Hotel Indigo (22 page)

The bed is a cloud. I wiggle my back and sink deeper, cradled by luxury as I look at the screen. The app lets my stalled traffic through bit by bit, so a moment later I see a second text from Marco:
You know what I just realized? I never actually gave you a massage.

Then a third:
We should do that after breakfast.
 

A fourth:
Just a warning. It might be the kind of massage that’s technically illegal.
And there’s a little devious-looking emoji beside it.
 

I nuzzle deeper. And to think, I hesitated to book this trip. I didn’t realize how stressed-out I was. I’d grown used to living in a state of high-tension. I might have snapped if I hadn’t come to the Indigo, if I’d gone another eon without getting laid. And there’s more — something that bothered me deeply last night but that now, snuggled in the protective confines of my heavenly bed, I’ve allowed myself to consider from a distance.
 

What if this doesn’t have to end?

I feel guilty just thinking it. Because it’s not the way things are supposed to be, and I’m so guarded even now, even as I think the unthinkable thought. Because we agreed, both saying that this would last a week, then end forever.
 

But that was when I thought that Marco was just some macho asshole.
 

That was when I thought he was only a fantastic lay, and that I was using him as much as he was using me.

But after last night, I see this new side. Beneath his hard, gruff exterior, he’s this wounded soul that I want to hold close. After he left, I couldn’t stop thinking of how his face had looked at our parting — the small, mutual hesitation before we’d embraced at the door for our longest kiss yet. There was fear in that hesitation, as if we were both thinking the unthinkable.
 

I shouldn’t even be considering this …
 

But I have to wonder:
could
it work? Not because it should or will, and not in the sense that I plan to bring it up. But … as an academic exercise. From a purely logical, dispassionate standpoint,
could
we make it work?

I’ve extended my stay another three days. I’ll tell Mom today, but doubt she’ll flinch. Not considering what her busybody nose is surely already thinking. Not after last night.
 

And in those three days, I’ll feel Marco out. I still don’t want a relationship — no time for that. There’s still nothing here that makes sense; I’m an executive and Marco is working class; he lives in Inferno and my permanent home is in San Francisco. Ours is a fling, based on animal attraction and lust. We should (and
will
, I insist) stick to our original agreement.
 

When this ends, it ends.
 

But …
what if?

I look at the nightstand clock. It’s five minutes until seven.
 

Breakfast first. An erotic massage after.
 

And after that? It’s all the rich and exciting unknown.
 

I allow myself another long minute in the luxury linens.
 

Then I get up and hop into the shower, hoping Marco is right on time and catches me naked and wet.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

L
UCY

I
LOOK
AT
THE
CLOCK
, already knowing what I’ll see. It’s 7:18, not even a full minute later than the last time I looked.
 

I’m sitting cross-legged on my big bed, the farce of delay getting harder and harder to fake. I gave Marco the second copy of my room key a few days ago. He’s been coming and going as he pleases ever since. When my shower was over at five past seven, I lingered in the living room, noisy enough that it’d be plausible for me not to hear someone enter. I kept hoping that he’d catch me half-dressed. That he’d surprise me, and we’d celebrate before breakfast as well as after my massage.
 

But I could only spend so long getting dressed, and making myself up. Normally I wouldn’t bother; I’m a mostly
au natural
girl and always have been. I only did it to eat minutes, and give Marco time to surprise me.
 

But as I wasted those minutes, looking into the mirror while brushing on shadow and lipstick, the act of applying cosmetics turned a sinister screw inside me. With only quiet anticipation around me, my mind wanted to wander. Makeup turned my features exotic, and made me wonder if my usual
au natural
face was too plain. And that sent me down a meandering spiral.
 

I thought of Marco and the hotel, then of how things must have been for him before I checked in — and, of course, how they’ll be after I’m gone and he’s left to forget me. To Marco, I’m one of a thousand single-serving guests. He’s beautiful, sexy, and strong. The women all want him. How could my plain face and body ever stack up?
 

The women I’ve seen this week? Many were past their prime and trying too hard, but some were beautiful, and others flat-out stunning.
 

I think of Marco, and the choices he must have.
 

Then I looked in the mirror, and came to see that I wasn’t just applying makeup to kill time, but to be what he must want me to be. The women I’ve passed in the hallways all week suddenly strike me as being what they’ve actually been all along:
competition
.
 

Why was I thinking this way and ruining the fun?
 

I forced a laugh at my absurdity, then put the makeup away and crossed the room with inflated buoyancy, telling myself that all was well. We have four more days — at least that long to enjoy one another before facing my worries.
 

