Hotel Indigo (14 page)

So as I recall last night, and battle my knee-jerk reaction to feel like a fool who was taken advantage of, I remind myself that I
chose
to do it.
 

Marco didn’t exploit me. I got mine — twice, in fact, which was something I didn’t even know I could do. If there was any exploiting done, then we exploited each other.
 

I believe it for a while — but then I get out of bed and brush my teeth and start to wonder what I should do with my day. That’s when my thoughts turn to the brochure of services.

And I think,
I should get a massage.
 

My resolve to
decide and enjoy
starts to fail me. I
don’t
know Marco, and he might be a real prick now that he’s got what he wanted — what he maybe always wanted, meaning I was right about his behavior here in my room.
 

I try to stay strong, but doubt wants to claim me.
 

I was raised to be a good girl, even if that often meant Dad’s wrath and Mom’s ever-present guilt.
 

And I was raised to be responsible. To be strong.
 

I was, I realize, raised to believe that pleasure is for the weak. Caspian obviously took the same lessons, given the twisted shit that gives him pleasure.
Pain is pleasure?
Thank God I didn’t inherit that little psychological quirk.
 

There’s a knock on my door.
 

I open it and see a silver tray in the hallway, with no servers in sight.
 

It must be in the wrong place. Delivered to me by accident.
 

I inhale as I stoop to see whose it might be, and the scents of a delicious breakfast strike me. I smell butter. And cinnamon. Probably French toast.
 

I’d have to lift the sliver lids to see for sure, but I get a good feel for what’s under them and it makes me want to order my own breakfast. Perhaps this
exact
breakfast, because whoever screwed up this delivery has inadvertently brought me exactly what I didn’t even know I wanted most in the world.
 

There’s a tall, thin vase in the tray’s center. I’d wager it’s genuine crystal. Just big enough inside for a single thick-stemmed flower. A large yellow lily is in it now, petals fully opened like an exploding firework.
 

There’s a folded piece of paper taped to the vase — a receipt or a note. Either way, it should tell me where this breakfast belongs.
 

I flip the note open and see my name. I stand upright, unfold the lush paper with its smooth lines of black ink, and read the rest:

Lucy,

Enjoy breakfast, then meet me

at my cabana by the pool at noon.
 

Bring your swimsuit.

Marco

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

M
ARCO

I
GO
BACK
AND
FORTH
all morning, toggling between pleasant anticipation at seeing Lucy again and dread for the same.

I arrive at the Indigo after dragging my unusually sluggish ass out of bed, and immediately hit the gym, harder than normal. Partly because I need to wake up, and the blood flow helps startle my brain from last night’s hazy dreams that still refuse to retreat. And part of it is probably due to a subconscious desire to look a bit more impressive today — I remember reading somewhere that when a man’s competing for sex, he’s driven toward aggression in case he has to battle other males for the same mate. But the last part, I think, is a form of self-flagellation. Like I’m working myself so hard as a form of punishment.
 

I can normally deadlift around 495 pounds. Today I somehow manage 545, but my back and legs scream as I wrestle the weight from the floor. Even after managing it, I decide to do squats because the idea of squatting after deadlifts sounds so intensely unpleasant. And I do the deep kind, too, where I sit in the hole for two seconds before rising. I’m covered in sweat in no time. Every rep is agony, and I must be waking guests as I practically shout to get it up.
 

I can barely walk to the shower. I honestly think I might throw up. It takes five minutes standing in the ice-cold spray for the feeling to pass. Even after, I’m still in pain, wondering what the hell is wrong with me. I’ve got four massages in a row again, with only a half-hour break after the first two. Massaging is its own form of workout.
 

Usually the idea of lifting before work is to get a decent pump, so I look more muscular, per Booth’s conception of me as little more than man-candy. But today I’ve not done myself any favors. Lighter weights will do what Booth wants. Today I’ve merely made my day impossible.
 

And that’s what makes me think I’m punishing myself, more than anything else.

What the hell was last night about? I only meant to talk to her. I went into it with intentions somewhere between my own and Booth’s. On one hand, I need my job, and Mimi and the rest of my family are depending on me to keep it. But on the other hand,
fuck
Booth
. I have an anatomy degree and an LMT certification, and could find another job in sports medicine. I don’t need to be one step above a gigolo for a guy whose head I routinely fantasize about twisting off like a bottle cap, no matter how much better this pays than any other gig I could possibly get.

So why did I do what I did? I wasn’t thinking. I sat with only the vaguest intentions and the rest spilled right out. Just like in Lucy’s room, when I was doing her massage. She’s just another rich bitch. Why do I feel so affected?
 

