Hotel Indigo (10 page)

I get in the shower.
 

Somehow the massager ends up detached from the clamp and I’m using it manually, spraying myself by hand.
 

Somehow, when a stream of water is focused between my legs for five minutes, I have an orgasm. It’s crippling, almost causing me to fall. I wonder at the rate of orgasm-induced shower falls. It must happen. Horny women with excellent shower heads might even wear those MedicAlert things around their necks, just in case. And when the operator picks up, they hear something like:
I’ve come twice thinking of my masseur’s dick in my mouth and I can’t get up!

Yes, well, that orgasm had nothing to do with Marco. Not the real Marco, anyway. I’ve had a rough week — a difficult six months or more, if we’re being honest. Of course getting off helps. It doesn’t mean I would have been okay with some hired grunt molesting me, or that thinking of what might have happened was mental fodder for making me come.
 

I dry myself, but only after the shower is done and my legs are weak do I remember that I’ve left my suitcase in the front room. It’s right beside the massage table, which now appears to be mocking me.
 

I get fresh clothes without looking at the table.

But when I turn back to the bathroom, my eyes fall on it anyway, and I notice the now-dried wet spot, right where I’d been laying while Marco threatened all those unsaid deeds.
 

CHAPTER TWELVE

L
UCY

T
HE
HONEYMOON
DOESN
’
T
LAST
LONG
. Five minutes after Kendall runs up to my room to retrieve the massage supplies herself (asking many questions that suggest she knows the massage was cut short), my phone is buzzing.

Mom texts,
Where did you hide all my soup?

Then, not two minutes later:
You never told me where the can opener was.
 

Which is absurd, because I’ve literally never known my mother to eat soup. I think she’s allergic to anything in broth form. I’m sure she’s asking me about it now because I discovered a big box of bargain club soup with Mom’s moving stuff — probably something she got years ago for a canned food drive, then forgot about until the movers tossed it onto the truck.
 

We’ve talked about that soup, as a joke. Not long after moving, I donated it to a food pantry. And that means she’s asking me now because it’s the only food she’s able to complain about not being able to find.
 

Mom texts:
When people are guests in other people’s houses, they shouldn’t move around things that might be needed.

Even her texts sound like they have a stick up their butt.
 

I’m staring at her latest when the phone rings in my hand. I’m so surprised, I jump. It’s like something out of a horror show, where the quiet monster suddenly leaps toward the screen.

It’s Hunter Altman, the hotshot music producer Caspian works with.

“Hunter?”
 

“Caspian?”
 

I want to say something sarcastic, like,
Yes, it’s Caspian and I’ve had a sex change.
Instead I say, “This is Lucy.”

“Lucy?”
 

I can tell from his voice that he’s drunk. Or high. Or getting a blowjob. Or, knowing Hunter, all three.
 

“Yes, Hunter.”
 

“Where is Caspian?”
 

“You didn’t call Caspian. You called my phone by mistake.”
Again
, I mentally add. Hunter is the world’s heartthrob right now, and his tour de force band, Blonde Ambition, is taking the music world by storm. Hunter’s even been on more magazine covers than Caspian, because he doesn’t loathe the attention as much.
 

He’s hot as hell, but I’ve never done more than to joke about being into him. In reality, Hunter’s a train wreck. I always figured he’d be dead before thirty, but with only a few months before he hits his big birthday, he’s still alive and as fucked up as ever.
 

“Maybe I called you on purpose.”
 

“I’ve gotta go, Hunter. I’m in the middle of something.”
 

“You always liked me, didn’t you?”
 

“You’re a charmer. I love you like a brother that I wish would finally check into rehab.”
 

He seems to consider. “Are you around tonight?”
 

“No. I’m out of town.”
 

“I could send a helicopter.”
 

“I’m pretty
far
out of town,” I clarify.

“A jet, then.”
 

There’s silence. I listen to his drunken breathing. Such a waste. Hunter is beautiful and rich. When he isn’t shitfaced, the man is a total sweetheart under the tough armor of a badass. People think he’s a cock, and he is. But I’ve seen his other side — the
why
behind who he is — and it breaks my heart.
 

“Goodbye, Hunter.”
 

“Do you know how much richer I’m going to be when we start this thing?”
 

I don’t even want to know what he means.
We
implies Hunter and Caspian. And probably his other billionaire buddies. I’ve been hearing hints about “something big” for a while now, but it only happens when they’re drunk or high or getting a blowjob. Or all three.

“I need to go, Hunter.” My finger moves toward the
End
key.

“Wait!”
 

I put the phone back to my ear.
 

