Without another thought, he hooked that left. The gym was still lit up. Rhett didn’t see Stanzi’s car but she often parked on the other side of the building if she was going to come out after dark because the brightest streetlamp sat there and Rhett let her go out the side door.
“Hey. What’re you doing back here?” Hobbs was finishing up work in the office.
Rhett’s stomach sank when he saw that no one else was there. He was surprised at how disappointed he felt. “I thought I left my hoodie here.” Rhett pretended to look around the gym for it.
“Haven’t seen it.” Hobbs didn’t get up to help. “Check the bin.”
Rhett dug around the bin full of clothing that was home to every article the clients forgot. Most were claimed within a week. Some stuff, like a pink water bottle and a black jacket with holes in the sleeves, had been there for a year. He used the opportunity of his fake search to pluck those items out and pitch them in the trash. Just as he dropped the jacket, he saw what looked like a throwaway container with his name on it. He reached in and dug it out. Yep, that was his name. He knew it was from Stanzi. Nobody else at the gym had ever fed him. He couldn’t tell what kind of food was inside, but he knew it would’ve been good.
He shook it, testing the integrity of the lid. Seemed pretty well attached. God knows he’d eaten grosser things...
But no. Damn.
He tossed it back in the trash. “Thanks for covering class.”
“No problem.” Hobbs shut down the computer, stood up and stretched. “Was a small class tonight. About six guys and Red. She held her own, as usual.” Hobbs got a devilish grin on his face. “You think I should ask her out?”
“No.”
“That came out too fast.” Hobbs’s grin deepened. “What do you care? You’re back with Katrina, I’m assuming?”
“Katrina and I have no commitment.”
“Yeah, sure.” Hobbs ran his hand through his wavy blond hair. His sandy, rumpled good looks and blasé attitude made him seem like a California transplant, ready to surf at any moment, though he was a corn-fed Nebraska boy, born and bred.
“We’re not a couple.”
“Why’d you guys leave together?” Hobbs pulled on his sweatshirt and grabbed his backpack. “Quickie in the parking lot?” He held up a hand. “I’m not judging. If you called me in to cover your class because you were banging Katrina in the parking lot, I totally understand.”
“Nope.” Rhett snapped off the office lights and followed Hobbs to the front door.
Hobbs stopped at the door and offered a grimace. “That makes me feel less happy about covering for you.”
“Trust me, I’m not happy about it, either.”
“So that’s a yes on asking out Red?” Hobbs’s smile was both teasing and serious. “She’s really shaping up. I mean, she was always hot, in an intellectual librarian who’s really a wildcat between the sheets sort of way. But now that wildcat is starting to shed its winter coat, eh?”
“Quit talking about her like that.” Rhett shoved him out the door. “She’s not your type.”
“How do you know?” Hobbs locked up the gym and turned to Rhett with a set of raised eyebrows.
“I just know.”
Hobbs shrugged. “You going to ask her out, or not?”
“I’m not.”
“Then she’s free game.”
Rhett flashed him a warning look. “She’s a client, Hobbs. I expect you to treat her professionally.”
Hobbs laughed, but his eyes narrowed. If Rhett wasn’t seeing things, he actually looked offended. “When have I ever not been professional?” Hobbs said. “I’ll let it slide. For now.”
“See you tomorrow.”
“Yep.”
Once he was home, Rhett took a long shower to stave off the chill that had built from going out without a hoodie or a coat. He scraped together a decent dinner from stuff he found in his fridge, wishing he had whatever Stanzi had brought for him, and then obviously thrown away.
So Rhett hadn’t been imagining things. Stanzi had come tonight thinking she would see him. Take his class, then offer him the food that ended up in the trash, thanks to Katrina. He couldn’t say he blamed her. Well, it was probably for the best. Let Katrina be the reason Stanzi kept her distance. That would make things easier for him.
Rhett made it through his bland dinner, then grabbed the beer he’d opened earlier and never drank. He thought about it, grabbed two more and headed to bed.
