Hotel Indigo (9 page)

“You’re not like that. You want to fight.”
 

“I don’t know that I—”

“I’m no expert, but I think it’s because you don’t want to let your guard down, like I said earlier. I’ll bet you’re dumped on a lot. Never got the respect you felt you deserved. I don’t want to be presumptuous, but I’m thinking a bad home life, too. Bet you had a dominating father. Should I continue?”
 

“No.”
 

“I’m just trying to answer your question. You wanted me to tell you how you’re different from the other guests. The ones who just want me to touch them.”
 

“Well, keep it to yourself.”
 

“It’s not your fault, Miss White.”

“Lucy.”

“It’s not your fault, Lucy. If you want to relax, you have to step out of your past. To take risks and explore new things.”
 

“That’s enough,” I snap.

He rubs me for a few minutes in silence. But he’s right; I definitely can’t relax now. I’m glad I’m face down, and that he can’t see my expression. It surely betrays me.
 

I just want this to be over. Can I ask him to leave? Of course I can. I can
demand
he go. Hell, I can call down and report him. Maybe even get him fired.
 

But I don’t. I can’t. And for some maddening reason, I’m sure Marco knows it.

“I take plenty of risks.”
 

Marco says nothing. His hands are along the small of my back, bracketing my spine, moving up to work my upper back as best he can around that troublesome bra.
 

“I do all sorts of new things.”
 

I don’t know why I feel the need to convince him.
 

His hands on my back. Working around the straps.
 

Then they’re at the clasp. At first I think he’s just trying to hit a difficult spot, but then I realize he’s undoing it.
 

“What are you doing?”

“Shh,” Marco says.
 

The clasp parts. I feel better already, without the elastic gripping me. Two halves move to my sides, but Marco doesn’t simply lay them there. He tugs the left side down as if I’m supposed to pull my arm through. So, without thinking, I do. Then the other side. I lift up a little when he tugs again and then the bra is totally gone, tossed onto the floor.
 

I close my eyes. This feels wrong, but clearly it isn’t. Who gets a massage with a bra on, anyway? This is how we should have begun.
 

With my face down, I feel rather than see the sheet lift. Only, because he’s moved it down to my waist, it’s not covering all that it did when he lifted it earlier. My back is bare. The raised sheet covers only my bottom half.

I shiver.
 

“Turn over,” he says.

CHAPTER TEN

M
ARCO

I
SHOULDN
’
T
BE
DOING
THIS
.
 

It’s one thing to play along with women like Colleen, who beg for my advances. I’ll do what they want, both of us pretending that what’s happening isn’t really. But that’s different.
 

Lucy isn’t begging. Her defenses are on high alert, and I didn’t help by coming in here with a chip on my shoulder. It’s still there, of course, but now Lucy is more like a challenge.
 

And maybe that, right there, is the final proof that Booth has ruined me. This rich bitch presumes to know me, making some snippy little remark intended to expose me as a sexist, and my response isn’t to do what would make Mimi proud. No. My response is to prove that Lucy has ice up her works. To thaw her a little, because we both know she needs it.
 

But what exactly am I planning to do?
 

I think this as I watch Lucy’s nude back, small red marks still criss-crossing her skin where the bra straps no longer are. I think it as I wonder if she’ll follow my order. Will she roll over with the sheet only on her bottom half, exposing herself to me? And if she does, what next?
 

I don’t know why I did what I did, or why I might be planning to do what I definitely hope I’m not planning to do. Most women throw themselves at me. They book a massage and act like they’re booking the man behind it. Like I’m a toy, a present for their amusement. But that’s
not
what Lucy did. She didn’t want me here, and clearly doesn’t even like me.
 

So what’s the plan? To twist her against her will? Punish her for all I’ve come to resent?
 

My always firm hands are now shaking. Holding the sheet up for her to turn only makes it worse; the blue expanse vibrates like a ship’s sail in the wind. I force them to steady, and my attention draws inward, to my hammering heart and shortened breath. I look down at her, waiting. Anticipating. I’m that nerdy, weak little kid I used to be all over again. Like I’ve never seen boobs, instead of handling dozens daily.

I want her to turn. The longer she takes, the more the feeling grips me. I realize I’m hard. This work
never
gets me hard. Not since my first month, when the sights and sensations overwhelmed me. These days I’m used to it all enough to bore me. But right now my cock is stiff as a board, and if she turns onto her back and then keeps on turning her head toward me, she’ll see it.
 

I’ll want her to unzip me. So I’ll order her to do it, and I’ll bet I can make her. Women like Lucy have a shell. But there’s always an animal beneath it, cooped up for too long, waiting for a time away from the norm to emerge.
 

