Hotel Indigo Read online

  He’s not telling me the whole truth, or preparing not to. I can see it in his shuffling, distracted manner. It reminds me of how he’s been on the phone while drunk or high, when he dials me and does the medicated version of what he’s not quite doing right now. This is the edge of that thing from his past again, I can feel it. Something he’s been wrestling with the entire time I’ve known him.

  “About what, Hunter?”

  “Do you have any regrets?”

  “Of course I do. Everyone does.”

  “Do you ever consider turning around to fix the things you’re most sorry about?”

  A lot of my regrets involve my father, who’s dead now. So the truest answer is no. But because this isn’t the counsel Hunter is wanting, I nod — more to indicate understanding than a Yes. “Is this about Angela?”

  Hunter’s head snaps toward me. Obviously the answer is yes, but he seems shocked that I’ve guessed it.

  The limo pulls to a stop before he can answer. We’ve arrived, right at the Hilton’s front door. But what’s outside isn’t quite right — not like the way normal people arrive at normal hotels. There’s a party waiting to greet us, like I imagine house staff lining up to welcome a returning lord to his mansion.

  “Who is she, Hunter?”

  “A girl.”

  “Obviously. But you’ve never had problems with women that I’ve seen.” This is both an understatement and an outright lie. Hunter always has girls hanging all over him, and the tabloids say they’re always running into bathrooms and closets to perform various sloppy deeds. But despite the number of willing females hanging off Hunter’s crotch, to say he’s “never had problems” is so false as to be laughable. He treats them all like garbage, and the ones with spines treat him horribly back. More than once, Hunter’s nearly been arrested for a domestic disturbance someone mistook for a fight, when it was only angry and extremely acrobatic sex.

  “This was different,” he says.

  The driver’s outside my door, but turned to shoo someone trying to approach the limo. I barely see it. I’m too focused on Hunter’s haunting use of the past tense: “This was different.” Why don’t I know Hunter’s past? Caspian’s only told me that he was dirt poor, and even more of an asshole and fighter. But that isn’t the behavior I see in Hunter now. It’s something else.

  And it makes me think — it makes me know, somehow — that if I tell him what happened with Marco, he’d listen without judgment and would even try to help. Because as impossible as it is to believe, Hunter Altman has a soft side. It’s been covered in scabs and armor, but this unfolding story about the mysterious One Who Got Away tells me so much.

  I want to know more. “Tell me.”

  Hunter looks at the people around us. They’ve grown in number while the limo’s been sitting under the hotel’s entrance. “I’ll tell you if we can get up to my room unscathed. And, of course, if you’ll tell me.”

  “I don’t have anything to tell,” I say.

  My phone rings. When I take it out, Hunter sees that the call is from someone named Marco, he sees how quickly I decline the call, and he must see how my face looks afterward.

  “Liar,” Hunter says as the press arrives, and cameras flash outside.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  MARCO

  I’VE BEEN TRYING LUCY FOR almost an hour when I look up and see Kendall eyeing me as if she thinks I’m about to accuse her of something. It’s like her earlier expression, when she told me about the man in the limo — Lucy’s brother, I assumed before being corrected.

  “What?”

  The word leaves my mouth flat, more statement than question. The lobby is quiet at midday, and I’m sitting in one of the puffy chairs like a paying guest. I’ve been sitting here, half-dreading and half-hoping for Booth’s inevitable arrival, since Lucy ran off.

  On one hand, when Booth returns from whatever errand he’s on and discovers what I did with Jill Wyland, he’s going to lose his shit, and seeing me slouching around in the lobby won’t make things any better. But on the other hand, if he comes over here while I’m trying to reach Lucy, he’ll at least give me someone to hit.

  But Kendall — currently the only person in the lobby other than some old guy sipping coffee and swiping his iPad — says nothing.

  Her eyes are wide as saucers, though.

  “What, Kendall?”

  “Nothing.”

  “You keep looking at me. Why are you looking at me?”

  “Women look at you all the time.”

