Hotel Indigo Read online

  “What? Why?”

  “She forgot she was working.”

  “Again?”

  “She’s absent-minded.”

  “Well, maybe I’m absent-minded.”

  “You’re not absent-minded. That’s why I count on you so much. It’s why you’re my number one guy.”

  His fake flattery does nothing to move me. I’ve been here since six this morning and had my first massage appointment at seven. I’ve had nothing but hour-long appointments, and of course Booth booked them back-to-back. I’ve had five hour-long appointments so far, and of course Booth booked them back-to-back. I’m supposed to have at least fifteen minutes to refresh my cabana, get some water, and let my arms rest — but because Booth is a greedy little fucker, I didn’t even get that.

  I’ve rushed through each transition, trying to make sure the hotel guests are happy, and I've run a little longer with each appointment. Thankfully, only Colleen Blackwood and one other woman seemed interested in overt sexual gratification. The others were only very relaxed and had the decency to run back to their rooms before pleasuring themselves with me in their heads.

  But either way, I’m beyond beat. It’s 12:40 and my forearms are screaming. I started the day feeling sorry for the loneliest of the guests on my table, but I actively tried to hurt Colleen. If I have to work again before my next scheduled slot at two, I’m going to kill someone. Death by massage.

  “Maybe I forgot I’m working before two,” I tell Booth.

  “You’re hilarious.” He gives me that little shit-eating smile of his and slaps the break room’s doorframe twice before backing out and closing the door.

  “Motherfucker,” I say.

  I hear a canned little voice. It takes me a minute to remember that Mimi’s still there, and that I’ve let the phone dangle forgotten at the end of my aching arm.

  I raise the phone to my face. “Sorry, Mimi. What did you say?”

  “I said, ‘Is that succhiacazzi bothering you to fuck more pretty rich women?’”

  I roll my eyes, wishing Mimi could see me. Even though she lives in Italy, her English is excellent — but she still has that strong accent I’ve mostly lost, and from where I’m standing in this shitty American break room, it carries plenty of implied judgment.

  “I really wish you wouldn’t make that joke.”

  “Oh, it’s a joke?”

  “Mimi …”

  “Fine. You’re legit. You are only by the rules. You’re the one who keeps complaining about feeling like a man-whore.”

  “You know I’m not, though.”

  “You tell me.”

  This is all rhetorical. I shouldn’t feel the need to answer, but after Colleen, I do. I’m also self-aware enough to know I’m not trying to convince Mimi — I’m trying to convince myself. That awareness makes me feel dirty.

  “Booth keeps saying that my job is to make the guests happy.”

  “Especially the happy ending.”

  I ignore her. “He’s just so wink-wink about it. And he changed things slowly. Massages are always clothing-optional, but before Booth started actively pitching me, most of the women left their underwear on. But then he looked at what guests seemed to really enjoy most, making some guesses that turned out to be right on the nose, and said we all needed to massage in ‘island attire.’ Shorts only for the men and bikini tops for the women.”

  “Men go to that hotel?” Mimi sounds genuinely surprised.

  “Some. And there are couples. But mostly it’s bored rich women.”

  “Must be horrible for them.” Mimi drips sarcasm. She’s as sensitive as me on the topic of the poor/rich gap, but her irritation is so much more visible.

  “If I’m being honest, I do feel sorry for them a lot of the time.”

  “Really.”

  “Really. Sure, they’ve got money. But most of them are here because their husbands are always working, or they have mistresses — something more than one woman has told me outright. You look at them and think they have it all together. Perfect wardrobes, jewels, fancy cars, and bodies honed by surgeons. But they’re vulnerable when they’re nude, and the truth comes out. They buy stuff because it’s the only thing that gives them pleasure. They keep themselves in perfect shape because they feel their appearances are what’s most valuable about them — or because they feel it’s their half of the deal with their husbands: the man works, the woman stays home and looks pretty.”

  “I’d like to have that problem, instead of always working and still being strapped.”

