - Lucy

  Chapter Three - Lucy

  Chapter Four - Marco

  Chapter Five - Lucy

  Chapter Six - Lucy

  Chapter Seven - Marco

  Chapter Eight - Lucy

  Chapter Nine - Lucy

  Chapter Ten - Marco

  Chapter Eleven - Lucy

  Chapter Twelve - Lucy

  Chapter Thirteen - Marco

  Chapter Fourteen - Lucy

  Chapter Fifteen - Lucy

  Chapter Sixteen - Lucy

  Chapter Seventeen - Marco

  Chapter Eighteen - Marco

  Chapter Nineteen - Lucy

  Chapter Twenty - Lucy

  Chapter Twenty-One - Lucy

  Chapter Twenty-Two - Marco

  Chapter Twenty-Three - Lucy

  Chapter Twenty-Four - Marco

  Chapter Twenty-Five - Lucy

  Chapter Twenty-Six - Lucy

  Chapter Twenty-Seven - Marco

  Chapter Twenty-Eight - Lucy

  Chapter Twenty-Nine - Lucy

  Chapter Thirty - Marco

  Chapter Thirty-One - Lucy

  Chapter Thirty-Two - Marco

  Chapter Thirty-Three - Lucy

  Chapter Thirty-Four - Marco

  Chapter Thirty-Five - Lucy

  Chapter Thirty-Six - Marco

  Chapter Thirty-Seven - Marco

  Chapter Thirty-Eight - Lucy

  Chapter Thirty-Nine - Lucy

  Chapter Forty - Marco

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  Shit You Should Know

  Hotel Indigo

  Aubrey Parker

  Copyright © 2016 by Aubrey Parker. All rights reserved.

  This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, businesses, events, or locales is purely coincidental.

  Reproduction in whole or part of this publication without express written consent is strictly prohibited.

  The author greatly appreciates you taking the time to read this work. Please consider leaving a review wherever you bought the book, or telling your friends about it, to help spread the word.

  Thank you for supporting Aubrey Parker

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  Aubrey Parker

  CHAPTER ONE

  MARCO

  FUCK THESE WOMEN.

  I’M THINKING this as I paw at Colleen’s tits, rubbing them with a thicker-than-strictly-necessary layer of massage oil. Colleen has great tits. She should, considering how much she must have paid for them. But no matter how great the tits, they don’t need massaging. Tits are blobs of fat that we’ve somehow attached sexual feelings to, for reasons I don’t even want to consider.

  I could apply more pressure and get the pectoral muscles beneath, the way I was taught while doing physiotherapy. But that’s not the point. Deep tissue massages aren’t hot, whereas light, skimming sorts of massages are.

  So I pretend not to notice how hard Colleen’s nipples are. I pretend I’m being a professional, and that it’s completely normal for a pro masseur to touch a female client’s chest area in a way that’s so feather-light as to be useless — although sometimes my bolder clients tell me to “get that area a little better, Marco” pretending they’ve rich-ladied themselves into tweaked muscles. That’s my cue to paw them a bit, and grab a handful.

  There’s a fine line between pretending fat can be massaged by manhandling, and doing something overtly sexual. It’s my job to walk that line. Pinching nipples is too much, but I always make sure to brush them plenty.

  Colleen breathes deeply. Her hands are both under the sheets — and although I might be imagining things, I’m pretty sure she’s trying to decide if she can move one of those hands between her legs without me noticing. Her eyes are closed, her head tipped a bit sideways. I’m positive that if I were to unzip, she’d open her mouth and blow me while I worked.

  She turns over without me asking. Her hands stay at her sides, but I do sort of wonder if she’s planning to grind against the table. I’ve had that happen before, and when I told Booth he said, “I guess that means you’re doing your job.”

  Well, fuck Booth. Fuck him as much as these rich bitches. The whole thing is embarrassing to all of us. I know they request me because they like me, and I’m ordered to play right into it. Thomas did this whole “private cabana massage” setup around the pool so he could give the Indigo a “tropical vibe.” Men are served by pool waitresses in bikinis with orchids in their hair. And of course, as part of the vibe, masseurs work shirtless.

  Among my instructions (unwritten, though they might as well be in stone):

  Make the guests happy.

  Make the female guests VERY happy … wink-wink. (But not too much wink-wink.)

  If you go to the gym, do so before starting work, not after. That way your muscles get a pump and you look bigger while you’re with a client. (Never mind that massage is a workout of its own, and I’m always so much more drained this way.)

  Work shirtless.

  And my favorite: Spritz yourself with a bit of massage oil before starting.

  I used to be a professional. I worked with athletes — professionals themselves, who needed to be at peak performance. That was more medical than relaxing. I’ve made football players cry from pain, while also making them better.

  What I do now is more about rubbing than anything truly therapeutic. Enya plays from speakers in the corner of my cabana, counterpointed by music from the poolside waterfall. Kids aren’t allowed here. It’s very quiet.

