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
Yvette Hines, Monique Lamont