Hotel Indigo (4 page)

CHAPTER THREE

L
UCY

I
T
TAKES
ME
HALF
A
day to get away from my mother. She doesn’t grab me like a movie damsel demanding rescue, and she doesn’t get in my way, barring the door. Instead she lassos me with guilt.
 

I tell her my decision the next morning, and she grabs me with, “Well, if I’m that big of a burden that you require a vacation during your vacation, then go ahead.”
 

An hour later I hear, “I’m too old to be around anyway.”
 

And then by midday, with my bag carrying only the barest essentials (like a refugee fleeing a war and leaving most belongings behind to burn), I’m in my car before she attempts a hog-tie maneuver with something like, “I’m sure the doctors will call you if I collapse.”

There’s nothing I can do except to keep saying
Yeah-yeah-I’ll-be-back-soon
, then drive off as if my neck were incapable of turning to look back. Even then, I’m all the way to the big boulevard with the flowering trees before I stop feeling like she’s chasing my car.

After that, I try to make myself relax and turn on the radio. But I kill it after two songs — the first commercial is for an eldercare facility, the actors reading a script about how vital it is to care for your parents in their years of need.
 

Well, my mother is in perfect health. Lonely after Dad died, sure. Psychologically fucked-up after decades of a controlling marriage?
Check
. But it’s ridiculous for me to carry that burden alone. My mother’s life belongs to her, and I’ve got a brother who won’t help at all — another thing that’s unfortunate, but again not my fault. I have a life, and a career I’d be losing due to my absence, if Caspian weren’t also my boss.
 

And I have my own ambitions to follow. I love Caspian’s company and I'm proud of it, but GameStorming is
his
thing, not mine.
 

What identifies
Lucy?
What mark has
Lucy
made to prove to the world that she was here? That sort of thing has been on my mind ever since my father’s death. You get used to the idea that life will continue forever, but my family recently received a big reminder that
nope
, it most certainly does not.
 

It’s okay to take some time for myself. To think, to unwind … whatever I need.

Just because Caspian divorced himself from our parents long ago doesn’t mean I need to do double the work any responsible daughter would do. That’s not fair, and Mom needs to realize it.

The silent drive does its work. Forty-five minutes listening to nothing but the sound of tires on pavement puts me in a Zen state by the time I pull up to Hotel Indigo’s valet. It’s as if I’ve driven a convertible instead of a rented Lexus, and the road’s wind has mostly blown thoughts of my most pressing responsibilities from my head. I still feel like Mom is in my back seat, telling me she doesn’t know where anything is without me there to tell her, but her voice is only a whisper. That ghost’s yammering is quiet enough that I can hear a breeze sigh through the trees.
 

I set my bag down, right there beside my car in front of the valet. The sky is cerulean with barely a cloud. The area is quiet, as if the resort and grounds are holding their breath.

And right there, looking up at the architecture, the trees, and the blue sky, it dawns on me that unless I chicken out and run back to my mother’s house, I really do have a week of
me time
waiting.
 

This
never
happens. Dad was sick for a long time back in San Francisco, and I dealt with his illness and Mom’s insanity while still at work, held down the fort at GameStorming while my brother played sex games with the girl who will soon be my sister-in-law. Caspian tied Aurora up in his office while I did all the real work. I literally couldn’t find time to read. And on the few occasions I tried, relaxing was impossible. I knew I’d be interrupted any moment.
 

The thought of taking an hour to read now, knowing I won’t be interrupted, is almost astonishing to consider. But the idea of a full day? Of a
week?
It is, quite literally, impossible to comprehend. I can’t get my mind around that much free time. It’s like considering infinity. Strangely, I stifle a few seconds of panic.
 

What will I do with all that time?
 

I honestly have no idea how to occupy myself without someone bothering me for something.
 

My phone buzzes. I fish it out of my purse and see a text from Mom:
Where did you hide my toaster? I do actually plan to eat while you’re off enjoying yourself.

I dismiss the text without replying. The toaster’s on the counter, right beside the ugly little clock she’s always consulting. But of course, she didn’t text me to find the toaster. She’s bugging me for other reasons, and will surely continue to do so.

I sigh.
 

At least I know I won’t be bored.

CHAPTER FOUR

M
ARCO

I’
M
ON
THE
PHONE
WITH
my sister Mimi when Thomas Booth sticks his head into the break room and says, “Marco. What the fuck. You’re on, aren’t you?”
 

I pull the phone from my face. “Just taking a break.”

“Take a break on your own time.” He’s probably unaware that he’s made the king of obvious statements and done nothing to advance his point. “We’ve got clients lined up.”
 

“There’s nobody on my schedule until 2 o’clock.”
 

Booth looks at his watch. It’s gold and way too fancy. “Well, schedules are subject to change. You know I need you.”
 

I watch him, wondering whether his tiny body could be crammed into a small suitcase. Probably, but only with a few of his limbs broken first.
 

“Are you adding someone to my schedule?” I try to keep my voice reasonable.

“Maybe. Rainfall isn’t coming in.”

“What?
Why?”
 

“She forgot she was working.”
 