  Each day I pretend I’m doing something valuable — and the pay is certainly better — but my illusion of worth crumbles a bit when I strip off my shirt to work, then spritz myself and rub the oil around. Some of my friends say men can’t be whores, that rubbing naked women down is a fantasy job. But I can’t shake the knowledge that these women pay for what I do — exorbitantly — or the odd feeling I get knowing that I’m the resort favorite.

  The guests usually disrobe without asking me to leave. Their eyes linger on my large arms. Sometimes one will “accidentally” brush her hand across my abs as she’s getting situated on the massage table.

  They all leave happy. Some leave barely able to walk — those are the biggest tippers, and the ones who keep paying Hotel Indigo more and more with every fresh visit.

  “I’ve had some pain in my sciatic area, Marco.” Colleen sort of wiggles her ass to show where she means. “Could you see if you can loosen it up?”

  “Of course.”

  My hands move down. Colleen didn’t bother to pull the sheet back up after turning, so her ass is right there for easy access. She has her legs spread just a little — enough that I can see her pussy from behind. It’s flushed pink, and she’s got her hips tipped back so her ass tilts up, ostensibly to provide me access to her “sciatic area.” Arranged as she is, she’s not all that different from a dog I used to have; we didn’t have Tino fixed in time, so she kept going into heat and giving neighborhood males the same basic posture Colleen’s giving me now.

  Because Booth says I need to keep them engaged, I as
k Colleen if what I’m doing feels good. But what I’m really thinking is, Fuck you and all the bitches like you. Fuck you for thinking I’m here to finger-fuck you, which is actually something my boss would agree with. Fuck you for thinking I’m for sale … because of course, I absolutely am.

  “You’re from Italy?” she asks.

  “How did you know that?”

  “Your name, for one.” She says it, as if I might need a reminder: “‘Marco Mangano.’” It comes through her lips like a song. “But your accent, too.”

  “People tell me I don’t have an accent,” I say. And that’s true. When I was a kid, I sounded like a motherfucking chipmunk. Then I hit fifteen and my voice dropped around six octaves. People usually say I strike them as an American outdoorsman. Maybe a lumberjack, with a broad build and a voice to match. But that’s something I’ve worked hard to cultivate. I wasn’t just an immigrant; I was a dirt poor immigrant. It’s not something I like to be reminded of.

  “I can hear it,” she says. “It comes out when you speak quietly.”

  Colleen’s head isn’t in the donut because I never authorized the turn-over, so her cheek is pressed to the table. She opens her eyes and gives me a smile that makes me want to hurt her. A coy smile — an I know your secret because I know you best smile. And I think, She wants me? Fine. She should watch what she wishes for. I’d fuck that smile right off her face.

  “The trouble is a bit lower,” Colleen says, referring to my hands on her oiled ass.

  “Your sciatic area is up here.”

  “But I feel the pain lower. It runs down the inside of my legs.” Then she parts her legs just a bit more, as if to show me.

  “It’s referred pain. You have a tight muscle in one place but feel the pain in another.”

  Instead of answering, Colleen closes her eyes. Her legs move another few millimeters apart. “Tell me about Italy.”

  My hands pause. Then, because I know what Thomas would say, I do as Colleen instructed and move them lower. I’m not doing anything illicit, but I’m definitely getting there. Colleen’s lips part and she gasps. My trailing fingers must have run over a good spot, referring more sensation to somewhere else.

  “Tell me,” she repeats a moment later, a trifle breathy, her eyes still closed, “about Italy.”

  “We left when I was eight. I barely remember it.”

  “Where?”

  I don’t want to answer, because I’m positive she’ll know the place. These rich, spoiled women always know it, just like they all know Ibiza.

  “The Amalfi Coast.”

  “I’ve been there.”

  Of course you have. Of course. My father probably cleaned your father’s suite. Perhaps my father brought your father lunch on a silver tray, and then your father found some trifling thing wrong and called my father an incompetent asshole. Or maybe they met during lean times, when my family was starving. Maybe your father decided his fifty-dollar steak was too rare and threw it out, and my father dug it out of the garbage to take home.

  “It’s a beautiful place,” Colleen says when I don’t respond.

  I keep massaging. I say nothing, defying Thomas’s instructions to engage.

  “Lower, Marco.”

  I move my hands lower. I’m practically under her ass now. Not on the glutes — back on the fat, where there’s nothing to massage.

  Colleen spreads her legs wider. Her hips tilt more. She’s pressing into the table, trying to be subtle while being so thoroughly obvious.

  “The pain runs down the inside of my legs,” she says again.

  Goddammit. I just want this to be over with.

  “Turn over,” I say.

  Colleen opens her eyes. She watches me, then turns. There’s no bothering with the sheet, which hit the floor on the last turn. She’s entirely naked, but either she has no shame or she's moved beyond it. We all pretend the masseurs here are like doctors — which in my case, given my old credentials, isn’t terribly far from the truth. Of course the women can be naked in here. The body is only a thing to us, no matter how aroused it becomes while pretending not to be.

  “I’m going to need to work in your bikini area. Is that okay with you?”

