Hotel Indigo (5 page)

“But Mimi?”
 

“Si,
Marco?”

“I meant what I said, about not … you know … being a man-whore.”

“I know,
cucciolo
.”
 

“The women here like me a lot, and keep requesting me. I have regulars who will only get massages if I do them. Booth has us spritzing ourselves with oil so we look better with our shirts off. It’s all so transparent, what we’re really selling. And he keeps telling me, ‘Make them happy, make them happy.’ And so I do my thing and I lift weights before working and I go ahead and play into the fantasy. Stuff happens on my table, and I know it and the women know it, and if they want to do whatever and think whatever, I don’t discourage them or draw attention to it.”

Mimi says nothing. I’m not exactly making a case for my honor.
 

“But I never touch them. Never like that. Unless it’s something I
want
to do.”
 

“And you don’t ever
want
to?”
 

“I’m human, Mimi. I’m a man.”

“Mmm-hmm.”
 

“But the longer I work here, the less any of this interests me. They’re all fake. They’re all sad. And if they’re not sad, they’re infuriating. I feel sorry for them or I hate them. More and more often, it’s the latter.
Right now,
it’s the latter. I do my job. But even though I’m supposed to massage naked women — and, according to Booth, make them ‘feel things’ — I’m liking it less and less. I’m really starting to despise this job.” I sigh, then finish by saying something that feels more like a pipe dream with each passing day: “I just want to stop feeling like these fucking people own me, and finally build something for
myself.”
 

Mimi does me the courtesy of not responding. I shouldn’t complain — not to Mimi, whose job is a thousand times worse than mine. She could (and maybe should) say,
You have to rub your hands all over women’s bodies in paradise for great pay? You poor, poor man.
She doesn’t, but I won’t try her patience by continuing to gripe.
 

Before either of us can say more, the break room door opens again and I see Booth’s thin and orderly haircut, his stern, professional face.
 

“Marco? Seriously. Chop-chop.”
 

I hold up a hand, then say goodbye to my sister, thousands of miles away.
 

“Step into my office first,” he says. “We need to discuss your tips.”

CHAPTER FIVE

L
UCY

T
HE
WOMAN
RUNNING
THE
FRONT
desk seems to be named Kendall Sharpe. That’s what it says on the brass plate pinned to her rather elegant blouse, on the triangular placard upright beside her computer, and on the door just left of the counter. Kendall keeps rushing from one station to another, checking on something feverishly enough that she must be afraid of a beating.
 

I give her a little smile, which she tries to return in some odd and unwarranted almost-panic.

There’s a tiny plaza across from the hotel with a cafe and two fine boutiques — one for swimwear and one for everyday attire. Both were fantastically expensive, but I hit both before entering the lobby. It was worth the price. I got to walk in here with shopping bags over each bent arm and an honest-to-God bellhop lugging my suitcase behind me, clacking through the wide lobby on spanking-new heels that cost a fortune. I’m Audrey Hepburn — all I need is a cigarette holder and some long gloves.
 

I’m queen of the walk, and I
never
get to be queen of the walk. I’m usually a slave to my mother or Caspian’s glorified assistant.

I tell Kendall that it isn’t a problem. I almost want to cap the sentiment by adding
Dahling
to the end.
 

She retreats into her office and closes the door. I let her go, the smile still on my lips. Smiling is easy. I’ve only been away from my obligations for an hour or so, but feel like I’ve discovered the Fountain of Lost Youth. Nothing can bring me down now.

I’m perched in a fancy-schmancy high-backed chair and feeling fine, when someone bursts out of a door to the right of Kendall’s. This one reads
Thomas Booth, Manager
.
 

I hear: “—fucking
kidding me
, Thomas?”
 

“Keep your voice down.”
 

“Maybe I should turn my fucking voice
up,”
the first voice says, just shy of a shout. I can’t precisely see the speaker (he’s mostly hidden by the door, which is only ajar) but it’s clearly a man. He’s tall, black-haired, and has a voice like a human bear — deep and frightening, the timbre low as if shaken inside a cavernous chest before making its way out through curled lips.
 

“Close the door,” says the second voice. Compared to the black-haired man, this voice is almost high — authoritative but smaller, clipped and sharp.
 

“I guess if I keep this door open, your guests might hear things they shouldn’t, right?”
 

“Marco—”
 

“Shut my mouth, right? Shut my mouth, take off my shirt, pump my shit up, and get back to servicing the bitches for you. Is that about right,
boss?”
The last word is thick with black sarcasm. It’s the way you’d say
boss
if you no longer wanted the title to apply — if you were on your last straw, ready to run across a bridge and burn it behind you.
 

The other man, in a low hiss: “Goddammit, Marco. I said
maybe
.”
 

“Oh. I’m sorry.
Maybe
you’ll steal half of what I’ve earned.”
 