Too many empty carbs, but he had a feeling that the spiders were going to be talking up a storm tonight.
twenty-five
Sunny could hear the spa music playing from outside Roger’s quarters. Sounded like Enya. Sure enough, Cici was inside, with Humphrey out of his cage, lying on a dog bed. She ran her hands over and around him, not actually touching his fur or skin, but about an inch above. The beagle twitched when Sunny entered, but he didn’t flee. This was his norm. He’d let Cici get him out of the cage for about an hour, but then he’d be back inside.
Constance shot her a glare.
Roger chuckled under his breath as he fed the rest of the dogs, all of them politely eating from their bowls, lined up in a row.
When Humphrey started to squirm, Sunny went back outside and began to work the grounds. She collected toys, cleaned up dog poo and eyed the bins of food kept under tight seal outside the structure. She clucked her tongue. One barrel had been shifted outside the protection of the awning and the lid was askew. That meant everything could get wet, or worse, infested with bugs or mice.
Roger came out with the dogs a moment later. They went running at top speed.
“Hey, Rog,” Sunny called out. She waved him over. “I’m not sure why you moved this, but it wasn’t covered by the awning anymore. Worse, the lid wasn’t fastened. It’ll be full of vermin within a couple days if you don’t keep it covered.”
“I didn’t move that, ma’am.” Roger shrugged. “I thought you did. Was going to mention it soon as I came out. Does that mean you weren’t bumping around out here last night?”
Chills popped over Sunny’s skin. Despite how brave she’d acted in front of Cici, she’d been walking on eggshells since Janice’s visit, waiting for the mean old hag’s next wave of attack. She’d been hypervigilant when her dogs were outside, and she cringed any time a strange vehicle drove by. When weeks went by and nothing happened, when mid-January turned into February and February to March, and no tornado sent by the Wicked Witch befell Sunny or her rescue, she’d decided Janice really might be all bark and no bite. Now, she wasn’t so sure.
“Roger,” she said, her voice low, “did you feed the dogs from this bin?”
Roger shook his head. “I gave them the chicken formula today.” He nodded at the bin next to it, closed up tight and in the right place.
Sunny felt so much relief flood her veins she trembled. “Okay.” She pressed her hands to her cheeks, which were hot. “We’re going to dump this food. Get rid of it.”
Roger’s eyebrows rose. “Ma’am?”
“I wasn’t out here bumping around last night, Roger.” She gazed off into the woods, which were silent, other than the drip of winter melting into spring. “Which means someone else was. Someone like Janice. Or her nephew.”
“Dang.” Roger’s eyes bugged out. “Yes, ma’am. I’ll get rid of it. That’s a lot of food, though.”
“I know. But I can’t risk it.” Sunny thought about texting Sean, telling him everything, just like Constance had wanted, but she decided not to overreact. Maybe all Roger heard was raccoons or deer. A large animal could’ve moved that bin. Sunny had never seen a bear out this way, but it wasn’t unheard of for one to lose his direction and end up skimming trash cans or other places food was easy to find. She wasn’t going to tell Constance, either. She’d just get that disapproving look on her face and say, “I told yo
u so.”
Sunny watched her rescues, a handful of whom had been here a long time and would never be placed, as they variously ran, hobbled and hopped around the grounds, content to live out their days at Pittie Place. There were a couple new pitties from the kill shelter, too. The shelter always called Sunny the night before a dog’s final day, to see if she could take them before they were put down. Sunny never said no. These new pits were not aggressive, nor afraid of the other dogs. They’d been able to slip right in with the pack. They hadn’t been fought or abused, but they also hadn’t been trained or well cared for. The shelter had said the brindle one was from a family who decided they just didn’t want a dog anymore. He’d been a Christmas present and after the newness wore off and he started getting bigger, their daughter lost interest. He had a circle of brown around one eye, which looked like a patch, so Cici had named him Sinbad. The other, a female, was a blue pittie who presented with a silver coat. She was well into adulthood and had been dropped off at the shelter by a man moving overseas who couldn’t take her. Cici had named her Calypso because she came in at the same time as Sinbad, plus the blue tint to her fur. The first time Sunny had let her run out back with the pack it became obvious Calypso had spent most of her life in a crate. The pure joy with which she bounded, jumped, sniffed at the grass and rolled in the sunshine made it seem like she’d never before experienced wide-open spaces.
