The Falling (Brightest Stars, #1)(6)

He was on the table in the center of the room with the white blanket pulled up to his waist. I rubbed my hands together. My fingertips were too cold to touch someone’s skin, so I walked over to the sink to warm them. I turned on the faucet. Nothing. I had already forgotten Bradley’s warning, and for the last hour, I’d managed without water.

I wrapped my hands around the oil warmer on the edge of the sink. The burner was a little too hot, but it did the trick. The oil would be warm on his skin, and he probably wouldn’t notice that the water wasn’t working. It wasn’t convenient, but it was manageable. I hoped that whoever worked last night’s closing shift had put clean towels in the warmer before they left; I always made sure to do that.

“Any specific areas of concern or tension that you’d like me to focus on?” I asked.

No answer. Had he already fallen asleep?

I waited a few beats before I asked again.

He shook his shaved head in the face cradle and said, “Don’t touch my right leg. Please,” adding the flat “please” as an afterthought.

I had requests from people all the time not to touch certain parts of their bodies. They had their reasons, from medical conditions to insecurities. It wasn’t my business to ask. My business was to make the client feel better and to provide a healing experience. I hadn’t looked at his treatment form—actually, I don’t even think I’d asked him to fill one out. Mali was the one who’d checked him in, so maybe she did?

“Will do. Would you like light, medium, or deep pressure?” I asked, grabbing the little bottle of oil off the cabinet shelf. The outside of the bottle was still really hot, but I knew it would be the perfect temperature when it hit his skin.

Again, no answer. Maybe he was hard of hearing. I was used to this, as well, working outside a military installation; all forms of difficulties and disabilities from war were familiar and welcome here.

“Kael?” I said his name, though I didn’t know why.

His head popped up so quickly, I thought I’d frightened him. I jumped a little myself.

“Sorry, I just wanted to know what level of pressure you wanted.”

“Any.” He didn’t sound like he knew what he wanted. Probably a first-timer. He put his head back into the cradle.

“Okay. Tell me if the pressure is too light or too firm and I’ll adjust my touch,” I told him.

I could be a little heavy-handed and most of my clients liked that, but I’d never worked on this guy before, and everyone was different.

Who knew if he’d ever come back? I’d say only four out of ten first-timers actually returned and only one or two would become regulars. We weren’t a big salon, but we had a steady clientele.

“This is peppermint oil.” I dotted the little bottle against my forefinger. “I’m going to rub some into your temples. It helps with—”

He lifted his head up, lightly shaking it. “No,” he said. His voice wasn’t harsh, but it let me know he absolutely did not want me to use peppermint oil. Okay . . .

“Okay.” I screwed the lid back on the bottle and turned the faucet. Damn it. The water. I knelt down and opened the towel warmer. Empty. Of course it was.

“Um, just a second,” I told him. He laid his head back into the cradle and I shut the warmer door a little too hard. I hoped he didn’t hear it over the music. This day was turning to shit and I was only on my second client . . .





CHAPTER FIVE




Mali was in the hallway when I pushed through the thin curtain to search for towels. “I need water. Or warm towels.”

She put her fingers to her lips to tell me to hush. “There’s no water. I have towels. Who didn’t stock?”

I shrugged. I didn’t know and didn’t really care, but I needed a towel quickly. “He’s been in my room for five minutes and I haven’t started yet.”

At that she moved faster, disappearing into the room across the hall and popping back up with a few hot towels. I grabbed them from her, shifting the steaming bundles from palm to palm to cool them off.

When I got back into the room, I waved the towel through the air one last time and rubbed it across the bottom of his bare feet. His skin was so hot to the touch that I pulled the towel away and touched the back of my hand to the top of his foot to make sure I felt correctly. I hope he isn’t sick? I couldn’t afford to get sick; that’s the last thing my mortgage payment and electricity bill needed.

Literally. The days on my dad’s Tricare were coming to an end and I couldn’t afford health insurance on my own.

His skin felt so warm. I lifted the blanket a little and realized he was still wearing his pants. That was just . . . strange. I didn’t know how I was going to rub his other leg, the one I was supposed to massage.

“Did you want me to avoid your legs altogether?” I quietly asked him.

He nodded in the cradle. I continued to run the warm towel across the bottoms of his feet, something I did to clean off any oil and dirt. The hygiene of clients varied. Some people came in wearing sandals after walking around all day. Not this guy, though. He must have showered before he came in. I appreciated that. These were the things you thought about as a massage therapist. I started on the balls of his feet, applying pressure there and moving to the arch of his left foot. There was a soft, bubbly line across the bottom of his left foot, but I couldn’t see the scar in the dark. I slid my thumb slowly along the arch and he jerked a little. I was used to timing my hour sessions perfectly, about five minutes per leg, so I took the extra time to work on his shoulders. A lot of people carried tension in their shoulders, but this guy was off the charts—his were absolutely the tightest shoulders and back I had ever worked on. I had to stop myself from making up a story about his life and why he was so stressed.