He nods. “Do you like it?”
I lean against the railing and peer down at the line winding around the block. “Frisk is the new trendy place, I guess.”
“You think so?”
I nod. “It’s got all the right elements. I really wish you were playing though.”
“Should I go talk to someone?”
I smile. “Nah.”
“Why did you want me to play?”
“You know what I like without me having to say anything.” Crap, that came out wrong. “What do you like about playing?” I try instead, even though I know he won’t give much of an answer.
But he surprises me, angling toward me as he considers the question. “I love when I play the right song at the right time and get everyone dancing hard enough to forget everything except the music.”
“There’s a kind of power in that, I guess.”
“I don’t do it for power.” He props his forearms on the ledge and leans on them. I could happily trace the lines of his back with my tongue.
Ugh, get a grip, Sarah. “Why do you do it?”
The seriousness in his eyes almost takes my breath away. It’s like being given a glimpse of something fragile and important. I want it to be tangible so I can take it in my hands and cradle it, hide it from everyone else.
Keep it for my own.
He tips his face up to the sky. “In some ways it’s like a disguise. I get to be a part of things but stay hidden in my booth. People hear what I want them to. They actually listen, and it’s not about who I am. It’s not about me at all.”
I shiver. “It’s nice to lose yourself sometimes. I need to dance off the past couple of days like nobody’s business.”
“Hippie shenanigans?”
I poke at the lime in my glass with my straw. “Shenanigans implies fun, but yeah, the hippies are proving to be less easygoing than I thought they’d be.”
He flips a coaster end over end, one corner at a time, deliberately. God, he has nice hands. “You could come over after this. I’ve got everything set up at home. You and Pete, I mean.” His tone is casual, but I swallow hard, imagining a private party with no Pete.
Jack would play all the songs I wanted while I danced. Maybe he’d dance with me until we were both writhing and sweaty, and then—
“Jack, there you are!”
I turn and take in the slinky brunette in a slinkier dress.
“Maxine, hey.” Jack straightens, the easiness in his posture gone.
She glances at me, then back to him, placing her hand on his forearm. “Can I talk to you for a minute? In private?” she emphasizes.
I raise an eyebrow. We’re friends. Whatever she has to say, she can say in front—
“Sure.” He flashes me a smile. “I’ll be right back.” He heads out of earshot with her.
His easy dismissal of me burns. He’s not my boyfriend, but we were having a moment before she came along and ruined it. I take a step to the side, trying to see the world from Jack’s place in the shadows—and notice two glasses on the ledge.
One has lipstick on the straw.
Suddenly, I’m weighted by reality. Maxine isn’t the interloper—I am. She’s probably the one whose lipstick was on the straw, and I interrupted their romantic evening of looking at the stars. And even if it wasn’t her, another woman was here with Jack a minute ago. Alone in an incredibly romantic spot, probably deciding if they’d go back to his place or hers.
She grins and leaves, and Jack returns to my side. “Sorry about that.”
“It’s fine. You’re in demand, as usual.”
Jack frowns. “No, she’s just—”
“There they are.” Pete swoops in suddenly, offering a kiss on my cheek and a shoulder bump for Jack. “What’s with the music? I’ve heard more authentic dubstep in Great-Aunt Ione’s car!”
I smack Pete’s arm. “Right? They chased me out of the room with Shaggy.” I focus only on Pete. I’ve got to ignore Jack. Off-limits Jack. I could throw a stick into any bar and hit three chicks he’s dated. And given the best orgasms of their lives.
Shut up, brain.
“How’d you find us?”
He grins at me. “I asked the girls downstairs. They knew exactly where Jack was.”
Why am I not surprised?
Pete grabs my arm. “We’ve got to get back in there. You’ve got to shake some serious ass to celebrate the new job, darling.”
I turn my back on him. “And I’ve got a serious ass to shake.” I give a shimmy for good measure, looking at the boys over my shoulder.
