Hotel Indigo Page 4

  Fuck.

  No.

  I’ve got this app on my phone, called Liberty. I installed it a long time ago, when I thought I might need help ignoring the Internet and email. The app basically locks my phone for however long I specify, then renders it useless so there’s nothing I can do to communicate with or learn about the outside world — short of taking the phone to an Apple Store and asking them to reinstall the operating system to circumvent the app.

  I open the Liberty app. I program a two-hour session and click to start it.

  Sorry, Mom. Sorry, Caspian. Sorry, email and all my worldly obligations. I can’t peek in on you for two hours now, no matter what I do.

  I return my now-useless phone to my purse, pick up the house phone, and call down to the front desk. Kendall answers, adorably tripping all over herself to serve without upsetting me in ways that it’s not possible to upset Lucy White.

  “I’d like to schedule a massage, please.”

  “Absolutely, Miss White. When? Now? Immediately? We’ll make it happen whenever you want. There’s no need to schedule in advance. Not for you. In fact—”

  “Now works, if someone is available.”

  “Of course!” She settles, then repeats: “Of course. Do you have any special needs or requests?”

  “Just that it’s a woman, please.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  MARCO

  I’VE JUST DECIDED THAT I won’t punch Booth's face through the back of his head when Kendall, the assistant manager, knocks on the door.

  “Come in,” he says.

  “I’m sorry to interrupt again.” Kendall’s eyes flick toward me like a frightened bird’s. She’s already come in twice, but not since I nearly grabbed Booth by the neck and threw him through the window.

  Maybe I should have kept my voice down. But you don’t fuck with me after twisting me into compromising positions and overworking me. Pick one or the other, and try your odds — but never do both, not if you want to keep breathing.

  “No problem.” I say it partially to soothe Kendall’s nerves (she’s someone I genuinely like) but also to emasculate Booth. This is his office and he’s the boss. Whether Kendall’s interruption is a problem or not is his choice, not mine. Which is exactly why I beat him to the punch.

  Booth’s eyes tick toward me, but he lets it go. Kendall is watching him, so he repeats what I said, trying on his usual public relations smile after I so recently chased it crying into the corner: “It’s no problem, Kendall. What do you need?”

  “Miss White just called down to book a massage.”

  Booth looks at me.

  I shake my head. “No.”

  “We just agreed, Marco. You’re the only employee in the entire hotel whose tips won’t be split out among the others. Nobody’s going to like that. Kendall, do you like it?”

  “Yes, sir. I mean no, sir.” She seems flustered, unsure which answer is right.

  “My forearms need the rest. I haven’t had lunch. I’m not scheduled until two. I’m only human. You want me to perform as a masseur, you need to give me a fucking break sometimes.”

  “Man up,” Booth says. “Special treatment comes with special duties.”

  That was a calculated risk. We got past our most contentious points when he agreed not to split out my tips, but right now he wants to challenge my ability to ‘man up’? He’s trying to save face — probably with Kendall, and definitely with me. But I'm still not sure whether or not I’m calmed down enough yet to take that lying down.

  Kendall raises the hand she’s not using to grip the doorframe. “Actually,” she says, “she requested a woman.”

  “There you go.” I sit back.

  “Who’s available?” Booth asks.

  “Nobody right now.”

  “Switch one of the other guests. This is Caspian White’s sister we’re talking about.”

  “They’re literally not available, Mr. Booth. Carly is with Mrs. Trozty, halfway through an hour session.”

  “What about our second?” he asks. We always have at least two men and two women at all times. Massages are a constant at the Indigo, and although about half of the women want a hunky piece of man-candy to fondle them (especially when there’s a quiet understanding that said man-candy is there as much for stimulation as for relaxation), the other half feel safer with a woman.

  “It was Rainfall,” says Kendall.

  “Fucking hell,” I say. Rainfall is the reason all of this started. Ditz didn’t show up again, but Booth won’t fire her because she’s his cousin.