  I let it go. Mimi works fourteen hours a day across three jobs. Her main gig is as a maid in a hotel that’s much fancier than the Indigo, catering to rich locals and tourists in one of the world’s most exclusive vacation spots. She struggles to make ends meet, and her best days are spent treading water. In order to serve the upper class, she must live somewhat near them. Even with her commute, the price of living is barely covered by what she makes as a near-slave. It makes my substantial debt seem like nothing.

  “I’ll have more money to send soon,” I remind her. That’s why I called — and, come to think of it, it’s maybe why I shouldn’t complain about overwork to Mimi. She works harder than I do for less. And although the hotel pays me a base salary, I also get tips and commission. The more massages I do, the more I earn. The more I earn, the more I can send back to my less fortunate family and chip away at all I owe.

  “I know,” she says. “Thank you.” And that breaks my heart, because Mimi is a proud woman. There was a time when she told me not to send anything. After that, there was a time when she pretended not to want my money, even though she needed it. Now we’ve given up all pretense. I offer to send what I can and Mimi accepts it. I feel like I’m killing her soul whenever I try to save her. And the same goes for the rest of my family still across the ocean.

  “But Mimi?”

  “Si, Marco?”

  “I meant what I said, about not … you know … being a man-whore.”

  “I know, cucciolo.”

  “The women here like me a lot, and keep requesting me. I have regulars who will only get massages if I do them. Booth has us spritzing ourselves with oil so we look better with our shirts off. It’s all so transparent, what we’re really selling. And he keeps telling me, ‘Make them happy, make them happy.’ And so I do my thing and I lift weights before working and I go ahead and play into the fantasy. Stuff happens on my table, and I know it and the women know it, and if they want to do whatever and think whatever, I don’t discourage them or draw attention to it.”

  Mimi says nothing. I’m not exactly making a case for my honor.

  “But I never touch them. Never like that. Unless it’s something I want to do.”

  “And you don’t ever want to?”

  “I’m human, Mimi. I’m a man.”

  “Mmm-hmm.”

  “But the longer I work here, the less any of this interests me. They’re all fake. They’re all sad. And if they’re not sad, they’re infuriating. I feel sorry for them or I hate them. More and more often, it’s the latter. Right now, it’s the latter. I do my job. But even though I’m supposed to massage naked women — and, according to Booth, make them ‘feel things’ — I’m liking it less and less. I’m really starting to despise this job.” I sigh, then finish by saying something that feels more like a pipe dream with each passing day: “I just want to stop feeling like these fucking people own me, and finally build something for myself.”

  Mimi does me the courtesy of not responding. I shouldn’t complain — not to Mimi, whose job is a thousand times worse than mine. She could (and maybe should) say, You have to rub your hands all over women’s bodies in paradise for great pay? You poor, poor man. She doesn’t, but I won’t try her patience by continuing to gripe.

  Before either of us can say more, the break room door opens again and I see Booth’s thin and orderly haircut, his stern, professional face.

  “Marco? Seriously. Chop-chop.”

  I ho
ld up a hand, then say goodbye to my sister, thousands of miles away.

  “Step into my office first,” he says. “We need to discuss your tips.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  LUCY

  THE WOMAN RUNNING THE FRONT desk seems to be named Kendall Sharpe. That’s what it says on the brass plate pinned to her rather elegant blouse, on the triangular placard upright beside her computer, and on the door just left of the counter. Kendall keeps rushing from one station to another, checking on something feverishly enough that she must be afraid of a beating.

  I give her a little smile, which she tries to return in some odd and unwarranted almost-panic.

  There’s a tiny plaza across from the hotel with a cafe and two fine boutiques — one for swimwear and one for everyday attire. Both were fantastically expensive, but I hit both before entering the lobby. It was worth the price. I got to walk in here with shopping bags over each bent arm and an honest-to-God bellhop lugging my suitcase behind me, clacking through the wide lobby on spanking-new heels that cost a fortune. I’m Audrey Hepburn — all I need is a cigarette holder and some long gloves.

  I’m queen of the walk, and I never get to be queen of the walk. I’m usually a slave to my mother or Caspian’s glorified assistant.

