Hotel Indigo (23 page)

When the moan passes, Jill says, “I tried them. But none were strong enough.”
 

“Most clients don’t want ‘strong’ at the Indigo. That’s more of a deep-tissue thing.” Then to sharpen the point I add, “Painful rather than relaxing.”

“And they don’t have your big hands.”
 

I don’t think a response is required, so I let it go. Jill’s hand shifts, seemingly intent on “accidentally” brushing me. I dodge, and doing so makes me bump the table’s edge. I feel something in my pocket, and an
oh-shit
moment descends.
 

Lucy
.

I forgot to let her know I couldn’t meet her first thing. I sent her a bunch of texts last night, knowing she probably wouldn’t get them until this morning thanks to that blocker app on her phone, but those texts promised 7 a.m. According to my supply table clock, it’s 7:34 now.
 

I had one thought, after Booth shanghaied me, then rushed me off to this impromptu 7:30 massage: that I needed to text Lucy with my regrets. But my arms were full. By the time I unloaded, bombarded by Kendall and her many neuroses about various guests and demands from Booth, it slipped my mind.
 

Jesus.
It’s been more than half an hour. She’s going to think I stood her up — because that’s exactly what I inadvertently did.
 

I pick up a towel and mop off my hands, then reach into my pocket as Sleeping Beauty rolls toward me.
 

“Hey,” she says, her tone good-natured but chiding, “no cell phones while with a client.”
 

“I’m sorry. I just remembered something important.”
 

“I feel your tip
dwindling
…” She stretches the last word out into a sing-song.
 

“It’ll just be a second.”
 

But as I try to stab out a rapid-fire message to Lucy, I realize that my do-not-disturb is still on. I’ve developed this automatic habit of turning it on right after grabbing my gym bag from the back of my truck. I don’t even think of it, and it seems I have to turn off DnD before I can send. A dumb feature, and one I’ve never had reason to notice before.
 

I feel a tug. I reach down to see that Jill has hooked two fingers into my waistband and is pulling me toward her. She probably means to playfully drag me away from my obligations and back into the sphere of her attention (or rather, my attention upon her), but because I’m shirtless as ordered and the shorts have an elastic waist, they stretch before pulling me. A triangular window opens at my waist where she’s tugging, providing me a view of my own junk. But what’s worse, the shift exacerbates the position of my hard cock, which I’d managed to tuck up high to eliminate the tent. It’ll be tricky to get that thing back under control.
 

“Put the phone down, Mr. Masseuse.”
 

Her fingers are still in my waistband. She’s expertly shifted up on one elbow in just such a way that her boobs are pushed up, glistening with oil. Her torso is rotated but her ass is still flat, so her legs are at their slightly-opened angles. Her eyes flick toward her own crotch. I instinctively follow, then realize I’ve been rooked:
caught looking at her pussy,
she’d say if anyone asked.
 

I want to smack her hand, say in no uncertain terms that this is not a sexual encounter and never will be. But two things stop me. The first is Booth’s demand that I make Miss Wyland happy and his concordant mention of a raise; the second is the simple fact that I’ve been
wink-wink-less-than-professional
in the past.
 

I don’t ever do anything to get women off, but I let them look when they want to. And I pretend not to notice when they want to touch themselves or squeeze their thighs together under the sheet. More than one orgasm has happened in this place, no matter how innocent I’ve been — and those orgasms, in one way or another, have helped pay my salary. And my sister’s rent in Italy.
 

Jill watches me with catlike eyes. She licks her lips, then bites the lower one. Out of the corner of my eye, I see her legs shift; she’s brought her feet up a little, knees bent, open like a gate. I won’t look over. Because her new position has practically given me a target — a ready hole, no longer the suggestion of a slit.
 

She still has my waistband. We’re both perfectly still, as if waiting to see what will happen.

Jill’s eyes look down, then up again. She raises her eyebrows slightly in an
I-dare-you-to-stop-me
expression, then pulls my waistband again to expand the gap I closed by moving toward her.
 

My phone is still a brick in my hand.
 

Jill rolls forward a little, then looks straight down my shorts. My cock is still hard, traitor that it is. “Look what we have here,” she purrs.
 

Then Lucy enters my cabana, the wide smile retreating from her face.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

L
UCY

O
NE
PERK
OF
BEING
IN
the high-rolling Emperor Suite is the ability to lock out the elevator. Doing so feels far less dramatic than putting the chain on my door, so I do it. Marco isn’t stupid; he’ll know that I did it on purpose. But I can still lie when he asks, still pretend I wasn’t hurt by what I saw, even though it killed me.
 

This is
very
important. Because we’re temporary fuck buddies, and nothing more. Fuck buddies don’t get angry or upset when their opposite gets some wick-dipping on the side, because such relationships aren’t about feelings. They’re about sensations and pleasure. They’re about
now
, with no thought for the future.

My phone rings. I forgot to turn Liberty back on after Marco’s morning texts, because I was all excited about an itinerary that now makes me feel like an idiot.
 