  “I can just tell her it’ll be a half hour,” Kendall says.

  “Carly’s due for lunch after she’s done with Mrs. Trozty.”

  “Maybe you should tell Carly to man up,” I suggest.

  Kendall clears her throat like a tiny little mouse. “Should I ask her?”

  “No, she needs to run out at lunch,” Booth says. “She already told me. Something with her son, daycare … I don’t know.”

  “An hour and a half, then,” says Kendall.

  “That’s too long.”

  “It’s an hour and a fucking half,” I say.

  “She did say ‘whenever,’ sir,” Kendall says. “It doesn’t seem like she’d mind.”

  He sighs. “Well …”

  “Although I did already tell her now was okay.”

  “Goddammit, Kendall.”

  “She’s a big girl,” I say, though I have no idea who she is. I’ve heard of Caspian White, of course, but I couldn’t care less.

  Booth taps his chin with a pen. “What’s her situation?”

  I expect Kendall to ask what that means, but apparently this is something she and Booth have already discussed. Then it clicks.

  I’ve heard rumors of this but have never seen it in action. Apparently the Thomas Booth School of Resort Management calls for stalking clients ahead of time in order to better serve them. A creepy new level of service in the age of Google and Forage.

  “According to her LiveLyfe postings, she’s staying with her mother. Her father recently died.”

  “I knew that,” Booth says, impatient.

  “Seems kind of overloaded, based on her activity. Gives me shivers, because her mom sounds a lot like mine.”

  “Single?”

  “Yes.”

  “Not even a boyfriend?”

  “Jesus,” I say.

  “I don’t think so, Mr. Booth.”

  He taps his chin another few times. Then he sets the pen down and says to me, “You’re up.”

  “She requested a woman.”

  “We don’t have any women available.”

  “In an hour and a half we do.”

  “We can’t promise that. You know we can’t. Carly might go long. Who knows? I’m not going to bump her now, then have to bump her again later. How will that make us look?”

  “Then promise her an appointment in two hours. Two and a half hours.”

  “What if Carly doesn’t come back at all? Like, the babysitter cancels.”

  “That’s sort of a longshot, don’t you think?”

  “She could get stuck in traffic.”

  “Two and a half hours, Thomas. Book her two and a half hours from now. That’s plenty of time for Carly to finish with that old bag—”

  “That’s no way to speak of our guests,” Thomas says.

  “I’m sorry.” I start over. “That’s plenty of time to finish with that bitchy, whining, nothing’s-ever-good-enough-for-her sack of shit—”

  “Marco —”

  “—and go out for her kiddie errand, no matter what happens, and get back in time to serve the needs of this sister to some moneybag whose dick you’re so eager to suck.”

  Booth’s jaw clenches and he stares at me. I sit back with my arms crossed, still wearing the ghost of a smile.

  “I’m not going to make Caspian White’s sister wait for two hours. Not after Kendall told her she could get her massage now.”

  “Whose fault is th
at?” But I don’t look at Kendall, because I know how timid she is. Instead my eyes are on Thomas, as if maybe Kendall’s gaffe is his problem.

  “And frankly—” Booth begins.

  “No,” I say.

  “—she probably needs it.”

  “What? What does she need, Thomas?”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “Help me out. Say it and I’ll do it. Promise.”

  Booth’s jaw shifts. He looks at Kendall. “You know you’re popular,” he tells me.

  “Curse of my life.”

  “I’m betting that no matter what may or may not happen, she’ll be pleased to see you.”

  “Not if she requested a woman.”

  He’s not budging. I uncross my arms, knowing I can only push so far. It would take a lot for Booth to fire me, but we’re at an impasse. I hate the man, but that doesn’t mean I don’t need him. I can’t afford to lose what I have. Not with thoughts of Mimi so fresh in my head.