  She’s a terrible liar. As I fix her with a stare of my own, she gets more flustered. Her eyes flick to her computer screen.

  “What is it, Kendall? What’s happening?”

  “Just checking the day’s guest register.”

  I stand and walk toward her. She clicks the mouse and taps at her keyboard.

  I lean on the counter’s polished wood. “Show me.”

  “Why do you care about the guest register?”

  “Why do you?” I’ve never worked Kendall’s position, but “checking the guest register” sounds phony to me. She checks people in and out. She manages the staff. She negotiates group bookings and liaises with the concierge. I sort of doubt one of her essential duties is to look at a list of who’s in the hotel … just because.

  “What are you looking at on there?” I ask, reaching for her screen.

  “Nothing.”

  “Let me see.”

  “No. It’s … confidential.”

  This time I give my eye roll all the energy I can muster and audibly sigh, then snatch Kendall’s mouse and click away from the admin window to the web browser she’s hidden behind it. Plain as day I see Lucy.

  With some handsome guy in a suit.

  Entering a hotel together.

  “Who is that?” I ask, wondering why this photo exists, why the paparazzi would ever care to publish it on a website.

  “Marco …”

  “Who is it, Kendall? You said you recognized him.”

  “Hunter Altman.”

  This takes a second. Then I have it. “The music producer?”

  “Yes.”

  “The one on all the talk shows.” Another tumbler clicks. “The one who’s friends with Caspian White.”

  Kendall nods.

  “The one who’s famous for his womanizing.”

  “He’s famous for other things,” Kendall says. “Blonde Ambition is one of his acts. Have you heard their new album?”

  “She’s mentioned him,” I say, pieces falling into place. “I think he’s called her. This week.”

  “Oh. That’s nice.”

  I look at the screen, showing one of the media’s favorite philanderers traipsing into a hotel with the woman who … well, the woman I’ve been philandering with.

  The thought raises a red surge inside me. The desire for Booth to confront me grows even stronger. I want someone to fight with, and maybe strangle.

  My fingers are white as I grip the mouse. My face is burning.

  Why am I reacting like this? What have I even seen? Just one photo. And come to think of it, what would Lucy owe me, if this is truly what I fear?

  I feel something. I look up to see that Kendall has slid her small hand over my big one. Her fingernails are painted white.

  “I’m sorry, Marco.”

  I shake it off. “Why?”

  Kendall kind of shrugs. “You know.”

  The rage is suddenly gone. Entirely. I can only meet Kendall’s pitying eyes, not wanting her sympathy nor feeling I need it, and wait for the seconds to pass.

  I’m not angry.

  I’m something else.

  I slip my hand away and turn before Kendall can say anything else. In my peripheral vision, I see her hand rise a little, then fall as I walk away.

  I pace slowly back to where I was. But this time, I don’t sit. It’s like I’ve forgotten how. I pull out my phone, and before I know what I’m doing, I’ve tapped Lucy’s entry yet again.

&nb
sp; She won’t pick up.

  I’m embarrassing myself.

  Ruining myself.

  I may already have got myself fired, and now I’m digging for … for what? Emasculation?

  I wait for Lucy to decline my call as she’s been doing since the cabana.

  But she picks up instead.

  She doesn’t say hello. I miss the days of house phones, where she wouldn’t have known it was me calling until after I opened my mouth. Where she’d have to say Hello either way, just to start the ball rolling with her unknown caller.

  But she knows it’s me. She’s opened the line, but said nothing.

  Then we both talk. Words overlap and I can’t make sense of either speaker, even though I’m one of them.

  “You go,” she says.

  “No, you.”

  A sigh. Then, “I’m sorry I made a scene by the pool.”

  This isn’t right. She’s not supposed to apologize about that. I am.

  “I probably got you in trouble. You were with a client. That wasn’t fair of me.”

  I hate this. “It wasn’t what you thought.”

  “I don’t need to ‘think’ anything. It’s not my business.”