I swear Jack’s eyes turn black, but it’s hard to tell from peripheral vision. I risk a full-on glance. Yeah, he’s eye-fucking me hard, and my body reacts in all kinds of ways I have to trample down with unsexy thoughts.
“Jack!” A tall Indian woman strides up to us, leaning close to Jack like we’re not even here. “I need you. Now.”
Fortunately for me, Pete takes my hand and we head straight downstairs to the dance floor, leaving Jack on the patio with whomever this woman is.
Either the music gets better, or the second drink relaxes me enough that I don’t notice how bad it is, but soon, I don’t care about the heat, or the crowded floor, or Jack and stupid Maxine and stupid… I don’t even know her name, but her hair was annoyingly shiny.
Pete and I shake and shimmy together before he sees someone else he knows and disappears, leaving me alone again. Jack has come back down at some point, but he stays at the bar and entertains his revolving door of admirers. Again, as usual. He buys one a drink, and they chat for a while before they part ways.
Another drink and more dancing later, I watch a seventh chick hit on Jack. For some reason—maybe I’ve had too much to drink, or maybe it’s just the heat of so many bodies packed together on a sweltering summer night—I want to slap the foundation off her face when she looks him up and down like he’s a slab of meat. When this chick leaves, I head to where he’s standing by the wall with his arms crossed.
“You buy a lot of girls drinks, don’t you?”
He bites his lip. “I wouldn’t say a lot.” His eyes stay focused somewhere across the bar, and I can just imagine some girl blushing and looking coyly away.
Yeah, he doesn’t have to shell out money to strike up a conversation with anyone. Not with his looks and personality. He’s funny and charming, someone you want to be around. I wonder how many of those girls realize that. “You don’t need to do that to get a girl to talk to you. Why do you bother?”
Why am I making an issue out of this? I eyeball my empty glass and set it on the bar. When I drink, I can get a little…aggressive.
Jack doesn’t seem to notice. Or maybe he’s just willing to ignore how I’m acting because he’s seen me at my worst. He runs his hand through his hair. “I guess it’s a classic way to break the ice, but I’d rather everyone was just up-front about things. ‘Hi, I like you. I think you’re hot. Want to come home with me?’ That sort of thing.” He shrugs, then laughs. “I wish people were more like you, I guess. I always figured you’d take the direct approach.”
He always figured? “What would happen if I came up to you and flirted? ‘Hi, I like you’ and all that?” The words are out of my mouth before I can let myself think better of it.
That’s got his attention. Suddenly, the air between us feels thick. Tense. Like we’re both holding our breaths. He licks his lips and I bite mine. His eyes narrow slightly. “Are you asking if I want to take you home?” he finally murmurs. His voice is deliciously husky.
I can’t meet his eyes now. He knows I want to…just as much as he knows I won’t. The truth lies heavily between us. Then a Wayne Wonder song comes on, providing the perfect distraction, and I flap a hand. “I love this song,” I say, pulling back, both grateful for and disappointed by the distance between us. Another moment and I could have sworn he was going to ask—
“I know. You’ve only made me play it every week since it came out.”
“It�
��s a classic.” I shake off the heaviness between us, determined to just let it be, and dance my way to the floor. I don’t know what to make of our conversation, but I feel cute and have a nice buzz and am out with my bestie and his sexy twin. A goofy smile twists my lips, and I look back at Jack as I shimmy my hips.
The expression on his face nearly stills my feet.
There’s hunger in his gaze.
I turn away and keep dancing, though less happily than before, more aware of every movement I make, knowing his eyes are on me. Breathless. Despite not wanting to take our relationship to the next level, I have to admit that I want his eyes on me. Seeing other women talk to him, look at him, annoys me more than it should. He’s not mine, but they don’t deserve him. So I make my movements a little sexier and imagine what it would be like if I were going home with him tonight, hating the reasons that can never happen.
I’m so wrapped up in a fantasy of tumbling into Jack’s arms that it seems inevitable when his arms wrap around me from behind. He tugs me close to the curve of his body, and his heat is incredible—too incredible for the rational part of me to win. I smile and dance with him, allowing myself a moment of perfect, snatched happiness.