“Again?”
 

“She’s absent-minded.”
 

“Well, maybe
I’m
absent-minded.”
 

“You’re not absent-minded. That’s why I count on you so much. It’s why you’re my number one guy.”
 

His fake flattery does nothing to move me. I’ve been here since six this morning and had my first massage appointment at seven. I’ve had nothing but hour-long appointments, and of course Booth booked them back-to-back. I’ve had five hour-long appointments so far, and of course Booth booked them back-to-back. I’m supposed to have at least fifteen minutes to refresh my cabana, get some water, and let my arms rest — but because Booth is a greedy little fucker, I didn’t even get that.
 

I’ve rushed through each transition, trying to make sure the hotel guests are happy, and I've run a little longer with each appointment. Thankfully, only Colleen Blackwood and one other woman seemed interested in overt sexual gratification. The others were only very relaxed and had the decency to run back to their rooms before pleasuring themselves with me in their heads.
 

But either way, I’m beyond beat. It’s 12:40 and my forearms are screaming. I started the day feeling sorry for the loneliest of the guests on my table, but I actively tried to hurt Colleen. If I have to work again before my next scheduled slot at two, I’m going to kill someone. Death by massage.
 

“Maybe I forgot I’m working before two,” I tell Booth.
 

“You’re hilarious.” He gives me that little shit-eating smile of his and slaps the break room’s doorframe twice before backing out and closing the door.
 

“Motherfucker,” I say.
 

I hear a canned little voice. It takes me a minute to remember that Mimi’s still there, and that I’ve let the phone dangle forgotten at the end of my aching arm.
 

I raise the phone to my face. “Sorry, Mimi. What did you say?”
 

“I said, ‘Is that
succhiacazzi
bothering you to fuck more pretty rich women?’”
 

I roll my eyes, wishing Mimi could see me. Even though she lives in Italy, her English is excellent — but she still has that strong accent I’ve mostly lost, and from where I’m standing in this shitty American break room, it carries plenty of implied judgment.

“I really wish you wouldn’t make that joke.”
 

“Oh, it’s a joke?”
 

“Mimi …”
 

“Fine. You’re legit. You are only by the rules. You’re the one who keeps complaining about feeling like a man-whore.”
 

“You know I’m not, though.”
 

“You tell me.”
 

This is all rhetorical. I shouldn’t feel the need to answer, but after Colleen, I do. I’m also self-aware enough to know I’m not trying to convince Mimi — I’m trying to convince
myself
. That awareness makes me feel dirty.
 

“Booth keeps saying that my job is to make the guests happy.”
 

“Especially the happy ending.”
 

I ignore her. “He’s just so
wink-wink
about it. And he changed things slowly. Massages are always clothing-optional, but before Booth started actively pitching me, most of the women left their underwear on. But then he looked at what guests seemed to
really
enjoy most, making some guesses that turned out to be right on the nose, and said we all needed to massage in ‘island attire.’ Shorts only for the men and bikini tops for the women.”
 

“Men go to that hotel?” Mimi sounds genuinely surprised.

“Some. And there are couples. But mostly it’s bored rich women.”
 

“Must be horrible for them.” Mimi drips sarcasm. She’s as sensitive as me on the topic of the poor/rich gap, but her irritation is so much more visible.
 

“If I’m being honest, I do feel sorry for them a lot of the time.”
 

“Really.”
 

“Really. Sure, they’ve got money. But most of them are here because their husbands are always working, or they have mistresses — something more than one woman has told me outright. You look at them and think they have it all together. Perfect wardrobes, jewels, fancy cars, and bodies honed by surgeons. But they’re vulnerable when they’re nude, and the truth comes out. They buy stuff because it’s the only thing that gives them pleasure. They keep themselves in perfect shape because they feel their appearances are what’s most valuable about them — or because they feel it’s their half of the deal with their husbands: the man works, the woman stays home and looks pretty.”
 

“I’d like to have that problem, instead of always working and still being strapped.”
 

I let it go. Mimi works fourteen hours a day across three jobs. Her main gig is as a maid in a hotel that’s much fancier than the Indigo, catering to rich locals and tourists in one of the world’s most exclusive vacation spots. She struggles to make ends meet, and her best days are spent treading water. In order to serve the upper class, she must live somewhat near them. Even with her commute, the price of living is barely covered by what she makes as a near-slave. It makes my substantial debt seem like nothing.

“I’ll have more money to send soon,” I remind her. That’s why I called — and, come to think of it, it’s maybe why I shouldn’t complain about overwork to Mimi. She works harder than I do for less. And although the hotel pays me a base salary, I also get tips and commission. The more massages I do, the more I earn. The more I earn, the more I can send back to my less fortunate family and chip away at all I owe.
 

“I know,” she says. “Thank you.” And that breaks my heart, because Mimi is a proud woman. There was a time when she told me not to send anything. After that, there was a time when she pretended not to want my money, even though she needed it. Now we’ve given up all pretense. I offer to send what I can and Mimi accepts it. I feel like I’m killing her soul whenever I try to save her. And the same goes for the rest of my family still across the ocean.