Hotel Indigo (25 page)

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

M
ARCO

I’
VE
BEEN
TRYING
L
UCY
FOR
almost an hour when I look up and see Kendall eyeing me as if she thinks I’m about to accuse her of something. It’s like her earlier expression, when she told me about the man in the limo — Lucy’s brother, I assumed before being corrected.
 

“What?”
 

The word leaves my mouth flat, more statement than question. The lobby is quiet at midday, and I’m sitting in one of the puffy chairs like a paying guest. I’ve been sitting here, half-dreading and half-hoping for Booth’s inevitable arrival, since Lucy ran off.
 

On one hand, when Booth returns from whatever errand he’s on and discovers what I did with Jill Wyland, he’s going to lose his shit, and seeing me slouching around in the lobby won’t make things any better. But on the other hand, if he comes over here while I’m trying to reach Lucy, he’ll at least give me someone to hit.
 

But Kendall — currently the only person in the lobby other than some old guy sipping coffee and swiping his iPad — says nothing.
 

Her eyes are wide as saucers, though.
 

“What, Kendall?”

“Nothing.”
 

“You keep looking at me. Why are you looking at me?”
 

“Women look at you all the time.”
 

She’s a terrible liar. As I fix her with a stare of my own, she gets more flustered. Her eyes flick to her computer screen.
 

“What is it, Kendall? What’s happening?”
 

“Just checking the day’s guest register.”
 

I stand and walk toward her. She clicks the mouse and taps at her keyboard.
 

I lean on the counter’s polished wood. “Show me.”
 

“Why do you care about the guest register?”
 

“Why do
you?”
 
I’ve never worked Kendall’s position, but “checking the guest register” sounds phony to me. She checks people in and out. She manages the staff. She negotiates group bookings and liaises with the concierge. I sort of doubt one of her essential duties is to look at a list of who’s in the hotel … just because.
 

“What are you looking at on there?” I ask, reaching for her screen.
 

“Nothing.”
 

“Let me see.”
 

“No. It’s … confidential.”
 

This time I give my eye roll all the energy I can muster and audibly sigh, then snatch Kendall’s mouse and click away from the admin window to the web browser she’s hidden behind it. Plain as day I see Lucy.
 

With some handsome guy in a suit.
 

Entering a hotel together.
 

“Who is that?” I ask, wondering why this photo exists, why the paparazzi would ever care to publish it on a website.
 

“Marco …”
 

“Who is it, Kendall? You said you recognized him.”
 

“Hunter Altman.”
 

This takes a second. Then I have it. “The music producer?”
 

“Yes.”
 

“The one on all the talk shows.” Another tumbler clicks. “The one who’s friends with Caspian White.”
 

Kendall nods.

“The one who’s famous for his womanizing.”
 

“He’s famous for other things,” Kendall says. “Blonde Ambition is one of his acts. Have you heard their new album?”
 

“She’s mentioned him,” I say, pieces falling into place. “I think he’s called her. This week.”
 

“Oh. That’s nice.”
 

I look at the screen, showing one of the media’s favorite philanderers traipsing into a hotel with the woman who … well, the woman I’ve been philandering with.
 

The thought raises a red surge inside me. The desire for Booth to confront me grows even stronger. I want someone to fight with, and maybe strangle.

My fingers are white as I grip the mouse. My face is burning.
 

Why am I reacting like this? What have I even seen? Just one photo. And come to think of it, what would Lucy owe me, if this is truly what I fear?

I feel something. I look up to see that Kendall has slid her small hand over my big one. Her fingernails are painted white.
 

“I’m sorry, Marco.”

I shake it off. “Why?”
 

Kendall kind of shrugs. “You know.”
 

The rage is suddenly gone. Entirely. I can only meet Kendall’s pitying eyes, not wanting her sympathy nor feeling I need it, and wait for the seconds to pass.
 

I’m not angry.
 

I’m something else.
 

I slip my hand away and turn before Kendall can say anything else. In my peripheral vision, I see her hand rise a little, then fall as I walk away.
 

I pace slowly back to where I was. But this time, I don’t sit. It’s like I’ve forgotten how. I pull out my phone, and before I know what I’m doing, I’ve tapped Lucy’s entry yet again.
 

She won’t pick up.
 

I’m embarrassing myself.
 

Ruining myself.
 

I may already have got myself fired, and now I’m digging for … for what? Emasculation?
 

I wait for Lucy to decline my call as she’s been doing since the cabana.
 

But she picks up instead.
 

She doesn’t say hello. I miss the days of house phones, where she wouldn’t have known it was me calling until after I opened my mouth. Where she’d have to say
Hello
either way, just to start the ball rolling with her unknown caller.
 

