Hotel Indigo (21 page)

He studied sports massage. It’s more like doctor’s work than relaxation. He got his degree, worked with a few famous athletes. But then the Indigo grabbed him, with a monetary offer too good to refuse.
 

And, most wrenchingly, I learn the story behind his year of celibacy. Marco tells us matter-of-factly that he was almost married, to a girl named Karen. Then she left and he wanted to die, thinking he could never love again.
 

I blink away tears, trying not to consider the truth that so far, I fit the bill of
ever again
. Without the love, of course, because what we have isn’t … well, it certainly isn’t
that
.
 

And Marco, through my mother, learns more about Aaron. About my failed business. About Caspian, when he was younger, and how GameStorming got started. Listening to the family history on my mother’s lips, it’s like she’s forgotten the pain. She tells our story as if from a gilded photo album, not the black bible that Dad’s abuse actually made it.
 

When we leave, Mom takes Marco’s hand and pats it with hers. “You’re good for Lucy. I worry about her so much sometimes.”
 

I don’t rebuke my mother or roll my eyes.
 

I get into the car with Marco and we drive back to the Indigo, with me looking out into the dark night beyond the passenger window, wondering what I’ve done.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

M
ARCO

I
SLEEP
AT
MY
OWN
place after dropping Lucy off, then arrive fresh and early on Thursday morning. It’s my usual time, but now I have a new routine. I’d usually hit the gym, then my cabana, but my new regime is much better. It still earns me a paycheck, and has been operating smoothly for a few days, now that I’ve established a precedent of not booking up in advance.
 

Somehow — and maybe this is a forced adaptation that’s happened while I’ve been on different duty — the front desk no longer has bookings for any given masseuse or masseur. There aren’t scheduled for me or Chloe or Rainfall or any of the guys specifically; there are bookings for massage in general. Kendall seems to divvy clients on the spot as though dealing a deck of cards — whoever’s on duty takes whoever is ready for a massage.
 

So as I’ve been doing in my new routine, I drop by Booth’s office before hitting the gym. I leave him a note that we need to talk, then hit my workout as usual. I shower quickly, and with ten minutes to spare before what
would
have been my first scheduled slot, I return to catch Booth, and make my excuse.
 

For the past few days we’ve developed a little back-and-forth. By now Booth must expect it. I pop in and announce that I’ll be spending the day with Lucy White, to keep her happy. Booth agrees and clears my schedule. Win-freaking-win. I’m getting paid for taking time off, seeing as “keeping Lucy White happy” is what I’d rather be doing anyway.
 

But today when I stick my head in, Booth stands, like someone ready to greet a long-lost friend. He’s wearing this big, managerial-type smile, and his usually-serious face finally looks more like a human’s and less like a robot’s.

He sticks out his hand. It takes me a moment to realize this is prelude to a handshake, so I shake it with questions circling my head.
 

“Do you know who I just got off the phone with?” he asks.
 

“Who?”
 

“Elle Casey.”
 

“Okay.”
 

“That’s Hunter Altman’s personal assistant,” Booth says when I’m unimpressed.
 

“The producer?”
 

“The
billionaire
producer. And one of Caspian White’s friends.”
 

“Oh, I say. Great.” And I understand the greeting. Booth thinks I had something to do with Lucy talking the Indigo up to her network of bigwigs. But it wasn’t at my urging if she did. I’ve barely seen her on the phone in the last few days, and I’ve been around enough to know.
 

“Goddamn right it’s great. He’s coming into town and wants to stay here. They’re trying to figure out when, but he wants to come now.”
 

“Now?” It seems sudden; whenever I book a trip, I’m getting plane tickets months in advance. But I suppose billionaires do things differently than the rest of us, so flitting off without notice is probably typical. I’m sure he has a private jet or a helicopter, probably both.

“Well, he wants the Emperor Suite. But there’s a problem.” Booth is still smiling.
 

“Sure,” I say, playing along.
 

“Miss White called down this morning to extend her stay another three days. At the normal rate.”
 

A curious sensation swells in my chest. I feel suddenly lighter, more interested in joining Booth in celebrating … well, whatever he wants to celebrate.

“That’s great.” I point over my shoulder in the lobby’s general direction. “Well, I should be going.”
 

“No need. I told Kendall not to book any massages for you today.”
 

Well, sure. That was kind of the point and what I’d been assuming.
 

“Thanks,” I say. “I’ll just head up.”
 

“Head up where?”
 

“To Lucy’s …” I stop, then reverse course. I’m supposed to be a professional. “To Miss White’s room.”
 

“Why?” He looks genuinely perplexed.

I don’t want to spell this out, and it’s annoying that he seems determined to make me do so. Officially, as far as Booth is concerned, I’m acting as Lucy’s personal concierge. I’m paying attention to her, taking her places, selling the benefits of a well-spent vacation that she should tell all of her rich friends about. Unofficially, he probably assumes I’m keeping her “happy” in more overt ways.
 