The call is from Marco. I decline it.
 

I’m being ridiculous. Fair or not — regardless of our fuck-buddy agreement — what happened today makes perfect sense. My more logical thoughts from earlier are all true. Marco
does
see beautiful women all day long, and they
do
throw themselves his way. Compared to them, I
am
plain.
 

I’m not wild in bed. I’m not a free spirit without baggage. I’m not down for wild times other than right now, while on vacation. I live in San Francisco. We’re from vastly different backgrounds and social circles. What was he ever going to be, other than a cock to please me until it found a better place to play?

The woman in Marco’s cabana — the one who was naked on his table without so much as a sheet over her, about to reach into his pants and grab for candy — was flawless. Stunningly beautiful. She had a body I could only dream of, with nary a bit of fat or single imperfection. Marco himself is flawless. So why would he
not
be with her?

The phone rings again. Marco. Again I send it to voicemail.
 

I call Anna. She doesn’t answer. But after I leave her a message, I can’t sit still, and the phone seems to vibrate in my trembling hand. A thousand emotions are fighting inside me — evidence that my hypothetical
what if
scenarios involving a future life with Marco weren’t as hypothetical as I pretended. I told myself they were academic exercises. But who was I fooling? I’ve let myself believe this could be something else, more than what it was supposed to be.
 

I need to talk to Anna. I flat-out
need
her. So I try again, but of course I get voicemail.
 

Who else?
 

Caspian? No, we’ve never had that kind of relationship.
 

Mom? Oh God no. For a thousand reasons.
 

The phone rings in my hand again, but before I can hang up I see that this call isn’t from Marco.
 

It’s Hunter.
 

I must be desperate, because I answer the call. And when Hunter replies to my
Hello
, he sounds blessedly clean, not drunk or high at all. This is his PR voice, the one he uses in interviews.
 

The public loves Hunter Altman. He’s rich, famous, funny, charismatic, and handsome as hell.
 

“I’m in town, staying at the Hilton for a while since you’ve got the Indigo’s best suite,” he says, giving me the laugh that’s charmed the world. Then there’s a pause, into which I find myself tumbling like Alice through the looking glass. And when he speaks again, the laugh is gone, and Hunter Altman is uncharacteristically sober and serious.
 

And he asks, “Can I see you, Lucy?”

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

M
ARCO

J
ILL
WILL
COMPLAIN
. B
UT
FUCK
her. I’m sure every straight guy here wants to take a ride on that woman, but to me she’s obnoxious. I stop to consider the irony as I walk away from the elevator: There was a day not long ago that I’d have given my left nut to fuck a woman like Jill Wyland. Goes to show that the minute we realize we can have something, pursuit becomes a lot less interesting.

I left Jill in my cabana — to rub herself silly, if she wanted — and ran across the deck with a confused boner quickly deflating, losing ground to Lucy’s head start as some fat lady pushed an inflatable lounger out of the pool in front of me. By the time I hit the lobby, Lucy was on her way up to her room, and by the time I got another car, the elevator had decided it didn’t want to let anyone else ascend.
 

She’d locked me out.
 

Goddammit, I didn’t do anything!

But that right there gives me pause, because it makes me wonder at everything that just happened. It shouldn’t matter if I “do anything,” given that Lucy and I are only a fling. But in the crazy event that I’d turn down a naked lingerie model for Lucy (which makes no sense), I shouldn’t care if I get credit for resisting.
 

The way this should work is, I fuck who I want, and Lucy fucks who she wants. We don’t
make dates.
We don’t
have unspoken agreements
. Her reaction to finding me is as ludicrous as the knee-jerk way I sprinted after her to explain it was nothing. We’re both fools.
 

Yet here I am, shirtless and oily outside the elevator with two declined calls, my stomach dropping like a plane without engines.

I call Lucy again. This time it rings several times before I get voicemail, as if she’s finally thrown her phone out the window instead of declining the second I call. Her recorded voice stirs a strange emotion. She’s vaguely happy in that recording, not knowing at the time how much something in the future might hurt her.
 

“Lucy,” I say after the beep, “We need to talk. Call me back, okay?”
 

But I don’t hang up. I’m talking to a computer, but I still imagine Lucy’s face, her hands on her hips, aching and waiting for more.

“She’s a really important guest. That’s what Booth said, anyway. Whatever, fuck her. But Booth called me in. Told me I had to take this massage. I forgot to text you back. I’m sorry.” I feel myself rambling, but I can’t stop. If I pause for too long, Lucy’s voicemail will hear silence and decide the call is over, and I’ll be left with the incoherent mess I’ve already spewed. “I was going to just do the massage and come up to your room right after. I was going to text to let you know. I had my phone in my hand when you …” I feel dumb. This is unraveling like an ancient sweater. “Look. What you saw? Nothing happened. Nothing was
going
to happen. She’s … aggressive. And I guess she likes me. But that was all her doing.
Her idea.
She wouldn’t even wear the fucking top sheet, Lucy. Kept coming on to me. Saying stuff. Trying to touch me.”