Either pittie would make a good companion for someone ready to devote some care and attention. Neither was a “dangerous breed.” In fact, there was only one dangerous breed around here. Sunny’s gaze went off in the direction of Janice’s property, even though she couldn’t see any of it from here. She turned back to her pack, playing under the bright blue sky.
If anything happened to them...
Sunny stopped herself from thinking it. Her heart squeezed so hard she gasped aloud.
Roger paused as he went by with the food bin. “You okay, ma’am?”
Sunny offered a weak smile. “Of course. I’m fine.”
* * *
Sean Callahan.
Oh, that’s right. Detective Callahan had booked a massage last week. He’d be coming directly after the morning workout. His intake form pointed out the neck pain he’d suffered in the past, as well as frequent back and shoulder pain, which was no surprise considering the vest and equipment he carried as a detective and also his history in the USMC.
Constance prepared the room, then sat, closed her eyes and did her box breathing until she felt calm and centered. By the time Detective Callahan entered the basement walkout, she was ready.
“Detective Callahan. C’mon in.”
“Sean,” he corrected.
“Don’t know why I find that so hard.”
“Callahan is fine.”
“So tell me, Sean—” Constance tested out his name and found that it wasn’t so weird, at least not in her domain “—what are your goals for your session today?”
He shrugged his shoulders around and groaned. “Just take care of all of this, and I’ll be a happy guy.”
Constance smiled. “I can do that. Get undressed to your comfort level. We’ll start faceup so I can release your pecs before we check your back, and we’ll go from there.”
More often than not, Constance started her massages facedown, simply because it sent a relaxing, silent message that it was time to turn everything off and put all their cares, worries and pains in her hands, at least for the next hour. Other than checking in with her client about table temperature and pressure level, Constance kept quiet unless the client spoke first. Most clients were happy to be quiet and melt into the experience, even if they were receiving deep tissue work, but once in a while she got a chatty one.
Women tended to talk more than men during massage, and tough guys like Callahan were more silent than most, as a rule. They didn’t like small talk and tried to hide their pain, even if Constance could clearly see them bracing or controlling their breathing.
Constance’s hands hovered over Sean Callahan before she touched him. As before, he was warm, fizzy and edgy, but something had changed significantly. Perhaps his finally saying no to his ex had done the trick. Whatever it was had not changed who he was, but had softened him, making him more malleable—possibly more vulnerable.
“By the way, thanks for helping Santos,” Sean said, almost immediately upon Constance’s first pass over his left pectoral.
Constance hesitated. She hadn’t expected Sean to be a chatty one. “I was happy to.”
“I think he needs you again. Just when he was starting to seem more centered, he’s looking more ragged every week.” Sean breathed a deep sigh as his tight pectorals released, one after the other, with Constance’s pressure.
“I haven’t seen him much,” Constance said. “I think he’s busy with work and...Katrina?” Her tone went bitter over the name, which always reminded her of the devastating Category 5 hurricane from 2005.
“Oh.” Sean made a groaning sound. “Her.”
“You don’t like her?” Constance felt guilty at her wave of amusement. She settled on her stool and slipped her hands around Sean’s side, to work out his boxer’s muscles.
“I don’t like her for Rhett,” Sean said, then went quiet. Just as she rolled her stool over to his other side, his voice came softly through the dark. “Closest I can figure, he dates her exactly because she’s a stuck-up, self-centered bitch. Which means she can’t get close to him. She’s safe.”
Constance applied a little oil to her hands and rubbed them together. She considered Rhett’s energy, which was large and open and susceptible, and Katrina’s, which had a greedy, selfish pull. If Rhett let her inside, she’d drain him. The thing was, Katrina did not seem the type to want to get too deep. She’d happily feed on the crumbs that came easiest. Like a bottom-feeder.
