Hotel Indigo (2 page)

“People tell me I don’t have an accent,” I say. And that’s true. When I was a kid, I sounded like a motherfucking chipmunk. Then I hit fifteen and my voice dropped around six octaves. People usually say I strike them as an American outdoorsman. Maybe a lumberjack, with a broad build and a voice to match. But that’s something I’ve worked hard to cultivate. I wasn’t just an immigrant; I was a
dirt poor
immigrant. It’s not something I like to be reminded of.
 

“I can hear it,” she says. “It comes out when you speak quietly.”
 

Colleen’s head isn’t in the donut because I never authorized the turn-over, so her cheek is pressed to the table. She opens her eyes and gives me a smile that makes me want to hurt her. A coy smile — an
I know your secret because I know you best
smile. And I think,
She wants me? Fine. She should watch what she wishes for. I’d fuck that smile right off her face.
 

“The trouble is a bit lower,” Colleen says, referring to my hands on her oiled ass.
 

“Your sciatic area is up here.”
 

“But I feel the pain lower. It runs down the inside of my legs.” Then she parts her legs just a bit more, as if to show me.
 

“It’s referred pain. You have a tight muscle in one place but feel the pain in another.”
 

Instead of answering, Colleen closes her eyes. Her legs move another few millimeters apart. “Tell me about Italy.”
 

My hands pause. Then, because I know what Thomas would say, I do as Colleen instructed and move them lower. I’m not doing anything illicit, but I’m definitely getting there. Colleen’s lips part and she gasps. My trailing fingers must have run over a good spot, referring more sensation to somewhere else.
 

“Tell me,” she repeats a moment later, a trifle breathy, her eyes still closed, “about Italy.”
 

“We left when I was eight. I barely remember it.”
 

“Where?”
 

I don’t want to answer, because I’m positive she’ll know the place. These rich, spoiled women always know it, just like they all know Ibiza.

“The Amalfi Coast.”
 

“I’ve been there.”
 

Of course you have. Of course. My father probably cleaned your father’s suite. Perhaps my father brought your father lunch on a silver tray, and then your father found some trifling thing wrong and called my father an incompetent asshole. Or maybe they met during lean times, when my family was starving. Maybe your father decided his fifty-dollar steak was too rare and threw it out, and my father dug it out of the garbage to take home.
 

“It’s a beautiful place,” Colleen says when I don’t respond.
 

I keep massaging. I say nothing, defying Thomas’s instructions to engage.
 

“Lower, Marco.”
 

I move my hands lower. I’m practically under her ass now. Not on the glutes — back on the fat, where there’s nothing to massage.
 

Colleen spreads her legs wider. Her hips tilt more. She’s pressing into the table, trying to be subtle while being so thoroughly obvious.
 

“The pain runs down the inside of my legs,” she says again.

Goddammit. I just want this to be over with.
 

“Turn over,” I say.
 

Colleen opens her eyes. She watches me, then turns. There’s no bothering with the sheet, which hit the floor on the last turn. She’s entirely naked, but either she has no shame or she's moved beyond it. We all pretend the masseurs here are like doctors — which in my case, given my old credentials, isn’t terribly far from the truth. Of course the women can be naked in here. The body is only a thing to us, no matter how aroused it becomes while pretending not to be.
 

“I’m going to need to work in your bikini area. Is that okay with you?”
 

I ask because I have at least that much dignity left, even though it’s obvious Colleen wants to punctuate her answer with a cannon blast and confetti. Truth is, this area can be worked medically. I’ll make believe we both agree that’s what happening.
 

“Yes.”
 

“It’s easier if I don’t drape you. But of course if you prefer, for modesty reasons …”
 

More cannons. More confetti.
 

“No. It’s fine.”
 

I start to work. Colleen is completely bare — probably waxed by one of our aestheticians, in fact. Her pussy, not more than four inches from where I start trying to find ailing muscles, is rose red, the lips swollen enough to be slightly open. It’s insulting that she thinks I might not notice.
 

But I focus on a small area, massaging lightly at first, then digging deeper. There are hollows up here that most people don’t know are even in there, and I’ve heard people say that working this area feels like being invaded — like the masseur is massaging organs from the inside.
 

But Colleen just closes her eyes and breathes heavier. I can feel her heat.

It’s not Colleen’s fault that I decided a bigger paycheck was more important than the serious work I used to do, and it’s not her fault that my family had a shitty life under the heels of rich people in Amalfi. It’s not Colleen’s fault that she thinks there are thrills to be had in my cabana, since other guests have had thrills of varying degrees and it’s damn near how Thomas bills me to high-rolling bitches. It’s not Colleen’s fault that even my bigger paycheck turned out to be inadequate, and that rent and school loans actually have me shopping at K-Mart.

It’s not Colleen’s fault. But she’s here now, as the feeling finally becomes too much for me.
 

“Right there,” she says, her breathing heavy.
 

I know she means
Move up a bit,
but we’ve finally reached the limits of what she’ll ask. She’s getting plenty of stimulation from where I am.
 