Leaving the food and note outside her door made sense.
 

Until the middle of my first massage when it started to feel like a mistake. I shouldn’t have done that. I should stay away. She’ll be embarrassed. She was drunk; I took advantage. That wasn’t the way to make her happy, and neither will what I had in mind when meeting her later.
 

As I’m finishing my second massage, I flip-flop. Lucy didn’t exactly run away. She enjoyed things as much as I did, even if she had shame on her face. I can assuage that, make her see that it’s okay to have fun. And Booth is right about one thing: Lucy White sure seems like someone in desperate need of a vacation. So what’s the harm?

In the middle of my third massage, I realize the harm: I’ve
never
had sex with a guest. That’s mixing business with pleasure, and kicking the hornet’s nest any more than I already have is an awful idea.
 

But in the break between my third and fourth massage — the last one I’ll do before noon — a purely animal feeling eclipses my logic. It comes out of nowhere as my eyes find the clock, see that it’s nearly 10:30, and know my time is drawing near. This last flip-flop isn’t about logic. It’s base. Carnal. I find myself thinking of Lucy’s juices on my finger. The look on her face when she came. The sensation of her lips on me. The way she did as I asked — not because I wanted it, but because she did.
 

And it’s just my luck that right as I’m thinking all of this, Colleen Blackwood enters my cabana, wrapped in a towel.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

M
ARCO

C
OLLEEN
LOOKS
DOWN
AND
SEES
that I’ve pitched a tent, but says nothing. Instead she smiles coyly, drops the towel with the barest pretense of turning away, and slips beneath the sheets. I’m sure she’s trying to arouse me further. Colleen is a pretty woman, but seeing her after Lucy only lowers my flag.
 

“You’re sprightly this morning,” she says, no doubt referring to my hard-on.
 

“Good morning, Ms. Blackwood.”
 

“You should really call me Colleen. After all, you have seen me naked.” She says this like an obvious joke, but it isn’t. The dance Colleen and I have done in the two times I’ve seen her should embarrass us both. She came here to be fondled by me while pretending she wanted therapy, and I pretended to dispense pure therapy and not notice her arousal. But I know what she wants, and she knows I know. The fact that she keeps booking and I don’t refuse her appointments tells her everything.
 

“Anything in particular bothering you today …
Colleen?”
I ask, even though I just saw her yesterday. I should remember. She’s got a pectoral sprain, meaning I need to work her chest. She has sciatica, meaning I need to work her ass. And I’ll bet she’s still got that sprained muscle right near her pussy. So many of my clients have that.
 

“Let’s just start and we’ll see what lights up,” she says.
 

“Sure.”
 

“Just relax me. I’m so tense.”
 

“You must be.”
 

“Why?”
 

I shouldn’t have said that. It was a loaded remark, and it comes from the frustration I’m feeling so intensely now. Some of that frustration is in my brain, manifesting as resentment over anything I’ll do in the hour and a half I’ll need to endure before noon, but most of it is in the region of my dick. I don’t know if Lucy will show, but if she does, I’ve got all the permission I need. The thought is trouble, but I’m savoring it anyway.
 

“You just seem wound up.” I want to say,
Because of the hard life you have lying around on your ass in your piles of money,
but I keep that truth behind my lips.

“I sure am. So much going on.”
 

I sort of want to hurt her again. I’ve seen Colleen around during the past few days and the woman has absolutely nothing happening. And although this is the first visit in which she’s booked one of my massages, I happen to know she’s at Hotel Indigo at least once a quarter. She stays in one of the high-end suites and is always a little (or a lot) tipsy. She has a reputation for partying in town as well — sufficient that if she died today, her epitaph would read,
Local socialite. Always drunk.

She’s on her back, but instead of closing her eyes and sinking into the sensations, Colleen has her eyes open so she can stare at my arms and chest. She also keeps trying to shift so the sheet exposes her chest, but so far I’ve succeeded in wrestling it back into place without being too obvious.
 

“I’ve got this pain right here.” She raises a hand to indicate her tit.
 

I pretend I don’t hear. I’m on her shoulder, moving down her arm. I get to her hand, work my fingers into the heel of her palm, and tug gently on her fingers. I pause at her wedding ring.
 

“What does your husband do?”

Colleen looks at me. I don’t normally initiate conversation, usually only replying when required.
 

“Something in an office,” she answers. I can tell this takes visible effort, like I’m forcing her mind to a place it would rather not go. As if she was meditating and I started speaking of war.
 

“What kind of office?”
 

“The kind where he goes in at seven and comes back at eight.”
 

“So a high-demand job.”
 

“Or he’s fucking secretaries.”