Most people would be happy someone wanted to hear about their problems. They’d tell me about their pain level, an unrelated accident they had twenty years ago, their health history, their darkest secret, or what they had for dinner last night. Trust me, I’d heard it all.
But that day was different.
Miles McCullough was different.
And not in a good way.
That man didn’t mince a word.
“The sign out front says you offer massage in exchange for payment. Do the math.” He crossed his arms, eyeing the pink walls in disgust. “Unless you can’t add or subtract either.”
Guarded. Got it.
“But—”
“Enough small talk,” he cut me off. “Can we get on with this? You’re already half an hour late. I’m not sure about you, but my time is valuable.”
No doubt you’re super important. “Okay then,” I replied. “Do you want to tell me about your current pain level?”
He let out a condescending half-laugh through his nose and muttered, “Don’t ask questions unless you’re prepared for the answer.”
“Huh?”
“Nothing.” Annoyance was woven deep into his voice as he rubbed his face with both palms. His following body language echoed the same frustration. “I have acute muscle strain in my traps and rotator cuff tendonitis. Two years ago, I sprained my acromioclavicular. Plus, I have a history of shin splints. Let’s hope you know what you’re doing since you can’t read the paperwork I filled out.”
I stood there, speechless. Most of my clients didn’t know the difference between a strain and a sprain. Most of them didn’t know basic muscle terminology outside of pointing with a vague whine of, “It hurts here when I do this.”
He eyed the clock. “What’s the problem?”
“Nothing,” I lied again, changing the subject. “Do you want me to schedule an adjustment with Roxy?” Silently, I added the word “attitude” before adjustment, but I kept that minor detail to myself.
“If I wanted an adjustment, I’d go book one.”
Aren’t you a ray of sunshine?
He continued under his breath, “Freakin’ talkaholic.”
Did he just call me a… I’d hurdled my breaking point. At that moment, I wanted him to leave. He could report me to the Better Business Bureau for all I cared and ruin The Triple C’s perfect score. Miles McCullough could gladly have his money back and find a massage therapist in Ocean Shores willing to put up with his BS. “Miles, is your asshole attitude credited to the pain you’re experiencing?”
His jaw clenched three times, the frost never warming behind his eyes. “You’re the expert on pain, Doc. You tell me.”
A sensation of dread and vulnerability were unwelcome as they sent a chill down my spine. The air shifted and I had a feeling he wasn’t the one under scrutiny anymore.
“Dress down to your comfort level, and I’ll be back in a minute,” I said hoarsely as I walked out of the room and slammed the door shut behind me. The wall art rattled, verifying my exit.
Pull it together, Jade. This isn’t like you.
I stood in front of Gwen, watching her blow a giant bubble of yellow gum. The semi-transparent circle popped and blanketed her nose. She giggled and peeled it off, her freshly-painted purple nails a bold contrast in color. “That was the biggest one yet.”
“Better add that talent to your resumé.” And you should update that bitch soon.
I walked back toward my office and knocked. “Miles?”
“Still my name. Paperwork says so.”
A snarky comment begged to let loose, but I deserved a gold star for holding back. Every word out of Miles McCullough’s mouth teemed with acid. I was sure of it because the second-degree burns blistered from seven feet away.
When I opened the door, I found him face-down on the table with the cream-colored sheet draping his frame from waist to toes. I tried to ignore the earthy depth of his aftershave. Sandalwood. Vanilla. Cedar. My feet hesitated for a few seconds on the thin carpet underfoot while my eyes took in the scenery. His muscles were pronounced— downright defined. Where each bundle of fibrous tissue ended, another began. It reminded me of illustrations from one of my anatomy textbooks.
But a tattoo spanning from the base of his neck down to his low back made me do a double-take. A realistic black-and-gray angel covered the entire canvas of flesh. The shadowy figure crouched with one knee resting on the ground, brawny limbs fully exposed. His forearms were folded atop the other knee while his forehead rested against them, concealing his identity. His pose depicted pain on behalf of his hidden face. Massive wings with intricate feathers were half-folded over, almost as if they’d wrapped around him to protect or console. A few of the quills were detached from the central image, mid-flutter to the ground. It radiated raw grief and made me lose focus.
After a pause, I cleared my throat and put on my invisible therapist hat, turning to pick some calming music.
“No,” he said, his head never moving from the face rest.
“No, what?”
“This is my massage. My hour… half hour now. My dime. No music.”
How did he know?
I narrowed my eyes, aware he couldn’t see the dirty look I shot his way. Tunes were the integral component that got me through the hour, especially on rough days. Being an LMP left a lot in my hands— literally. And everyone anted up the filthy stuff. I learned way more about people’s sex lives than I ever wanted to know. Fantasies. Cheating. Fetishes. If I wrote it all out, the stack of papers would put Santa’s naughty list to shame.
Plus, I had to deal with Lizard Leif’s peeling, not to mention the details on Fast Eddie’s bedroom toys. And those two were the tip of the iceberg. Getting swept up in music helped pass the time with unwelcome clients, and I had a feeling Miles belonged in that category. If I were lucky, he’d hate the massage and wouldn’t come back. Fucking Hippocrates with his whole “do no harm” oath kept me from giving him a shitty one out of spite.