“Girl, you’re making everyone on the dance floor jealous with those moves.” Pete’s voice in my ear shatters the fantasy, and my eyes open, gaze flying straight to Jack—who is still standing where I left him by the wall, an unreadable expression on his face as he watches me dance with his twin.
I wish it had been you, Jack.
But it’s better for both of us that it wasn’t.
Chapter 5
“So you’re the new girl?”
Pete would gasp in horror if he saw her thick, shapeless eyebrows—like two mustaches have taken residence above her large brown eyes. She’s pretty in an unkempt, granola way, but with some militant brushing and shine serum for her hair and a little grooming, she could be stunning. The shapeless top in shades of green—almost a kaftan—does nothing to hide her curves but doesn’t accentuate them either. Her leggings end just below her knees.
She doesn’t shave her legs. Power to her for being confident enough to walk around bare-legged and hairy. I’d never be able to do that, despite sometimes wishing I could. “Yes. I’m Sarah.”
“Phyllis.” She holds out her hand, and I shake it. My hand is shiny with massage oil when I pull it back. I try not to think about how this oil’s been rubbed all over some stranger’s naked body and now she’s smeared it on me. “Oh, sorry about that.” She doesn’t sound sorry about it.
“It’s fine.” I grab a hand wipe and scrub. It’s going to bug me until I can wash it off with soap, but I have to finish updating the schedule first.
“I just got back from vacation. We haven’t really had a chance to chat.”
“No, we haven’t.” I try to keep a mild smile, but I don’t have time right now to get to know her.
Hands land on my shoulders and begin kneading the muscles. Hard. “Ouch.” I flinch away. “What are you doing?”
“You’re so tense.” Phyllis reaches for me again. “You should book an appointment with me.”
“I have no time. And I don’t really like being touched.” Hint.
“Your poor boyfriend.” She stops the assault and steps back. “You’re going to end up with a stress hump unless you see someone to work out that tension.”
“My tension is what’s holding me together.” Ten bucks says I bruise from her ministrations. And now there are two dark patches on my shirt where she touched it.
“Phyllis, that was wonderful.” Her client, Deanne, ambles into reception, and I step around them and slip into the room they just exited. It’s been four days of trial and error, but I’ve found a rhythm for my job that works—if I move like a scalded rabbit.
It turned out that during my first few days, they had taken it easy on me. Now that I’m more comfortable on the desk, I’m expected to prep the rooms between sessions as well. If I’m fast, I can do it while the therapists talk to their clients, finishing just as they’re done assigning stretches or chatting about the massage. Then I take payment as the next client goes in.
As long as no one phones, the rhythm works.
Even in the dim light, I can tell it’s a bigger mess than any other masseuse has left all week. I hope it’s a one-off and not Phyllis’s usual style. Sliding the dimmer switch as bright as it will go, I cringe at the mess and spring into action, hoping the phone won’t ring.
First stop: the massage table. I peel off the fuzzy blanket and fold it as fast as I can, despite the shocks assaulting my fingertips from the static buildup. Four days of this, and I don’t even swear under my breath anymore. I use a towel to wipe up the puddle of massage oil leaking onto the shelf, then toss the towel to the table. I peel back the sheets and ball them up, trying not to let them touch my body, before tossing the self-contained ball to the floor. I don’t want to leave a grease spot on my shirt like I did yesterday.
I wipe down the bed with the all-natural cleaning product Fern and Ziggy swear by. It’s made with chrysanthemums and dries out my hands but still somehow manages to be greasy. Next, I take fresh bedding from the shelf, snapping the elastic of the fitted sheet around the edges of the table, then slinging the top sheet on, turning it down invitingly at the corner. Finally, I fold a face towel over the headrest. Grabbing the used bedding from the floor, I rush next door to the kitchen and fire it into the laundry hamper just as the phone starts ringing.