  I tell Kendall that it isn’t a problem. I almost want to cap the sentiment by adding Dahling to the end.

  She retreats into her office and closes the door. I let her go, the smile still on my lips. Smiling is easy. I’ve only been away from my obligations for an hour or so, but feel like I’ve discovered the Fountain of Lost Youth. Nothing can bring me down now.

  I’m perched in a fancy-schmancy high-backed chair and feeling fine, when someone bursts out of a door to the right of Kendall’s. This one reads Thomas Booth, Manager.

  I hear: “—fucking kidding me, Thomas?”

  “Keep your voice down.”

  “Maybe I should turn my fucking voice up,” the first voice says, just shy of a shout. I can’t precisely see the speaker (he’s mostly hidden by the door, which is only ajar) but it’s clearly a man. He’s tall, black-haired, and has a voice like a human bear — deep and frightening, the timbre low as if shaken inside a cavernous chest before making its way out through curled lips.

  “Close the door,” says the second voice. Compared to the black-haired man, this voice is almost high — authoritative but smaller, clipped and sharp.

  “I guess if I keep this door open, your guests might hear things they shouldn’t, right?”

  “Marco—”

  “Shut my mouth, right? Shut my mouth, take off my shirt, pump my shit up, and get back to servicing the bitches for you. Is that about right, boss?” The last word is thick with black sarcasm. It’s the way you’d say boss if you no longer wanted the title to apply — if you were on your last straw, ready to run across a bridge and burn it behind you.

  The other man, in a low hiss: “Goddammit, Marco. I said maybe.”

  “Oh. I’m sorry. Maybe you’ll steal half of what I’ve earned.”

  “Close the door.”

  “Maybe, even though those are my tips that I’ve done the worst sorts of shit to get, you’ll spread half of it across the busboys and chambermaids and the fucking elevator operators. Just maybe. Even though none of those people have to work from sunrise to sunset most days with those goddamned sad, pathetic fucking women who are only here because they need to—”

  “Marco!”

  The sheer force of the manager’s voice stops Marco. I’m on edge in the stillness that follows, somehow sure the big man will turn around. He’ll see me if he does. Then he’ll turn his ire about those pathetic fucking women my way.

  Instead, there’s mumbling and the door closes again. It’s heavy wood, but parts of the wall are glass. The manager isn’t short, but he seems tiny next to the other man. I’m strangely afraid for Thomas Booth. The animal in his office — Marco, apparently — has the darkest bearing I’ve ever seen. His skin has an almost Mediterranean complexion, but his wild, middle-length hair and half-beard are jet black. From where I’m sitting, his eyes look like pits — maybe because he’s half-squinting, obviously furious. He’s wearing a white T-shirt that makes his tan skin look even darker, and he seems ready to Hulk right out of it. The fabric is stretched tight over an enormous pair of muscular shoulders. When he turns to face away from me, I see that his back is titanic; he’s as thick as he is wide.

  I’ve never seen such an intimidating beast, lean and large, a freak of beautiful nature. His angry gaze could boil water. He could crush me in one hand, pick me up and carry me away. I couldn’t stop it if I wanted to.

  I’m staring at the exchange. My heart has moved into my throat. I can barely swallow.

  “Miss White?”

  I jump at the sound of Kendall's voice. I’ve ducked down, as if fearing Marco’s gaze would turn in my direction, She’s five feet away and I didn’t notice. I jerk my head away from Mr. Booth’s office to look at her, feeling something like guilt.

  “I’m sorry. Did I startle you?”

  “No.” I take a breath, making an effort to get myself under control. “No, I’m sorry. I was thinking of something else.” I blink up at Kendall and find a cardboard smile. I want to get out of here, put a door between me and the world, and wait until this strange feeling passes.

  “I’ve resolved the little glitch that was giving me some problems. Computers.” She gives a little moan so I can see how frustrating computers are. “Anyway, your room is ready. You’ll be staying in the Emperor Suite, of course.”