  “I made an exception for you, Marco. I’m going to get a fucking earful from every other person who works for tips in this hotel — plus the people who are tipped out by those people. Basically, everyone in this place is about to crawl up my ass, thanks to the special deal I made with only you, as the unique flower you are, to let you keep all of your tips.”

  Booth stabs a finger down on his desk like he’s snuffing out a cigarette, then points up and to the right — presumably in the general direction of the esteemed Miss Fucking White’s goddess suite.

  “A guest needs a massage. You’re on deck, and you owe me on this.”

  “Fine.” I grunt my way out of Booth’s chair. “Send her to my cabana.”

  Booth shakes his head. “This is Caspian White’s sister. You’ll be going to her, in her room.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  LUCY

  THERE’S A KNOCK ON MY door just five minutes later. I’m totally unprepared. I feel gross from my drive. I’m finally settling in now that my phone has been neutered, but I’ve been unable to summon the strength to rise from the plush couch after calling down to the front desk.

  I figured I had time, that I could languish like a tree sloth for a few minutes, then drag my sorry ass to one of the two palace bathrooms, pee (because I’ve been holding it in as an alternative to the loathsome act of moving while I’m otherwise relaxed), and then freshen up.

  I know the eager-to-please Kendall said, “Right away, Miss White,” but I figured that’s the sort of thing they say around here while kissing ass. Ten minutes to get myself together seemed like a given.

  But then I relax, because I remember that when Kendall showed me the facility map downstairs, she put a manicured nail on some little circles drawn around the pool and explained that they were the massage cabanas. I need to go down, and that means I’m waiting for a notice to do so. This knock is either something unrelated or it’s Kendall, come to tell me in person when and where to go for my much-needed massage.

  I go to the door and peek through the tiny hole, but I can’t see properly. There’s either something in the way or the front of the lens is messed up.

  I open the door, my face set to receive Kendall. Now that I’m feeling better and more relaxed, I plan on telling her to settle down. I love great service, but I don’t need my hand held. The woman’s acting like I’ll have her fired if she looks at me the wrong way. But I’m easy. I’m definitely not my brother.

  I open the door, but don’t see Kendall.

  Instead, I’m looking at the giant, dark-haired man from downstairs. The one who kept shouting in his deep, booming voice. The one whose mere presence made me uneasy. The man who, I now realize, was part of the reason I was so high-strung when settling into my room. He’s half of why I need to relax in the first place.

  I want to say, Why are you here? but I’m coherent enough to know that’s not remotely appropriate. I haven’t talked to the man or even exchanged a proper look with him, so speaking to him as if I’ve ordered him to stay away (and he’s therefore violating some request by being here now) will only make me look crazy.

  “Um, yes?” I manage to say.

  There’s a split second between my almost-question and the moment he speaks. Yet that fractional moment stretches into eternity. His eyes are pits of coal. I don’t feel like he’s looking at me so much as through me. Or into me — through my clothes and skin into the core of my being. I feel assessed, weighed, judged. His lips form a cruel little line — and looking at them, I’m sure he hates me, even without knowing me at all. Somehow this man is against me.

  That’s when it hits me: he’s here because I saw his outburst. I’m a witness. I saw something he didn’t want me to see. And now that he has me alone, and I’ve foolishly opened the door without so much as a chain between us, he’s going to knock me back, pin me down, and perch above me like a beast of prey while I fight for breath.

  Then he’ll end me, and I’ll be helpless to stop him.

  “You requested a massage, Miss White?” He says it politely enough, but I feel certain that satire lurks behind his words — just the slightest lift of one side of his lips.

  Miss White, he said. Like it’s Princess White to him, and he’s not buying my fancy-girl posturing at all.

  “Oh.”

  “I’m Marco.” He doesn’t offer his hand.

  “Nice to meet you, Marco,” I say without meaning it. I was hoping to avoid this man for the whole week, at all costs. “Is the masseuse ready? I know where the cabanas are. I’ll be down in five minutes.” Then I decide that’s not fast enough. He’s said all of six words to me, but those hard eyes have uttered hundreds more. I correct myself, to appease him: “Two minutes. I just need to …”

  I trail off when he turns away from me mid-sentence, as if I’m boring him.