I hurry back to the desk where Phyllis is still discussing stretches with her last client. The phone is on its third ring when I step around Phyllis—who doesn’t move despite my urgent body language and polite “excuse me”—barely managing to answer it before they hang up.
“Good morning, Inner Space. Sarah speaking.”
“Hi, Tara. I have an appointment with Phyllis at eleven?”
I open Phyllis’s schedule on the computer. “Is this Danni?”
“Yes. I’m going to be about half an hour late.”
Damn. “Actually, Danni, I have you in here for ten thirty, not eleven.”
“Oh. Can I still come at eleven thirty?”
Luckily Phyllis’s schedule is clear until her break at one. “Yes, I’ll change it to eleven thirty.”
“Awesome! See you then!”
We hang up, I process Phyllis’s last client, and she leaves.
Phyllis wanders over to grab an herbal tea. “So where did you work before this?”
“At a law firm.”
“Really?”
“Yes. I’m actually a paralegal.”
She grimaces and selects a tea bag. “Awkward.”
“Why is that awkward?”
“I’m in a bit of legal trouble myself at the moment. Nothing I did, of course.” She pours hot water into her cup. “Do you live alone? Or are you married?”
“I live alone.”
“Ah. I should get going and prep my room for my next client.”
“Oh, I’ve already done that.”
“Really?” She sets the cup down as the phone rings again.
“Yes.” I answer the phone and deal with booking a client while Phyllis walks past me to check out her room. I’ve hung up by the time she returns.
She purses her lips. “So, not to be confrontational about it, but I’d really like it if you’d put the leg pillow back under the sheets when you remake the bed.”
“It wasn’t in there when I cleaned the room, but sure.”
She gives me a perfectly friendly dead-eyed smile. “I always use the leg pillows.”
Except that she just did a massage without one, but I’m all about choosing my battles, so I smile. “No problem.”
“Awesome.” She stretches her fingers. “It’s fine anyway. I have to fill in more receipts for insurance.” The therapists print their names and registration numbers and then sign their receipts. I can fill in the rest of the information when a client asks for one. “You should get Blake to do
some too while he’s in. He only has one signed page left.” She pats my forearm with her oily hand and riffles through my stack of papers, leaving greasy fingerprints all over them before finding the receipt book and grabbing a pen, then taking them back to one of the reception chairs.
Since Blake usually only works on the weekends, we haven’t met. I am a bit curious about the masseuse who’s capable of doing things by himself and never makes a mess for me to clean up on Monday. If Phyllis worked weekends alone, I’d come in on Monday to a spa that looked like someone was partway through a game of Jumanji.
Blake is in today, covering for Fern, who had some energy crisis to take care of. He was with his client before I got here and hasn’t come out yet.
I wonder if he’s like the other after-hours massage therapist I’ve met—a large, forty-something man with a mustache and booming voice. Now that I’m caught up with everything, I rush to the kitchen to wash the oil off my hand while Phyllis fills in her receipt book.
A guy with an olive complexion and a medium build folds a towel and sets it on a stack on the shelf. I blink hard. Since I started working here, no one else has done the laundry, except for Ziggy—and he screws it up so badly that I’ve forbidden him from doing it…not that he listens. The other therapists don’t even restock the fresh towels in their rooms.
“Hello?”
He turns to me. “Hey.”
I’d pictured him completely wrong, assuming he’d be another version of Ziggy—unkempt and blond, puka shell necklace maybe. He’s Italian, or maybe Hispanic, late twenties, attractive with dark, sparkling eyes, a straight nose, and nice lips. Strong jaw. Hot. “I assume you’re Blake, since the laundry fairy isn’t real.”
His smile reveals dimples and nice teeth. “Maybe I’m both.”
“No. The laundry fairy would have brought us dryer sheets that don’t hurt baby animals.”
“That’s true, but don’t let Fern hear you say that.” He holds out his hand. “I am Blake. And you must be Sarah.”
Missed Connections Page 4