“Close the door.”
 

“Maybe,
even though those are
my
tips that I’ve done the worst sorts of shit to get, you’ll spread half of it across the busboys and chambermaids and the fucking elevator operators. Just
maybe
. Even though none of those people have to work from sunrise to sunset most days with those goddamned sad, pathetic fucking women who are only here because they need to—”

“Marco!”

The sheer force of the manager’s voice stops Marco. I’m on edge in the stillness that follows, somehow sure the big man will turn around. He’ll see me if he does. Then he’ll turn his ire about those
pathetic fucking women
my way.

Instead, there’s mumbling and the door closes again. It’s heavy wood, but parts of the wall are glass. The manager isn’t short, but he seems tiny next to the other man. I’m strangely afraid for Thomas Booth. The animal in his office — Marco, apparently — has the darkest bearing I’ve ever seen. His skin has an almost Mediterranean complexion, but his wild, middle-length hair and half-beard are jet black. From where I’m sitting, his eyes look like pits — maybe because he’s half-squinting, obviously furious. He’s wearing a white T-shirt that makes his tan skin look even darker, and he seems ready to Hulk right out of it. The fabric is stretched tight over an enormous pair of muscular shoulders. When he turns to face away from me, I see that his back is titanic; he’s as thick as he is wide.
 

I’ve never seen such an intimidating beast, lean and large, a freak of beautiful nature. His angry gaze could boil water. He could crush me in one hand, pick me up and carry me away. I couldn’t stop it if I wanted to.
 

I’m staring at the exchange. My heart has moved into my throat. I can barely swallow.
 

“Miss White?”

I jump at the sound of Kendall's voice. I’ve ducked down, as if fearing Marco’s gaze would turn in my direction, She’s five feet away and I didn’t notice. I jerk my head away from Mr. Booth’s office to look at her, feeling something like guilt.
 

“I’m sorry. Did I startle you?”
 

“No.” I take a breath, making an effort to get myself under control. “No, I’m sorry. I was thinking of something else.” I blink up at Kendall and find a cardboard smile. I want to get out of here, put a door between me and the world, and wait until this strange feeling passes.
 

“I’ve resolved the little glitch that was giving me some problems. Computers.” She gives a little moan so I can see how frustrating computers are. “Anyway, your room is ready. You’ll be staying in the Emperor Suite, of course.”

Now I understand the “glitch” that’s been giving Kendall problems. Toward the beginning, she ran in and out of Booth’s office twice before his angry visitor made himself known, as if checking something with the manager. It took time to resolve, but was apparently all a big mistake to begin with.
 

“I didn’t reserve any Emperor Suite.”

“Of course not, Miss White.” Kendall motions nervously for the bellboy to return and grab my bags. “Orders from the house.”
 

CHAPTER SIX

L
UCY

K
ENDALL
HEMS
AND
HAWS
WHEN
I ask her what “orders from the house” actually means, but despite two long hallways and an elevator ride’s worth of evasion, I more or less figure it out before the bellboy accepts his tip and leaves me alone. I’ve seen this before, though it’s usually when I’m with my brother. Caspian White is a big name these days, and naturally the citizens of Inferno Falls know the tale about the local boy making good. I’m not surprised they figured out who I am, and which relatives of the famous billionaire have come back home.
 

So they’ve given me the poshest suite in the place — and because they can’t insist I take something that triples the already-high rate I’d elected to pay, Kendall assured me (frequently, abundantly) that the upgrade is
gratis
. I’m not exactly sure how the economics of this work out for them, considering that they make no more money off me this way, but I’m sure they must have a long-term plan. I’ve come at an off time, so this room probably wouldn’t have been booked at full price regardless. The manager must assume I’ll spend more freely on amenities now that I’m here, or hopes I’ll tell my brother about this awesome hotel. Or tell the rich friends they must assume I have by the dozens. Or hell, the press.
 

Regardless of the reason, I find myself wandering the single largest hotel room I’ve ever seen. It has a bigger footprint than my expensive flat on the Bay back home, and two floors. The suite has two bathrooms, both extravagant. Faucets gleam, and the sinks are low porcelain dishes that sit more on top of the counters than down in them. The Jacuzzi is enormous, and the shower is big enough for six people to party in. There’s a full kitchen I’ll never use, a patio that looks out over the lavish pool, and a bedroom with enough extra space for a game of mini-golf.
 

I flop onto the big, poofy couch and wonder where the television is, but then I notice a remote and a curved slot in the floor, and with a
you’ve-got-to-be-kidding-me
chuckle I realize I can summon a parabolic 4K screen with the push of a button. It’ll rise from below — five feet across if it’s an inch — like a berthing whale.
 

My smile lingers, then fades. The suite is amazing, but it dawns on me that I’m not really comfortable here. I mean, I am — but also not. A strange thing to grapple with.