Women have come on my massage table before. It’s rare, but it happens. Usually they tip me exorbitantly, then head back to their rooms to finish the job. I’m pretty sure Colleen won’t need to go anywhere after this except maybe to the pool to cool off, but suddenly that’s not okay with me.
 

Guests usually pretend they’re being turned on against their will so I can act like I’m not doing anything to make it happen. But this time it’s too overt. Too obvious. Colleen has her pussy in my face. This isn’t what I signed up for.
 

I push harder, trying to find the muscles she’s lying about.
 

Colleen exhales again.
 

My fingers are practically stabbing her. It should be acutely uncomfortable. I find tiny knots in minuscule muscles and press them hard, knowing how painful it is when unattended muscles are suddenly assaulted. As things steamroll, I’m practically inside her — but not in the way she wants, or the way that’s usual. What I’m doing is intrusive, and it should be making her scream in pain. Instead, she starts to writhe.
 

I stop. All of a sudden, I just stop.
 

But Colleen comes anyway, past some point of no return. She keeps her hands off her parts, and keeps the movements and noises to a minimum in some remaining farce of civility, but it’s obvious what’s happening. I do the only thing I can think of: turn away to fiddle with my appointment book.
Massagus interruptus
, ended without ceremony or cool down.
 

Colleen winds down and comes to her senses behind me.
 

She picks up the sheet — either suddenly embarrassed or completely unashamed — and leaves without a word.
 

She’ll leave a huge tip. And, ashamed or not, she’ll be back.
 

I’ve never been a failure in this precise way before, and it’s a strange thing to consider:

As much as I tried to hurt her, that fucking cunt got off anyway.
 

CHAPTER TWO

L
UCY

“L
UCILLE
,”
MY
MOTHER
SAYS
, “
ARE
you masturbating in there?”
 

I pause with the brush, now visible as a long black blur at the bottom of my vision, a fraction of an inch from my eyelashes. My mother’s knock and voice, coming through the heavy bathroom door, have me frozen. If someone were watching from outside, they might think I’ve been turned to stone. It’s like Medusa sneaked up behind me and gave me a blast in the bathroom mirror.
 

I’m actually short-circuiting a little, unable to believe my ears. That, and wondering if maybe I should just shove the brush into my eye.
 

I consider my many possible responses.
 

The one I like best is none at all. I’ll pretend I’m not in here. Maybe I can live in my mother’s bathroom. There are five full bathrooms in this place, and Mom’s been a bit fuzzy since Dad died. With luck, I might be able to convince her the bathroom is vacant but locked from inside. She’ll give up eventually. Then I can have supplies delivered through the window, and make a home here.
 

God knows the space is big enough. This bathroom has to be twice the size of my first apartment — and, considering the mints Mom’s cleaning service leaves in bowls beside the sinks, it also contains far more food.
 

I want to remind her that my name isn’t Lucille. It’s Lucy. I haven’t been Lucille since the day the ink on my birth certificate dried, and Mom damn well knows it. Dad named me after a great aunt, but I’ve always been Lucy. Only during these past three months living with her have I somehow become this stranger with the name of a ninety-year-old.
 

There’s probably a psychological reason Mom’s decided to start calling me by my full name, but I suspect she’s just doing it to fuck with me. Or, more likely, she wants to give me another reason to argue with her.
 

She knocks again.
“Lucille?
Are you—”

“No, Mom, I’m not.”
 

“Are you sure?”

I look down. My right hand is still on the mascara brush, but now the heel of that hand is resting on the marble counter. My left is flat on the other side. My jeans are on and zipped.
 

So yes, I’m pretty sure I’m not masturbating, but I appreciate her reminding me to check.
 

“Of course I’m sure.”
 

“If you must masturbate, I’d prefer if you did it in the bedroom. The sheets can be changed in there.”
 

I look around the room. It’s all hard surfaces, save the towels and bathmats. It’s not like there are silk hangings around that I’d use to get off by seesawing them between my legs like an old guy drying his balls.
 

I consider asking just what I could mess up in here by rubbing one out, but I know from experience that it’ll only make things worse. “I’m not masturbating, Mom.”
 

“I understand that you have your needs. I did, before your father.”
 

This should strike me as awkward enough to be funny, but instead it’s just sad. She probably meant that Dad satisfied her enough that she lost all interest in self-gratification, but the reality was surely different. Mom was only a girl when she met Dad — but once they hooked up, he probably beat all the desire out of her.
 

I cross the Spanish tile floor and open the door. Mom stands there in one of those society suits she always wears. She hasn’t attended anything social since moving back to Inferno, but she always has her fashion on and her hair up as if prepared for a charity gala that might occur without warning — the rich lady’s version of a flash mob, perhaps.

“Oh,” she says, seeing me clothed. This is either a reaction to my masturbation-free reality or her impression that I’m able to compose myself so stupidly fast. Like Superman, after
he’s
caught jerking off.