“I’ve known Rhett a long time,” Sean said, his voice low and careful. “Since Seven November in 2004—when we started ground operations in Fallujah.”
Constance’s hands slowed their work. She got a mixed feeling that was equal parts sinking and rising. “I didn’t realize Rhett was in the service that long.”
“Right out of college. He’s done at least four tours. Maybe five. I got out after Fallujah.” Sean was quiet awhile longer. Constance was just about to tell him to flip over when he added, “That was bloody. Really bloody. And ugly. We’re talking IEDs. Booby traps. Spider holes. That’s where Santos got shot. You seen it?”
Spider holes.
“Yeah, I’ve seen it.” Constance remembered the scars on Rhett’s left side, particularly the round one that resembled a bullet wound.
“His last tour was no picnic, either,” Sean said. “There’s a guy I work with who was in Makhmur with Santos. That’s where he hurt his leg.”
“He mentioned that. He got hit in the leg but a couple of his men got hit worse and didn’t make it.”
“Ah,” Sean said, the word more of a grunt than an agreement. “Way I heard it, Santos got hit in the leg because he went back out to drag one of his men into cover.”
“He didn’t tell me that.”
“He wouldn’t.”
Constance let some silence pass. It wasn’t lost on her that Sean’s willingness to talk about one of his closest buddies—a brother no less—was significant. Detective Callahan trusted her.
“Roll over, Sean. And once your face is in the cradle, I want you to be quiet and relax. This is your time to let go. Can you do that for me?” Constance considered herself a strong person, but she was no magician. She needed Sean to be quiet now and accept her help.
He sighed and settled into the face cradle with a satisfied grunt. “Yes, ma’am.”
Sean kept his word and didn’t speak after that. The music filled the room and gave Constance a mood to anchor to as she concentrated on Sean’s wrecked back and hips. He had a lot of ink, a few
scars and one hip well higher than the other. Constance commented on none. She worked the muscles, fixed the hip and stretched and smoothed everything out as his words sunk into the back of her mind. Here she’d been judging Rhett for choosing to be with a woman like Katrina when, really, she was no one to judge. Katrina, when you put the pieces of the puzzle together, made a whole hell of a lot of sense.
By the time she was done, Sean was asleep. She found her stool and moved up toward his head. Constance sank her fingers in his hair and gave him a scalp massage for about ten minutes, which didn’t rouse him in the slightest. She rested her hands on his shoulders and did her box breathing until she felt him stir. Only then did she rise and remove the bolster from beneath Sean’s ankles.
He groaned and lifted his head. “Did I nod off?”
“Just a little.” Constance rarely told clients if they fell asleep. Even though her job was to get them into “rest and digest,” most were embarrassed over the prospect of sleeping while being massaged. To Constance, it was the seal of approval that she’d done her job. “I’ll step out while you dress. Take your time.”
Sean came out a few minutes later, squinting against the sunlight. “That was great,” he said, stretching his arms. He bent over and almost touched his toes. “I haven’t gotten that close to my feet in years.” He stood up with a grin. “You know who needs a lot more of this?” He pointed to the massage room. “Rhett.”
Constance offered a rueful smile. “I know. But he found out about your deal with my sister and he’s not happy with me right now.”
Sean pulled out his wallet and handed over some cash. “Go easy on him, Red.” For some reason, Hobbs’s nickname had taken off at the gym. It was simpler, and Hobbs was more vocal than Rhett. Constance didn’t really mind. She liked both nicknames, for different reasons, and if she was honest with herself, she liked it even more that only Rhett called her Stanzi.
“I’ll try,” she said. “But he makes it hard.”
Sean laughed. “Ain’t that the truth. But please don’t give up on him. His strategy is to push people away so that they never get the chance. You just have to keep coming at him. You know. Like a pit bull.”
Rescue You Page 23