  “Lucy, I—”

  “I don’t think this turned out the way either of us meant it to. That’s my fault. And I’m sorry.”

  “Stop apologizing to me.” I want to add: Get angry. Shout at me. Tell me I’m worthless. Tell me you hate my guts. Anything but this acceptance, blame-taking, and apology.

  “I’ll always remember this week, Marco.” I swear there are tears in her voice. “I want to remember it forever. It meant something to me. I want you to know that.”

  “It’s not over.”

  Quietly. “It is. It has to be. You know it does.”

  I wish she’d scream at me. This kindness — this understanding — is worse than any blade.

  “Thank you, Marco, for killing my fear.”

  Words are impossible.

  “And I hope I helped you with yours.”

  “I still can’t sing in public.” I don’t know why I say it.

  “That’s not the fear I meant,” Lucy says.

  “I want to see you.”

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea. For either of us.”

  “Tomorrow. Breakfast tomorrow, to make up for today.”

  “Marco.”

  I close my eyes.

  And she completes her sentence: “I’m leaving in the morning.”

  “But you extended your stay.”

  I can almost hear her shaking her head. She doesn’t say that she cancelled those extra days, but I’m suddenly sure that’s what got Kendall searching the Internet for signs of Lucy White and a famous abductor.

  “I’ll miss you, Marco. But it’s time to for me to get back to the real world.”

  “Don’t say that. Don’t do this.”

  “Every fantasy,” she tells me, with a hitch in her voice, “must eventually end.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  LUCY

  THAT NIGHT I HAVE A dream.

  It’s not about my mother, who I’ve been dreading facing tomorrow. It’s not about Caspian, whose piled-high workload surely awaits me. And it’s not about Hunter, whose story struck me as so much sadder than my own. He said I could stay at the Hilton, but my stuff was back here. And what’s more, Hunter seemed to realize he’d been too vulnerable as day pressed into evening, and to compensate he drank until he could barely walk.

  Then he got mean and condescending — fully Asshole Altman now, eager to punish me for the secrets he’d told me himself. He’ll call in the morning, full of apologies. But I’m not in a relationship with Hunter, so it won’t matter. I’m not in a relationship with anyone. I don’t want a relationship. Not now. Maybe not ever.

  I dream of Marco.

  I dream that in my semi-sleep, with the window open to invite in a surprisingly cool breeze, and the curtain gently stirring, I hear the door to my suite swing open.

  I dream that I hear footsteps crossing the main room.

  I dream that I hear the slight creak of the bedroom door.

  I dream the ghost of movement behind me, then feel the stirring of sheets. The top sheet lifts. The bed shifts and sighs with newly added weight. Then I dream a hand, sliding along my arm and encircling me. Strong, but not hard or rough — a healing hand, made for pleasure.

  Marco spoons me, and the fog of semi-sleep departs. I realize I’m not dreaming at all.

  Of course. He has my key.

  And of course, I unlocked the elevator when I went down to meet Hunter.

  He’s warm behind me, curled along my backside. I feel like he’s joined me, as if we’re not two people but one. Together we’re invincible. I’m the middle. He’s the armor. Nothing can harm me while I’m in Marco’s embrace.

  I’m only in panties. But his hand is polite, staying around my middle rather than cupping my breasts.

  “Marco …”

  I trail off. I don’t know what else to say. So I stop speaking, because if I continue, sense will intervene and I’ll ask him to leave.

  I’m still looking forward, through wind-parted curtains, to the moon.

  A gentle finger pushes a stray lock of hair behind my ear. “I don’t want you to go.” He’s closer to me than I thought.

  “I have to.”

  “No, you don’t.” Another brush of his fingers. “I won’t let you.”

  I turn. See his face in the moonlight. His stubble is jet black, like a shadow that the blue illumination can’t quite banish.

  “I didn’t touch her, Lucy. I need you to believe me.”

  He doesn’t have to say who he means.

  I look forward again. “It doesn’t matter. You can touch her. You’re a masseur.”