But she knows it’s me. She’s opened the line, but said nothing.
 

Then we both talk. Words overlap and I can’t make sense of either speaker, even though I’m one of them.
 

“You go,” she says.
 

“No, you.”
 

A sigh. Then, “I’m sorry I made a scene by the pool.”
 

This isn’t right. She’s not supposed to apologize about that. I am.
 

“I probably got you in trouble. You were with a client. That wasn’t fair of me.”
 

I hate this. “It wasn’t what you thought.”

“I don’t need to ‘think’ anything. It’s not my business.”
 

“Lucy, I—”
 

“I don’t think this turned out the way either of us meant it to. That’s my fault. And I’m sorry.”
 

“Stop apologizing to me.” I want to add:
Get angry. Shout at me. Tell me I’m worthless. Tell me you hate my guts.
Anything but this acceptance, blame-taking, and apology.
 

“I’ll always remember this week, Marco.” I swear there are tears in her voice. “I want to remember it forever. It meant something to me. I want you to know that.”
 

“It’s not over.”
 

Quietly. “It is. It has to be. You know it does.”
 

I wish she’d scream at me. This kindness — this understanding — is worse than any blade.
 

“Thank you, Marco, for killing my fear.”
 

Words are impossible.
 

“And I hope I helped you with yours.”
 

“I still can’t sing in public.” I don’t know why I say it.

“That’s not the fear I meant,” Lucy says.

“I want to see you.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea. For either of us.”
 

“Tomorrow. Breakfast tomorrow, to make up for today.”
 

“Marco.”
 

I close my eyes.
 

And she completes her sentence: “I’m leaving in the morning.”
 

“But you extended your stay.”
 

I can almost hear her shaking her head. She doesn’t say that she cancelled those extra days, but I’m suddenly sure that’s what got Kendall searching the Internet for signs of Lucy White and a famous abductor.
 

“I’ll miss you, Marco. But it’s time to for me to get back to the real world.”
 

“Don’t say that. Don’t do this.”
 

“Every fantasy,” she tells me, with a hitch in her voice, “must eventually end.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

L
UCY

T
HAT
NIGHT
I
HAVE
A
dream.
 

It’s not about my mother, who I’ve been dreading facing tomorrow. It’s not about Caspian, whose piled-high workload surely awaits me. And it’s not about Hunter, whose story struck me as so much sadder than my own. He said I could stay at the Hilton, but my stuff was back here. And what’s more, Hunter seemed to realize he’d been too vulnerable as day pressed into evening, and to compensate he drank until he could barely walk.
 

Then he got mean and condescending — fully Asshole Altman now, eager to punish me for the secrets he’d told me himself. He’ll call in the morning, full of apologies. But I’m not in a relationship with Hunter, so it won’t matter. I’m not in a relationship with anyone. I don’t want a relationship. Not now. Maybe not ever.
 

I dream of Marco.
 

I dream that in my semi-sleep, with the window open to invite in a surprisingly cool breeze, and the curtain gently stirring, I hear the door to my suite swing open.
 

I dream that I hear footsteps crossing the main room.
 

I dream that I hear the slight creak of the bedroom door.
 

I dream the ghost of movement behind me, then feel the stirring of sheets. The top sheet lifts. The bed shifts and sighs with newly added weight. Then I dream a hand, sliding along my arm and encircling me. Strong, but not hard or rough — a healing hand, made for pleasure.
 

Marco spoons me, and the fog of semi-sleep departs. I realize I’m not dreaming at all.
 

Of course. He has my key.
 

And of course, I unlocked the elevator when I went down to meet Hunter.
 

He’s warm behind me, curled along my backside. I feel like he’s joined me, as if we’re not two people but one. Together we’re invincible. I’m the middle. He’s the armor. Nothing can harm me while I’m in Marco’s embrace.
 

I’m only in panties. But his hand is polite, staying around my middle rather than cupping my breasts.
 

“Marco …”
 

I trail off. I don’t know what else to say. So I stop speaking, because if I continue, sense will intervene and I’ll ask him to leave.
 

I’m still looking forward, through wind-parted curtains, to the moon.
 

A gentle finger pushes a stray lock of hair behind my ear. “I don’t want you to go.” He’s closer to me than I thought.
 

“I have to.”

“No, you don’t.” Another brush of his fingers. “I won’t let you.”
 

I turn. See his face in the moonlight. His stubble is jet black, like a shadow that the blue illumination can’t quite banish.
 

“I didn’t touch her, Lucy. I need you to believe me.”
 

He doesn’t have to say who he means.