Miles’s massage began at half-past nine. And for those thirty minutes, the loudest sound was the wall clock. Sixty seconds with each revolution. One thousand and eight hundred ticks, if you’re counting. It dragged on for what seemed like hours.
As I worked over Miles’s body, I noticed his muscles were nearly rock-hard. Occasionally, he let out a deep breath. Either he relaxed or they were patronizing sighs. I used the blade of my forearm, eventually building up to my elbow, a technique I didn’t get to exercise often. Most of my clients were pansies and couldn’t tolerate much pressure. “You hold a lot of tension in your upper traps.”
“I keep it there so it doesn’t come out my mouth.”
Our conversation went no deeper.
As soon as the big, red hand journeyed up to the twelve, I quickly covered him to his shoulders. “You can get dressed. Take your time. I applied some deep tissue, so your balance may be off.”
He didn’t respond.
I left the room to wash my hands, making a mental sticky note to refund Miles half of his money before he left. Secretly, I wanted to charge an extra fifty percent for the jackass special, but I had morals. A few minutes later, I returned to my office and knocked.
No answer.
“Miles?” I asked.
Nothing.
I knocked again before opening the door.
Empty.
I stood in the doorway and saw a rumpled sheet. “What the heck?” People didn’t leave after a massage. They stuck around and asked questions. Lingered. When should I make my next appointment? Should I ice? Is ibuprofen okay? Can I use the sex trapeze above my bed tonight? And so on. Miles’s vanishing act didn’t fit.
I turned to switch on some music, hoping to find tranquility, suffocated by the silence. But something shiny caught my eye
and distracted me. My client, Miles McCullough, left a dime on the face rest of the massage table.
A freaking dime.
What a tip.
My dime. No music.
With my teeth bared, I picked up the coin, pinning the ribbed edge between my thumb and index finger, pinching until pain pricked. In the massage industry, there were tippers and non-tippers. I had no problem with either, especially since most of my clients were insurance-related and didn’t pay out-of-pocket. But a dime? The gesture was worse than nothing, and the action spoke volumes.
I stormed out of my office and blasted through the front doors into the parking lot. Every car was present from when I’d arrived— except for the gray Ford that’d parked over the line.
Hello, theme. Without meeting Miles first, he’d already pissed me off before I entered The Crack Shack. My anger doubled.
I marched up to the front desk. Gwen busily swiped along a dating website on her cell phone before she noticed me. “Oh, hey. How’d the massage go with Mr. Crabby Pants?”
I didn’t tamp down my fury. “Where is he?”
“Right! That!” she exclaimed. “As soon as you went into the bathroom, he was still buttoning his flannel shirt while he headed straight for the front door. Seemed to be in a hurry.”
“He paid, didn’t he?” I glanced at the window, afraid he’d pulled a rub and snub.
“Up front, before his appointment. Cash. Remember? I offered to refund him half since you were late, but he was on some kind of mission to jet.”
“The late thing wasn’t my fault.”
She ignored my jab at her. “It didn’t seem like he wanted to talk. Waved me off and walked out the door. I mean, I could’ve tackled him, but that might’ve ruined my kick-ass manicure.”
My mind raced, more confused than ever. Why would a crappy client leave a dime as a tip but not want a refund for half the cost of a massage?
Before I could search for an answer, Lizard Leif walked in, glistening with sweat. He wore his neon, mesh tank top and matching short shorts. From the doorway, I saw flakes of shoulder skin in their splendor, ready to flutter to the floor.
“Hey, Jade. You won’t believe my morning. It’s a long story. I’ll tell you all about it on the table. If I don’t finish, I’ll dish up the rest later. Two appointments on the books with my favorite gal next week. Aren’t you a lucky duck?” He wiped the sweat from his brow with his palm and clapped his hand on my shoulder.
“Can’t wait.” I wondered if my shirt smelled like swamp forehead. Lucky duck. Right. I’d be more blessed if I found a penny. Oh, wait. I had a dime for that. Ten times better.
Without my permission, the abysmal appointment with Miles bullied its way to the forefront of my mind again. Earlier that day, I thought my day hit rock bottom, but it turned out rock bottom had a basement.
The rest of the day proved equally aggravating, and I begged for a do-over. Miles set the tone for bad luck, lingering overhead like a stagnant, dark cloud.
I spilled spaghetti sauce on my favorite white tank top.
I accidentally kicked over a gallon of massage oil in the back room.
I tore a contact lens from my last pair and had to deal with glasses.
But the icing on the cake? Miles’s paperwork was ruined. I remained hopeful he wouldn’t file a complaint with Washington State and I’d escape any future audits. Then again, maybe I’d maintained my professionalism enough where that wouldn’t come into play. But the more I replayed the thirty-minute therapy session in my head, the more I became uncertain.
