Free Hotel Indigo by Aubrey Parker

second, if I were into booty calls, but that’s all I need in my life: one drugged-out lost party boy nearing crisis as his thirtieth birthday approaches.  
    “Let me come and see you, Lucy.”  
    “No thanks, Hunter.”  
    He sighs.
    And I hang up.  
    The phone buzzes again. I’m ready to pick it up and tell Hunter to stop bothering me about his One That Got Away, but the screen says it’s my mother this time, asking if I can run home and show her how to work the can opener.  
    I’m rolling my eyes when the phone shows me a new notification: an email from Caspian. He lets me know that he just left Hunter, and that I might get drunk calls, because we both know how he is. Then Caspian appends a trademark P.S.: he hopes I’m having fun on my vacation, but lets me know that he hasn’t stopped adding to my to-dos in the meantime. He helpfully tells me (just so I know) that if I were anyone else, I’d be fired by now.
    I love my brother. I love my mother. I even love my brother’s drunk friends.  
    But I turn on my app to disable the phone for another block — this time for twelve hours. I do it quickly, before I can reconsider whether it’s smart to go radio silent for such a long time.
    This done, I call down to the front desk and ask Kendall to look up an old friend’s local number. I don’t have her new cell number, but I know she still has a house phone.
    “Her name is Anna Dufresne,” I say, and then I spell the last name. “Oh, and Kendall?”  
    Kendall’s voice brightens as she asks how else she can help me.  
    “While you’re at it, please find me a good restaurant to meet her at nearby.”
    I look at my phone. I think of Mom, Hunter, and Caspian.
    “A restaurant with really strong drinks,” I add.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN
    M ARCO

    I’ M IN MY CABANA AFTER hitting the employee weight room for an afternoon session. I’m sweaty, and trying to decide if I can get away with being clammy for my female clients rather than spritzing myself with oil. It’d save so much time. I wouldn’t need to shower or need to spritz. Win-win.  
    I’m interrupted by Roger, the bellhop with the harelip. Roger has it in for me. He seems to think he’s a ladies’ man, but similarly thinks I’m deliberately trying to steal every female guest out from under him. I used to point out the many ways in which he’s living a deluded fantasy, but I’ve given up.
    “Thomas wants to see you,” he says.  
    “I have a client in ten minutes.”  
    “Chloe is going to cover for you.”  
    “Chloe is a woman.”  
    “And your first client is a lesbian.”  
    I consider this bit of gossip. I didn’t know Paulette was a lesbian, but it might explain why I’ve never had her. Chloe isn’t going to do sexy stuff to Paulette or anyone — it’s possible, in fact, that I’m the only one encouraged to cross certain lines of propriety as part of the job. But what Roger’s implying is true, and Booth would agree: there’s little to be lost by letting a woman uninterested in men be traded away from this facility’s only real man-whore.
    I meet Roger's eyes and tell myself what I told Mimi: despite the joking, I’m not a gigolo. But I know what Roger thinks.  
    Two minutes later I’m wearing a shirt and opening Booth’s office door. He’s on the phone but looks up to see me and offers a come-and-sit gesture. The way his eyes linger tells me all I need to know.  
    I’m in trouble.
    Booth hangs up, then folds his hands on the desk blotter and looks me over. This appraisal lasts a long ten seconds, then: “What happened earlier?”  
    “I don’t know. Check the CNN homepage.”  
    “Don’t be a smartass, Marco. You know what I mean.”  
    “No, I don’t.”  
    I can guess, of course. I’ve had an unshakable gnawing in my gut ever since leaving Lucy White’s room. I’ve had two massage appointments — both in my cabana, as things should be — since then, but I can still feel Lucy on my fingertips. I