  Now I understand the “glitch” that’s been giving Kendall problems. Toward the beginning, she ran in and out of Booth’s office twice before his angry visitor made himself known, as if checking something with the manager. It took time to resolve, but was apparently all a big mistake to begin with.

  “I didn’t reserve any Emperor Suite.”

  “Of course not, Miss White.” Kendall motions nervously for the bellboy to return and grab my bags. “Orders from the house.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  LUCY

  KENDALL HEMS AND HAWS WHEN I ask her what “orders from the house” actually means, but despite two long hallways and an elevator ride’s worth of evasion, I more or less figure it out before the bellboy accepts his tip and leaves me alone. I’ve seen this before, though it’s usually when I’m with my brother. Caspian White is a big name these days, and naturally the citizens of Inferno Falls know the tale about the local boy making good. I’m not surprised they figured out who I am, and which relatives of the famous billionaire have come back home.

  So they’ve given me the poshest suite in the place — and because they can’t insist I take something that triples the already-high rate I’d elected to pay, Kendall assured me (frequently, abundantly) that the upgrade is gratis. I’m not exactly sure how the economics of this work out for them, considering that they make no more money off me this way, but I’m sure they must have a long-term plan. I’ve come at an off time, so this room probably wouldn’t have been booked at full price regardless. The manager must assume I’ll spend more freely on amenities now that I’m here, or hopes I’ll tell my brother about this awesome hotel. Or tell the rich friends they must assume I have by the dozens. Or hell, the press.

  Regardless of the reason, I find myself wandering the single largest hotel room I’ve ever seen. It has a bigger footprint than my expensive flat on the Bay back home, and two floors. The suite has two bathrooms, both extravagant. Faucets gleam, and the sinks are low porcelain dishes that sit more on top of the counters than down in them. The Jacuzzi is enormous, and the shower is big enough for six people to party in. There’s a full kitchen I’ll never use, a patio that looks out over the lavish pool, and a bedroom with enough extra space for a game of mini-golf.

  I flop onto the big, poofy couch and wonder where the television is, but then I notice a remote and a curved slot in the floor, and with a you’ve-got-to-be-kidding-me chuckle I realize I can summon a
parabolic 4K screen with the push of a button. It’ll rise from below — five feet across if it’s an inch — like a berthing whale.

  My smile lingers, then fades. The suite is amazing, but it dawns on me that I’m not really comfortable here. I mean, I am — but also not. A strange thing to grapple with.

  For some reason I feel as though someone is looking over my shoulder.

  I feel absurd but turn anyway, just to scratch the itch. I don’t see anyone behind me, of course, but even after glancing back I don’t feel as ridiculous as I should. There’s too much space in here. Too many corners for people to hide behind.

  Why the hell do I feel this way on vacation?

  Then I hear that deep voice in the back of my head — the furious man downstairs. For some reason, he’s wormed his way beneath my skin. I have no idea who he is, and don’t want to know.

  Maybe that’s why I’m so uneasy: I’m unsure of which move might invite this man into my life. What if I order room service, and he’s the one who comes to deliver? What if I go out to the pool and he’s skimming leaves or mopping the deck? What if I need help with my key and he’s Kendall’s relief, there to work the desk when she can’t?

  I realize I’ve pulled my phone from my purse. I don’t remember doing so, but now I’m looking right at it, as if my hand has acted on its own.

  I press the wake button and see my mother’s text message still on the screen, asking about the toaster. Making the first of sure-to-be-many passive-aggressive jabs while I leave her alone, apparently to wither to nothing and die without me.

  Is that what it is? Is my mother on my mind? I look around the luxurious suite, the one I just got done deciding was too big and too empty. Is this really how this week is going to be — me too guilty to enjoy the spoils when they come my way, weirded out by finery instead of allowing myself to enjoy it?

  I mean, shit … I just sat on a couch that cost more than my first car, and my traitorous hand went for my phone. Does that mean my thoughts are still on family and work? Am I really going to spend all my time here worrying about Mom and all the work waiting at GameStorming?