  I ask because I have at least that much dignity left, even though it’s obvious Colleen wants to punctuate her answer with a cannon blast and confetti. Truth is, this area can be worked medically. I’ll make believe we both agree that’s what happening.

  “Yes.”

  “It’s easier if I don’t drape you. But of course if you prefer, for modesty reasons …”

  More cannons. More confetti.

  “No. It’s fine.”

  I start to work. Colleen is completely bare — probably waxed by one of our aestheticians, in fact. Her pussy, not more than four inches from where I start trying to find ailing muscles, is rose red, the lips swollen enough to be slightly open. It’s insulting that she thinks I might not notice.

  But I focus on a small area, massaging lightly at first, then digging deeper. There are hollows up here that most people don’t know are even in there, and I’ve heard people say that working this area feels like being invaded — like the masseur is massaging organs from the inside.

  But Colleen just closes her eyes and breathes heavier. I can feel her heat.

  It’s not Colleen’s fault that I decided a bigger paycheck was more important than the serious work I used to do, and it’s not her fault that my family had a shitty life under the heels of rich people in Amalfi. It’s not Colleen’s fault that she thinks there are thrills to be had in my cabana, since other guests have had thrills of varying degrees and it’s damn near how Thomas bills me to high-rolling bitches. It’s not Colleen’s fault that even my bigger paycheck turned out to be inadequate, and that rent and school loans actually have me shopping at K-Mart.

  It’s not Colleen’s fault. But she’s here now, as the feeling finally becomes too much for me.

  “Right there,” she says, her breathing heavy.

  I know she means Move up a bit, but we’ve finally reached the limits of what she’ll ask. She’s getting plenty of stimulation from where I am.

  Women have come on my massage table before. It’s rare, but it happens. Usually they tip me exorbitantly, then head back to their rooms to finish the job. I’m pretty sure Colleen won’t need to go anywhere after this except maybe to the pool to cool off, but suddenly that’s not okay with me.

  Guests usually pretend they’re being turned on against their will so I can act like I’m not doing anything to make it happen. But this time it’s too overt. Too obvious. Colleen has her pussy in my face. This isn’t what I signed up for.

  I push harder, trying to find the muscles she’s lying about.

  Colleen exhales again.

  My fingers are practically stabbing her. It should be acutely uncomfortable. I find tiny knots in minuscule muscles and press them hard, knowing how painful it is when unattended muscles are suddenly assaulted. As things steamroll, I’m practically inside her — but not in the way she wants, or the way that’s usual. What I’m doing is intrusive, and it should be making her scream in pain. Instead, she starts to writhe.

  I stop. All of a sudden, I just stop.

  But Colleen comes anyway, past some point of no return. She keeps her hands off her parts, and keeps the movements and noises to a minimum in some remaining farce of civility, but it’s obvious what’s happening. I do the only thing I can think of: turn away to fiddle with my appointment book. Massagus interruptus, ended without ceremony or cool down.

  Colleen winds down and comes to her senses behind me.

  She picks up the sheet — either suddenly embarrassed or completely unashamed — and leaves without a word.

  She’ll leave a huge tip. And, ashamed or not, she’ll be back.

  I’ve never been a failure in this precise way before, and it’s a strange thing to consider:

  As much as I tried to hurt her, that fucking cunt got off anyway.

  CHAPTER TW
O

  LUCY

  “LUCILLE,” MY MOTHER SAYS, “ARE you masturbating in there?”

  I pause with the brush, now visible as a long black blur at the bottom of my vision, a fraction of an inch from my eyelashes. My mother’s knock and voice, coming through the heavy bathroom door, have me frozen. If someone were watching from outside, they might think I’ve been turned to stone. It’s like Medusa sneaked up behind me and gave me a blast in the bathroom mirror.

  I’m actually short-circuiting a little, unable to believe my ears. That, and wondering if maybe I should just shove the brush into my eye.

  I consider my many possible responses.

  The one I like best is none at all. I’ll pretend I’m not in here. Maybe I can live in my mother’s bathroom. There are five full bathrooms in this place, and Mom’s been a bit fuzzy since Dad died. With luck, I might be able to convince her the bathroom is vacant but locked from inside. She’ll give up eventually. Then I can have supplies delivered through the window, and make a home here.

  God knows the space is big enough. This bathroom has to be twice the size of my first apartment — and, considering the mints Mom’s cleaning service leaves in bowls beside the sinks, it also contains far more food.

  I want to remind her that my name isn’t Lucille. It’s Lucy. I haven’t been Lucille since the day the ink on my birth certificate dried, and Mom damn well knows it. Dad named me after a great aunt, but I’ve always been Lucy. Only during these past three months living with her have I somehow become this stranger with the name of a ninety-year-old.

  There’s probably a psychological reason Mom’s decided to start calling me by my full name, but I suspect she’s just doing it to fuck with me. Or, more likely, she wants to give me another reason to argue with her.

  She knocks again. “Lucille? Are you—”

  “No, Mom, I’m not.”