  “I only want to touch you.”

  I almost laugh. But a tear spills from my eye as I try. “You’re being ridiculous.”

  “Maybe I’m being brave.”

  I turn and shake my head. “It’s fine. We had what we had. It’s over.”

  “I don’t want it to be.”

  I don’t know what to say to that, so I say nothing.

  “I want to be with you,” he tells me. “For as long as I can.”

  “It’s getting complicated. When I saw you with that woman … I got … mad.”

  “And when I saw photos of you with Hunter Altman, I was furious.”

  “He’s just a friend.”

  Marco nods. “Like you said, it’s getting complicated.”

  “So we should end it now. Before it gets worse.”

  “I don’t care if it gets worse.” He brushes the hair from my neck. Then he kisses me, just below the ear.

  “It’s not what I thought it was,” I tell him. “We agreed that this was only sex.”

  He moves closer to me. I feel his erection. “Then let it be. Until it’s over.”

  “We’ll just make it worse, Marco.”

  His hand moves down to my breast. I didn’t realize how aroused I was, but his hand is heaven. It slides down my body and slips into my panties. I’m soaking. And that feels so much better.

  “At least stay the extra days.”

  “Stop.” I say it as I wriggle into him, encouraging his fingers to enter. My breath is suddenly heavy. I feel his cock pressing against my ass. I know he’s shirtless, so maybe he’s only in shorts. More than anything, I want the fabrics between us out of the way. I want him inside me, even if it’s the final time.

  “Say it again and I’ll stop,” Marco says, rolling his fingers across my slippery clit.

  I moan.

  Marco reaches back with his top hand and shifts behind me. I feel his dick as it lays hot against my leg, now free. Then the same hand is at my hip, peeling my panties down just enough for him to touch me from behind.

  “Tomorrow—” I begin.

  “Let’s deal with today first, then see what tomorrow brings.”

  His hard cock head presses
against my pussy from behind. Then he moves closer and enters. With my legs closed, the fit is tight as he slips inside me. I gasp. Marco’s head falls into the hollow between my neck and shoulder. I can feel his breath in the moonlit dark.

  “Tell me what you want, Lucy.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Not tomorrow. Not next week. Not five years from now. Now is all that matters. Tell me what you want right now.”

  I don’t know what I’m feeling. Pure lust? Something bittersweet? My heart doesn’t know which direction to beat. Marco’s hand is back on my chest and his mouth is on my neck. He’s filling me, his thrusts reflecting the way I’ve seesawed through the day: he’s there, he’s gone, there, he’s gone. He’s inside me. He’s inside me. And oh God it feels so good.

  “I want you to fuck me,” I pant as my first orgasm builds.

  So Marco holds my hips as I climax, and does.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  MARCO

  I’VE FUCKED UP SO BADLY.

  Last night, things made sense to me — in that they didn’t at all, but with my cock hard and Lucy’s motor running, it hardly mattered.

  Nothing is different in the morning. If anything, things are worse. Lucy’s phone call yesterday hurt like a spear through the chest, but maybe she was right to end it — if I’d let her, that is, rather than sneaking into her room. Because now that we’ve both gotten off, we’re back where we left it: one step forward and another two back.

  We’re holding hands as we leave the elevator. It’s terrible. As bad as yesterday hurt, neither of us is stupid enough to believe that the eventual sundering, now that we’ve rekindled things, won’t be so much worse. I mean, we’re holding hands for fuck’s sake. But Lucy reached for my hand on the way down from her suite, and I eagerly took it. As if dreams could last forever.

  But nothing’s changed.

  Lucy’s still a rich girl from San Francisco. She lives an executive life in an ivory tower, surrounded by billionaires — like her brother, and Hunter Altman.

  And me? I’m still a masseur who’s one firing away from being a dirt-poor kid, just like in Italy. I haven’t saved a penny, doing everything I can to hack at the debt. I’ve sent all I can back to Amalfi for my family, punishing myself with imposed poverty for leaving them.