In any case, I have places to go and things to do. Prodding me for details complicates something that’s already working, by both definitions.
 

“Maybe I’ll take her to breakfast,” I say. Although to be honest, I had different activities in mind. I’m full of testosterone from my workout, and it needs an outlet. I figure Lucy will agree.
 

He sort of nods, as if realizing the problem. “You didn’t talk to Kendall.”
 

“About what?”
 

“We have another guest that needs some VIP attention. You were with Miss White, so I’ve been trying to divert, and throw a lot of free services her way. But it isn’t working. She’s fixed on you specifically, and seems increasingly annoyed every time she calls for a massage and is told you’re not available.”
 

“Who?”
 

“She said you met. Jill Wyland?”

The woman from the elevator. The one who might soon be battling Hunter Altman for the Emperor Suite, if either of them manages to successfully get Lucy out of it. That suite is almost never booked at full price, and now we have three contenders. Magic’s in the air.
 

“Tall woman. Brown hair. Brown eyes.” Booth’s eyes dart toward the door and I know he’s about to add something borderline inappropriate. “Unnaturally gorgeous.”
 

“I remember.”
 

“She’s been calling for days, asking for Marco. Kendall can’t put her off anymore. I get the feeling she’s not used to begging, so now she’s getting mad
and
impatient.” Booth gives an
ain’t-we-rascals
sort of shrug, meant to convey the situation’s overflowing ease and fortune. “She keeps hinting that she’d like to stay longer if there’s a reason. Upgrading her to the Emperor Suite the second White checks out should be shooting fish in a barrel, for a man of your charms.”

“But Miss White,” I say.
 

“She’s already extended her stay. Mission accomplished, Marco.”
 

“We still need to keep her happy.”
 

“Not full time, we don’t. If she extends her stay further, so what? It’ll only eat into Wyland’s time in the suite.”
 

“But if she’s telling her friends about the Indigo …” I’m stretching. Lucy’s brother knows Hunter Altman, but that doesn’t mean Lucy’s responsible for his booking. It’s probably coincidence. I pull at the thread anyway, feeling something slip from my grasp no matter how tightly I’m trying to hold it.

“Split your time. Check in on them both. But if you have to pick one or the other, focus on Jill. She needs soothing after the past few days of putting her off. Turn on the magic, okay? Whatever you did to hook Lucy White, do the same with Jill.”
 

I don’t like that word,
hook
. I want to protest, tell Booth that I didn’t
hook
her. I didn’t
bamboozle
or
railroad
or
con
her. But doing so will only make things harder, and get me in trouble for all the work I’ve missed under what he’ll realize were false pretenses.
 

I’m reeling. I came in here as a courtesy, my feet already moving on to Lucy’s room, and the next thing on my list. I’ve mapped out the day in my head. I thought Lucy only had one full day left, so I figured we should make the most of it. Now that she’s extended her stay, I’m torn.
 

I’m delighted that we’ll have more time, given that we both agreed our little
whatever
would end the minute she checks out. We said this affair would last a week; now it’s ten days, and that should feel fantastic. But Booth’s declaration changes everything.
 

Turns out I won’t have as much time with Lucy today as I’d hoped, if any. And forget about capitalizing on the rest of her stay. I’m on Jill duty now.
 

“You’re a miracle worker, Marco. Maybe I should move you to sales.” Booth slaps me on the shoulder and adds, “Maybe it’s time for a big raise.” He’s grinning at me like a co-conspirator, and I realize how much I prefer being against rather than with him. I’m sick, having Thomas Booth on my side.
 

We’re about to part ways when Kendall knocks, then sticks her head into the office. She looks at me apologetically, as if she didn’t realize the office had a visitor.
 

“Sorry to interrupt, Mr. Booth, but Jill Wyland is on the phone again. She wants a massage, but this time she’s flat-out insisting on Marco.” Kendall’s eyes flick toward me, then back to Booth. “If he’s on staff, she says, she doesn’t understand why she can’t request him. She’s sort of threatening to—”

“I’ll talk to her. Thanks, Kendall.”
 

She backs out and closes the door, looking relieved. Booth picks up the receiver. He’s about to stab one of the flashing buttons when he pauses and looks up at me.
 

“Looks like I lied to you. Turns out you’ve got a massage scheduled this morning after all.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

L
UCY

M
ARCO
TEXTS
,
B
REAKFAST
AT
SEVEN
?

I’m in bed when I read it. I shouldn’t keep my phone in the sanctity of my bedroom, especially on vacation. But with the thing neutered so much by the Liberty app, it’s ceased to be a source of stress. Marco’s been texting and calling over these past few days, and that’s turned the phone into a source of small pleasures. Now I’ve come to anticipate these windows of connectivity, between the app’s blockout period expiring and a new one starting.