  “So, two minutes,” I repeat, then start to close the door. He puts a hand out to stop it without looking over. This is all pedestrian to him, and he’s unable to hide the fact that I’m being an idiot and doing this — whatever it is — all wrong.

  His other hand takes something big that I didn’t notice from out in the hallway. His door hand pushes a little and I get a look that makes me raise my hands and take a step back, not wanting to offend this man by being in his way. He slides the large object inside my room, and I understand.

  It’s a massage table.

  They’ve sent this big, strong lug up ahead of the masseuse, to do the grunt work of setting up for her. I guess I’m having my massage in my room instead of down by the pool.

  “Oh. I’m sorry.” Apologizing is a stupid reaction. I try to laugh it off, but that comes off terribly, too. Why am I being such an idiot? I’m intimidated, I’m sorry, I’m a ditzy little schoolgirl apologizing for no reason.

  The giant endures it, doing his job of delivering the massage supplies and ignoring the yammering dumbass. He sets the table down and reaches into the hallway for a smaller parcel — a small caddy with a handle in the middle, full of oils and implements.

  “I didn’t realize the masseuse would be coming to me.”

  “You’re right; this isn’t how it normally works.”

  “Oh.” I get the feeling I’m supposed to say more. “Thanks.”

  He looks up at me without raising his head. I get a flash of dark eyes rolling up from his downturned face, but no more.

  I try to peek down the hallway, looking for my masseuse behind him. But even though I’m positive he sees me looking, Marco closes the door to cut off my view. Now he’s in my room. I don’t like that the door is closed with him this near me.

  “So you’ll just set up,” I say. It’s not a question. Why is my heart beating so fast? I’m supposed to be relaxing.

  “That’s right.”

  “Anywhere is fine,” I say, even though he’s already chosen a spot uncomfortably close to my open suitcase. All my bras and underwear are in there, at the top, as if on display.

  I get another look. I’m probably imagining things, but I’d s
wear that look says, Goddamn right it’s fine. Just try and get me to move it, you bitch.

  I look away and blink. I’m being so irrational. What’s with me today? It must be my mother. With my phone out of commission, I’m probably subconsciously certain she’s trying to call, or feeling guilty for all this alone time. Caspian’s business is probably falling apart while I’m out of town and he can’t reach me. Mom probably slipped and fell while holding her phone, but can’t call to tell me.

  Marco locks the table’s legs into place, watching me through all of my neurotic second-guessing, obviously annoyed.

  With the table set up, he reaches for a set of sheets to cover it, finding them in a small closet near my suitcase full of intimates. They’re hotel sheets in a hotel closet, but the way he just barges in bothers me. He’s acting like he owns this place, but right now it’s mine, even if I didn’t pay for the upgrade. He’s in my stuff, knows I feel that way, and doesn’t remotely care.

  Once the sheets are in place, he just sort of looks at me, then reaches into the closet and hands me a robe. It’s placed in my hands, but with so much force that it’s more like shoving than handing.

  “Um, thanks,” I say.

  “Anytime.”

  Marco stands in front of me with his arms crossed, making his torso look so much larger and more defined. His white tee looks painted on. I can see his abs through his shirt; either it’s that tight or his abs are that pronounced. His forearms have a thousand striations. He has hands the size of dinner plates.

  “Any time,” he repeats, now with space between the syllables. He says it like I have a disability, speaking slow so I’ll understand.

  And I realize he’s not saying “anytime,” as in, a response to my halfhearted thank-you. He’s telling me that any time I get my slow ass around to doing X, he can get to the business of doing Y. I don’t understand what X and Y are yet, but he’s clearly waiting on me, growing increasingly impatient by the second.

  A tip. He must want a tip.

  I go for my wallet and start rummaging.