It’s the thought of ending this all that’s doing it to me. My face is the kind that gets lost in a crowd. That’s usually an asset, because I’m not fond of attention. Now it feels like a curse. Because, in the timeline of Marco’s life, how could he ever remember a face like mine?

So I sit on the bed, cross-legged, and compulsively check the clock.
 

7:20.
 

He could have skipped his workout and planned to meet me after driving in. If that’s the case, he could be stuck in traffic.
 

Or there was an accident.
 

Or — if I want to be truly paranoid — he might have been
in
an accident.

Or …
 

I almost laugh, seeing how stupid I’m being.
 

Marco said breakfast at seven, but I didn’t even reply. I assumed he’d come here, when in fact he might have meant the restaurant.

I text him back and I get his at-work do-not-disturb autoresponse, which he only turns on after starting his shift at the Indigo.
 

I call the front desk and ask for Carlos, because Kendall will interpret any question as loaded. Carlos barely knows me. He’ll give me the facts and nothing more.
 

“Do you know where I can find Marco Mangano?” I ask.

“I saw him a few minutes ago, leaving the restaurant with a room service tray,” Carlos says. “May I ask what this pertains to?”

“I have a massage scheduled,” I say, improvising.

Papers shuffle. “Are you his 7:30?”
 

A smile finally returns to my lips.

Breakfast.
 

A massage.
 

“Yes,” I say.
 

“He should be in his cabana by the pool, Miss,” Carlos says, “waiting for you.”

CHAPTER THIRTY

M
ARCO

J
ILL
WON
’
T
LET
ME
USE
the top sheet.
 

Just two minutes in, she’s discarded the thing, and I have to kick it into the corner to avoid tripping on it. I’ve tried several times to make arguments for keeping it on, ranging from modesty to warmth to some sort of masseur’s code of conduct that doesn’t technically exist. Jill bats them all away with a manner that’s both conclusive and a bit condescending. She tells me she’s a lingerie model, and hardly concerned with modesty. She tells me it’s hot in my cabana, even though at just past 7:30am it’s actually sort of chilly. And as to the code of conduct? I’m sure she’s actively trying to break it from her end.
 

I turn for another squirt of oil and practically knock the silver room service tray to the ground. There’s no room in my cabana for extra shit, but Jill made me run down for mimosas and strawberries before starting. Somehow she effortlessly made it sound like a proper demand, because a VIP guest should be able to have a mimosa and strawberries with her massage. But that doesn’t explain why there are two mimosas instead of one, nor why she kept holding out strawberries when I returned with the tray, asking me to bite them from between her fingertips.

Jill’s an unabashed tigress. She didn’t wait for me to invite her to slip beneath the sheets, or prepare herself while I was running to the kitchen like I asked. Instead, she waited for me to return, then casually stripped. She’d even come in street clothes, so there’d be more to slowly remove. Once down to her bra and panties, she gave me a little wink and said in an
I’m-joking-but-not-really
sort of voice, “Lucky you — do you know all the guys out there who’d pay to see me
out
of the stuff I model? And here I am, paying
you.”
 

A girlish giggle.
 

Then a practiced, understatedly seductive reach behind her back, and the bra came off. She bent from the waist, giving me a rear view, as she slid her panties to the floor.
 

From that point on, no matter how much I argued, there hasn’t been a stitch of fabric between me and the model now sprawled in my cabana.
 

When I turn back to Jill, she strikes me as some sort of horny Sleeping Beauty. She’s flat on her back, arms at her sides, eyes closed, nude body tan and flawless. Her legs are slightly spread. No pubic hair whatsoever. Most of her is slick with massage oil, though I’ve assiduously avoided the hot zones. Still, her nipples are erect and it’s hard to miss the blush between her legs. And yet, as transparent as she’s being, it’s sort of working. My thoughts are on Lucy, but my dick still hardens at the sight of a gorgeous woman naked.

Goddamn stupid cock, just does whatever the hell it wants without even checking in to see what I want.
Who I want.
 

I think about baseball scores. The Queen of England.
 

It works, a little.

Then I look down at the naked lingerie model on the table, and my cock sits up and takes notice again.

Damn it.

“I’ve really been needing this massage,” Jill says, opening her eyes. They’re soft brown and shaped like almonds. Her lips are a wide, blushed bow. It’s hard to believe her hair wasn’t just professionally styled.
 

“We have many excellent masseuses and masseurs,” I say, moving up by her shoulders, rolling my fists into the hollow near her neck. This makes her close her eyes and moan with pleasure.