“You’re pretty smart, Lucy. And I’d totally fuck you.”
 

I roll my eyes. “Thanks.”
 

“Maybe you could give me some advice. I made a mistake. A really big one.”
 

“Okay.” I wonder if, thanks to his inebriation, I can get away with not asking for details on this really big mistake. Based on past drunk calls from Hunter, and a few similar in-person encounters, I know that his regrets seem to center on a past indiscretion and some girl named Angela. Who that is, I don’t know. Probably one of the endless line of skanks he amuses himself with to numb a long-denied pain.
 

“What should I do?” he asks, failing to provide any details.
 

I’d need backstory to understand his incoherent question. So I say, “Sleep it off.”
 

Hunter mumbles something.
 

“Is that all, Hunter?” I ask, assuming I should wait to be formally dismissed.

“I might be coming to Inferno soon, Lucy. Can I see you?”
 

“That seems like a bad idea.”
 

“I’ve always liked you, you know.”
 

I repress a laugh. Hunter likes
many
young women. The guy practically has a harem. His current girlfriend is a stone-cold bitch named Samantha, but that just means she’s the whore at the peak of his heap. He fucks whoever he wants and she takes it because she’s his alpha, so as long as she’s first in line for the diamonds, things work out. It’s hardly a healthy relationship, but maybe it’s the best he can do, despite his money and fame and rugged good looks. He’d sleep with me in a second, if I were into booty calls, but that’s all I need in my life: one drugged-out lost party boy nearing crisis as his thirtieth birthday approaches.
 

“Let me come and see you, Lucy.”
 

“No thanks, Hunter.”
 

He sighs.

And I hang up.
 

The phone buzzes again. I’m ready to pick it up and tell Hunter to stop bothering me about his One That Got Away, but the screen says it’s my mother this time, asking if I can run home and show her how to work the can opener.
 

I’m rolling my eyes when the phone shows me a new notification: an email from Caspian. He lets me know that he just left Hunter, and that I might get drunk calls, because we both know how he is. Then Caspian appends a trademark P.S.: he hopes I’m having fun on my vacation, but lets me know that he hasn’t stopped adding to my to-dos in the meantime. He helpfully tells me (just so I know) that if I were anyone else, I’d be fired by now.

I love my brother. I love my mother. I even love my brother’s drunk friends.
 

But I turn on my app to disable the phone for another block — this time for twelve hours. I do it quickly, before I can reconsider whether it’s smart to go radio silent for such a long time.

This done, I call down to the front desk and ask Kendall to look up an old friend’s local number. I don’t have her new cell number, but I know she still has a house phone.

“Her name is Anna Dufresne,” I say, and then I spell the last name. “Oh, and Kendall?”
 

Kendall’s voice brightens as she asks how else she can help me.
 

“While you’re at it, please find me a good restaurant to meet her at nearby.”

I look at my phone. I think of Mom, Hunter, and Caspian.

“A restaurant with really strong drinks,” I add.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

M
ARCO

I’
M
IN
MY
CABANA
AFTER
hitting the employee weight room for an afternoon session. I’m sweaty, and trying to decide if I can get away with being clammy for my female clients rather than spritzing myself with oil. It’d save so much time. I wouldn’t need to shower or need to spritz. Win-win.
 

I’m interrupted by Roger, the bellhop with the harelip. Roger has it in for me. He seems to think he’s a ladies’ man, but similarly thinks I’m deliberately trying to steal every female guest out from under him. I used to point out the many ways in which he’s living a deluded fantasy, but I’ve given up.

“Thomas wants to see you,” he says.
 

“I have a client in ten minutes.”
 

“Chloe is going to cover for you.”
 

“Chloe is a woman.”
 

“And your first client is a lesbian.”
 

I consider this bit of gossip. I didn’t know Paulette was a lesbian, but it might explain why I’ve never had her. Chloe isn’t going to do sexy stuff to Paulette or anyone — it’s possible, in fact, that I’m the only one encouraged to cross certain lines of propriety as part of the job. But what Roger’s implying is true, and Booth would agree: there’s little to be lost by letting a woman uninterested in men be traded away from this facility’s only real man-whore.

I meet Roger's eyes and tell myself what I told Mimi: despite the joking, I’m not a gigolo. But I know what Roger thinks.
 

Two minutes later I’m wearing a shirt and opening Booth’s office door. He’s on the phone but looks up to see me and offers a
come-and-sit
gesture. The way his eyes linger tells me all I need to know.
 

I’m in trouble.

Booth hangs up, then folds his hands on the desk blotter and looks me over. This appraisal lasts a long ten seconds, then: “What happened earlier?”