The Falling (Brightest Stars, #1)(58)

I placed a hot towel on his back. The moist heat would help relax his muscles and make the treatment more effective. I took another hot towel and wiped his arms and feet. In silence, I focused on his soft skin, taking in his scent: cedar and campfire, I think. And definitely bar soap. Kael was not the body-wash type.

I started to pump peppermint oil into my open palm but stopped when I remembered he had refused it in prior sessions—that curt no being one of the first of his monosyllables. I rubbed my hands together to warm them, although I would have loved to surprise him with icy fingers on his warm skin. A little bit of payback for the merry-go-round he had me on.

I was getting myself worked up again. In fact, I was about two minutes away from telling him to get off the table and get the hell out, or at least explain what his deal was. I was already regretting having opened up to him. All that stuff he knew about my mom, my dad . . . about me. I turned the music up on my phone. Banks. Let her tell Kael that I was tired of his waiting game. I made sure that the music was loud enough for him to hear the words, but not loud enough to disturb any other patrons. See—still professional.

Kael’s black sweatpants weren’t torn at the hem, or faded to purple like most of mine were. Black cotton can do that, turn the color of eggplant. And it always happened to my clothes after a few washes. Another problem I had with purple. And today, the purple glow of everything in the room was annoying me.

In that moment, I felt fortunate to have seven brains in my head, all thinking different things at the exact same time. Again, the flash of us alone together. Kael dropping his emotional armor. Leaving those invisible bodyguards outside. It was my own little streaming service, and thank goodness I could switch between channels so that the next fifty-five minutes wouldn’t be awkward, for either of us.

Comedy? Drama? Home improvement?

Take your pick, Karina.

It was good for me to think about other things while I rubbed the balls of his feet, while I ran my palms up his left calf. Tylenol. I’d drop by the drugstore after work and pick some up. What else did I need—shampoo? I tried to push the leg of his pants up a little, but it was tight at the bottom. His phone started to ring in his pocket, but he didn’t answer. I couldn’t bring myself to be nosy enough to ask who it was. I’ve never seen anyone ignore so many phone calls.

I was about to tell him that most clients prefer to turn off their phones, that they find the interruptions jarring. But who was I kidding? Kael wasn’t like most clients.

I moved up the back of his thigh, around his hips, gliding my hands along his bare back. I tried to think of what movie I’d watch when I flopped down on the couch after work, but it was hard to think of anything other than the muscles along his shoulders, so prominent under his soft, dark skin. Right under his shoulder blade, there was a spot so knotted that it had to be giving him some kind of pain whenever I pressed into it.

“Does this hurt?” I asked him.

“Yes,” he replied.

“Like all the time or right now?”

“Aren’t those the same thing?”

“No.” I pushed the side of my thumbs into his muscle.

“Oh, yeah. That hurts all the time.”

“You didn’t say anything before.” I hadn’t remembered feeling it the last time he was here, and there was no way the muscle would pull that tight in a matter of days.

“Why would I?” he asked. I wished I could see his eyes as he spoke.

“Because it hurts?” I pressed harder than normal, and he groaned. The tissue separated under the pressure of my touch. “Because I asked you?”

“Everything hurts,” he said. “My whole body. All the time. I’m used to it.”

He was so casual when he spoke about what his body had been through. I was close to finding out more, but his phone ringing saved him from letting his guard down with me.





CHAPTER FORTY-ONE




I loved my job. Healing people, offering them relief, both mental and physical, and being able to alleviate pain and soothe others using my hands. My career was my passion. But I didn’t love the stereotypes. I had worked hard to become a massage therapist, taking classes in anatomy, bodywork, physiology, even psychology and ethical business methods. I had practiced countless hours, passed my massage and bodywork exam, got my license. All that and still I had to deal with those classless jokes about happy endings.

I remember the first time someone implied that I was a sex worker in scrubs. He got a gleam in his eye when I told him that I worked as a massage therapist. I had been sitting in a coffee shop, minding my own business, enjoying a latte and a book, when this older guy sat next to me and asked me what I was reading. We chatted for a bit—he seemed nice enough. That is, until the conversation came around to what each of us did for a living. He told me that he was a lawyer at this prestigious firm. I could tell that he was trying to impress me by name-dropping some big clients and talking about billable hours.

I told him that I was a newly licensed massage therapist and that I was really happy to be starting my career; I was going on about wellness and the whole mind-body connection and the undeniable growth of the self-care wellness industry, when he raised his eyebrows, leaned in close to me, and said, “Oh, you work at a massage parlor?”

I explained to him that calling it a parlor was offensive in today’s world, and he let me know how tired he was of being called “offensive.”