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Chase
THREEYEARSLATER…
Beyond my wildest dreams, Hotel Lush had blossomed into a bustling success. The hotel was booked out two years in advance, with half of the fifty rooms housing permanent guests. Some had come for a night and were still there two years later.
Tourists bused in daily, with guests coming from all corners of the globe. From Italian to Japenese and French, overlapping languages rang through the lobby like an avant-garde film’s soundtrack.
We had poets, musicians, bankers, and world-weary lawyers, all super eager to experience our earthy mix of classic décor blending with a modernist anything-goes approach.
Like me, my beautiful wife worked tirelessly. Driven and in love with our new world, Ivy was responsible for Hotel Lush’s eclectic design that had made our destination hotel the place to be.
Tyrone, our son, ran toward me. He was two going on fifteen and took after his mother, especially with that big smile, bright enough to light up Brooklyn. He certainly lit up my world.
As did Ivy.
We’d married on a Mondaine cruise when Tyrone was one. She preferred to live in sin, Ivy had relayed with that wicked sparkle in her rebellious eyes. But when I promised not to make it a big blown-out affair, she’d agreed to make us official.
Hotel Lush would never have shone without Ivy and her somewhat quirky approach to design—an Andy Warhol meets Toulouse Lautrec, Jackson Pollock, and Dali love child. This “mish-mash approach,” as the two exasperated designers, we’d initially hired had called it, had them and their generic ideas storming out of the hotel, huffing and puffing. They’d pointed their fingers in my face, accusing us of not having a clue.
Well, clueless or not, Ivy was indefatigable, and it had paid off. Each performance space offered its own theme, and people would go from one room to another for a different experience.
I lifted Tyrone, whose rosebud lips were stained. “You’ve been getting into the chocolate again.”
He gave me a guilty smile, and as much as I hated him pigging out on sugar, it was difficult to deny him anything when his big blue eyes twinkled with a hint of mischief, just like his beautiful mother’s often did.
Ivy carried a feathered headpiece, no doubt for her burlesque show. That performance space with its red embossed wallpaper, gilt-framed images of famous burlesque chanteuses, and Tiffany light fittings had proved a smash hit. The dinner show was booked out for the next twelve months.
As the creator of the show, Ivy had turned into a choreographer, dancer, promoter, and a support act to some of the city’s best burlesque artists.
In an adjacent space named “Open Pole,” her pals came and busted their new moves on one of the few poles we’d erected. That mirrored room had also become a popular space, where girls and guys tried out the poles. Only drunken men’s nights were out. It wasn’t that kind of bar. We even laid out gym mats for those overly adventurous types.
What with running Lush, lavishing love on our son and me, her seriously horny husband whose appetite for his wife seemed to grow by the day, Ivy hardly slept.
“Will it fit on stage?” I pointed at the tall, feathered headpiece.
She giggled. “It’s marvelous. I can’t wait to wear it.”
“Jerry Goldstein came in again,” I said.
“He’s eager,” Ivy said. “We’re not doing it, Chase. Please tell me you still feel the same?”
I smiled at how invested she was in our world. Yes, it was our world. We did things how we liked, with no one to answer to, and boy, that felt great.
“What do you think?” I cocked my head. “Of course I said no. There’s no way we’re franchising. He wants the same destination with a replica design in LA and San Francisco.”
She smiled. “It’s a compliment of sorts. But no, this is going to be the only one. We’re in control. The artists rely on us. And I don’t want to raise the rent on the permanents. We don’t need the money.”
I leaned in and kissed her. “I hope you’re wearing those crotchless panties.”
She stepped away with a mischievous grin. “I’m not wearing any.”
We looked at each and laughed. I ran my hands up her muscular, lean legs. “You feel hot.”
“Not now. I’ve got a show to rehearse.”
Tyrone performed a tumble on the Persian carpet at our feet, and we laughed.
“He’ll be joining the revue soon,” Ivy said.