When I got out of the Jeep and slammed the door after my lunch break, I heard a moist plop. A seagull took a massive dump on my windshield. The runny aftermath splattered onto my arm in a spray of dots. I’ve heard being hit with bird poop is good luck, but whatever that bird ate before it used me as target practice wasn’t a blessing.
With a snarl, I cursed under my breath.
But the day was only half over.
* * *
Three massages later, I’d survived! And I needed a break after enduring Beatrice smacking her lips while eating a bag of boysenberries during her massage, Kenneth clutching three back scratchers in his hand during his rub down, and Dominick who sang the entire time about his latest Shakespearian display with frosted animal cookies while on the chair. Thank goodness Joyce was a no-show. I couldn’t handle her quizzing me about slugs and their sex habits. One more client would cost me my sanity, and quitting time couldn’t come soon enough. Unfortunately, leaving didn’t mean a de-stressing swim in the cove. It meant enduring another form of personal Hell— a detour to suffer through the night with Annelies.
When four o’clock rolled around and I’d finished my report on Dominick, I longed to race home and dive under the covers with the half-eaten pint of chocolate mint ice cream in my freezer. But my dream came to a screeching halt before it began.
Frozen dessert had to wait.
I closed the high blinds to shield the world from my watermelon-colored walls and turned off the music. The silvery dime caught my attention from the desk. Franklin D. Roosevelt’s side profile mocked me, igniting my temper again. I shoved the coin deep into my pocket, vowing to throw it into the water down at the cove later that night. It’d symbolically wash Miles McCullough and the rest of my crap-filled twenty-four hours away for good.
Glancing at my phone, I had less than thirty minutes to get across town in the beginning of rush hour traffic. The giant smear of dried bird turd reminded me of how shitty my day had truly been. Thanks a lot for interfering with my life and presenting me with a theme, Universe. Got anything else to lob my way?
The universe cruelly answered. A high-pitched dinging sound emitted from the Jeep when I edged down 1st Avenue. My focus landed on the dash panel where a little orange light shaped like a gas can blinked. Being near E didn’t improve my mood.
“Why today?” I smacked my palm on the steering wheel.
A few minutes later, I pulled into the nearest gas station behind an eight-hundred-year-old man who couldn’t remember how to operate the pump. His shaky grip tried to feed the card into the machine five times before he succeeded.
“Come on, buddy. I’m sure you’ve threaded the needle before.”
I thought about helping, but his ancient wife gestured and yelled at him with a liver-spotted hand out the window. He continued mustering nothing more than a repetitive, “Yes, dear.”
I drummed my fingers on the gearshift and waited.
When I saw the clock again, I realized how late I’d be in meeting Annelies, even if I hit every green light on the way. I internally swore some more and awaited my turn while busily typing a concise text message. Avoiding contact with Annelies on every level was paramount, so I had to scroll back half a mile in my history to find our itty-bitty conversation string.
When I looked up from tossing my phone on the seat, the old man was gone. However, the space in front of me wasn’t empty. A dark gray Ford had pulled ahead of the pump and backed into the slot I waited for.
Jade Nash would flip her shit in three short seconds for the world to see.
Miles exited his truck, and I tore my way out of the seatbelt. “Nope. Not having it today.” With extreme force, I opened the Jeep door, nearly ripping it off the hinges.
Blood pounded in my ears, and I could see my pulse in my vision. Composing myself wasn’t happening. I stormed over to where he swiped his credit card. Heat released off every inch of my body in hatred and rage. “Excuse me?”
“Yeah?” He turned around, his eyes skimming me from head to toe and back up again. “Oh. You.”
“Yep. It’s me.” I pointed to my Jeep. “I’ve been waiting in line for that dinosaur to leave, but you swooped in and cut me off.”
“If you weren’t so busy typing on your phone, m
aybe you could’ve swooped in yourself. Then, neither of us would have to deal with this talk,” he said smugly. “But here we are.”
“Don’t you have an off button for your arrogance because—”
The gas handle clicked to announce his full tank.
He raised a hand to his ear. “Guess we’re done here. How ‘bout this? I’ll let you go next.”
“Whatever. I don’t have time to deal with you.”
“And I already told you once today, my time is valuable.”
“Yeah, yeah. I know. You’re way important,” I grumbled.
He slammed the gas nozzle back into its holder. “I never claimed importance.”
It took everything I had to not pull the dime from my pocket and show him his minimal worth, but I didn’t want him to know his gesture affected me.
He let out a long breath before looking at his watch. “I don’t know about you, but I hate being late, and I’m going to be if I don’t leave. But you wouldn’t know anything about running behind. Right?”
I tightened my lips.
“Oh! Don’t spend that entire tip I left for you in one place.” He flashed me a wink and walked around to the driver’s door.
“Do you know how much happier I’d be if your mother swallowed?”
His jaw clenched for the briefest of moments. “That’s the best you got, Doc? Work on your material. And words of advice? You should eat your meals with a bib.” He glanced at the spaghetti stain on my shirt, smirked, got in his truck, revved the engine, and drove away, all while I tried to form a sharp response that never materialized.
Jade Page 5