I imagine her soft hand, taking me out.
 

I imagine her wet lips.
 

But she’s still face-down on the table.
 

And she says, “Get out.”
 

My response is almost like panic. I move the sheet, tugging it northward, bringing it to full length above her. If she turns now, I won’t see anything. Then I’ll lay it atop her, cover her, watch the way it drapes her, find the shape of her breasts and the peaks of her nipples.
 

“I’m sorry?”
 

“Get out,” she repeats. “Just go. Leave your fucking supplies and table. I’ll call the desk and have them retrieve it later.”
 

“I think you misunderstand. I just need you to turn so I can—”

She reaches up and rips the sheet from my hands, wrapping herself in it. Then her head lifts and rage is all I can see in her big brown eyes.

“Get the fuck out of my room, or I’ll call the front desk.”
 

Feeling punched, I step away.
 

I open the door.
 

And then I’m out in the hallway, wondering what I’ve done.
 

Maybe I’ll be fired.

Maybe I’ll be arrested, for sexual assault.
 

I’ll have to tell Mimi.

The door rattles as Lucy turns the bolt and runs the chain.

My fists clench.
 

This is all Booth’s fault.
 

CHAPTER ELEVEN

L
UCY

I
PICK
UP
THE
PHONE
. Put it back. Dial the front desk. Hang up when Kendall answers.

Again.

What the hell is wrong with me?
 

I turn on the TV, still wearing only panties and wrapped in the sheet. The massage table stays where it was, with Marco’s caddy of supplies sitting on a fancy end table. For a while I feel traumatized, but have no luck explaining to myself why that is. I watch some stupid show about home remodeling, then another about finding junk at swap meets.
 

It’s almost four, so I check for messages on my phone, wondering if nerves over lost connections are contributing to my agitated state. But there are no new texts or calls from Mom, nor from Caspian. Knowing I shouldn’t, I check email, sure that I’ve forgotten something vital that’s causing my unease. I check LiveLyfe, then the GameStorming app, and finally the LinkedIn profile that I have but never, ever use.
 

Nobody’s trying to reach me. There are no fires.
 

Mom either got the message or gave up for now. But there’s a third possibility, so I ring her neighbor Irene to make sure the house didn’t blow up or something. Irene reports that Evelyn is out on the patio, clearly visible from where Irene is standing.
 

“Would you like to talk to her?” Irene asks.
 

But no, no, no, I definitely don’t.
 

When I finally put the phone down, it’s 4:30, and I realize I have no explanation for my thoughts and behavior other than that I’ve finally lost my mind.
 

To the phone, I say, “He was harassing me. He had me all alone in here. He might have been planning to rape me.”
 

The phone says nothing.
 

I do an inventory. I look at the massage table, which now seems to be staring at me in accusation. I look down at myself, still a topless mummy. I try to remember the last few minutes before Marco left. What did he do that bothered me so much? What did he say that set off all of my alarms?

The feeling of his fingers on my bra clasp.
 

The warm, sliding sensation of his hands on my skin.
 

And his words:
If you want to relax, you have to step out of your past. To take risks and explore new things
.

At no point did he say he wanted to touch my tits. Though I sort of remember imagining that happening, and it not being such a terrible thing.
 

At no point did he reach below the belt — had I been wearing one.
 

At no point did his hand do what my hand is doing now, as my fingers flick at the elastic of my panties.
 

He was only giving me a massage. Touching me all over with his big, strong hands. He’d just oiled my skin and was covering me with his hot caresses. He was asking me to turn over so he could work on the fronts of my shoulders. On my chest. So he could slip those warm hands all the way down my belly until they slipped inside my panties.
 

And then, when he challenged me again, maybe I’d rise to his taunt. Maybe he’d say,
Women who aren’t uptight let me massage them without underwear on.
So maybe I’d lift my hips and dare him to slide my panties down my bare legs. And he’d work the insides of my thighs. And higher up. And if he did that, it’d be okay, because fuck that guy. He doesn’t know me at all.
 

My finger is on my clit. It moves lower, the tip popping into my wetness.

Jesus Christ. What’s wrong with me?
 

I walk to the bathroom, leaving the sheet in a pile on the floor. I strip my panties, now as bare as the women Marco said he usually massages. How does that work, anyway? I think Marco is a presumptuous, brutish asshole, but plenty of women probably find him attractive. I wonder if he gives happy endings. I wonder, if a client spreads her legs when he’s working down there, if he’ll massage it all.