by J. C. Cliff
I really should get out more; it’s been too long since I’ve been out on a Saturday night, let alone any night for that matter. The Chardonnay has numbed all my senses, and it feels good. I’m glad Celia, my best friend, dragged me out tonight for a girl’s night out. I’m considering having a third glass, because at this point my judgment is off and I’m feeling no pain. It’s one reason why I don’t drink that often. I fear I could get addicted to this jubilant feeling. If I didn’t mind waking up fuzzy-headed, or if I had a higher alcohol tolerance, I’d most likely have become an alcoholic a year ago. I’m actually surprised I didn’t.
“Don’t go there,” Celia says, breaking into my thoughts. She signs the credit card slip then tosses the restaurant’s fancy pen on the table with a metallic clink.
“Don't go where?” I ask, confused.
“You know what I mean,” Celia replies in a tight tone. “When you go all spacey after a couple glasses of wine, you begin to reflect on the past. I know what you're thinking about, and we’re not going there tonight.”
“Actually,” I respond with a broad smile, and pause to set down my empty wine glass on the fine table linen, “despite the approaching one-year anniversary, I’m feeling pretty good right now.”
Celia looks very skeptical; her arched brow rises high, telling me so. “What worries me is the ‘right now.’ Once your drink starts to snake its way out of your system, it acts as a depressant instead of the mood enhancer you’re using it as.” Celia knows me all too well. My emotions have been nothing short of a boomerang for the past twelve months. She waves me off, immediately dismissing the conversation. “Anyhow, this new job you’re starting on Monday will do you a world of good.”
“Technically, I don’t actually start on Monday. I’m just going in to get familiar with staff and patients, but yes, I totally agree with you. I’m looking forward to something for once.” I wasn’t sure I could look forward to anything ever again, let alone a job. I’d been merely existing for the past year, and I'm being quite literal. I've done nothing to contribute to society, which is highly unlike me. Eleven months ago, my entire world had fallen apart overnight, and the immeasurable pain of the fallout had me considering the unspeakable alternative. I had spent last Christmas in a Hellhole as Celia threatened to have me committed. Worst holiday season ever. I had no desire to live.
If it hadn’t been for Celia ensuring I seek help, eat every day, and prod me to get out of bed, I probably wouldn’t be sitting here right now. It’s only been in the past couple months I’ve been able to step back into society, but not in full force. I’ve had to take baby steps just to mingle with the living. When I did venture out, I’d wind up having a full-on panic attack. I couldn’t run fast enough to get back into my protective bubble. Hiding myself away from the world was one of the ways I found myself coping.
Celia has been forcing me to trudge through my panic episodes, and she continually pushes me into society to try, and try again. I still don't feel like myself, and I’m not sure I ever will. I don't really know who I am anymore, and it's actually kind of sad.
“I really don't know what I would do if I didn't have you, Celia,” I tell her in all honesty.
“Pfft.” She waves me off, not wanting me to go all sentimental on her and change the cheery feel of our night out. This is exactly the roller coaster of emotions I’m talking about. One minute, I can be happy-go-lucky, and then boom; the next second, I start to reflect then grow somber, going all teary-eyed.
“I’m serious, you've been my rock. I don’t know where I’d be without you, and lately it feels like each time I take one step forward, I wind up taking ten steps back.”
“What do you mean by that?” she asks in concern.
“I can't put my finger on it. I think, emotionally, I’ve slid backward. I’ve had zero motivation the last few weeks.”
“Honey, what you’re going through is normal.”
“What do you mean?”
“What you’re experiencing is the exact same turmoil you went through last year at this time, minus the initial shock. It’s called anniversary grief, and it’s been proven to be real. I can tell you firsthand, because I go through it every fall. Anytime I smell hot apple cider, it opens a floodgate of memories for me. I have learned to recognize the pattern over the years, and I’ve had to make adjustments to my daily routine to avoid getting stuck in a depression.”
“Why didn't I know this about you?” I ask, somewhat hurt. She’s my best friend; I should know these things.
She shrugs, then says with a grin, “I’ve been a tad busy taking care of my best friend.”
I force myself to push away the depressive thoughts I feel creeping into my mind. I’m not doing this tonight. I’m not going to ruin our evening with a glum outlook. I glance at Celia, wearing a guilty smile. “You’d think I’d be able to keep my emotions in check by now.”
“Anyhow, we're not going to dwell on anything tonight other than the two of us having a damn good time,” she declares. An infectious grin lines her red, plump lips, and I return her smile, thinking of how blessed I am to have such an awesome friend. She really is a beautiful, stunning woman, and I always find myself asking why she hasn’t settled down by now. She could get any man of her choosing with the snap of her fingers, and it's evident the way men keep calling her, but she never seems interested in committing. Every time I broach the subject with her, she says, “They’re not the one.” I think maybe she likes playing the field, or perhaps she’s addicted to the newness and excitement each new man can bring.
I can never seem to get a straight answer from her, but I can’t help but love her. She’s a fiercely loyal friend. I let out a cleansing sigh and, out of habit, fondle the charm on my necklace, rubbing the silver key between my fingers.
Celia drops her napkin on her half-eaten plate, her long, red manicured nails, gleaming as she straightens out her silverware, because, well, she’s a tad prissy. “Ready to roll?” she asks.
“Sure, where to next? A movie?”
“How about we take a stroll down the street instead? It’s unusually nice out. The fresh air should do us some good.”
“Why do I get the feeling you’re up to something sneaky?” I have to ask, because Celia doesn’t stroll anywhere. She’s too high maintenance for that, and she always has a purpose.
“Whatever do you mean?” she asks with mock offense, batting her long lashes while holding her hand over her heart in her true southern belle style.
“I’m not stupid, Celia. I’ve known you for too long, and the look you’re giving me right now leads me to believe you’re up to no good.” She flips her long, shiny, jet-black hair behind her shoulder, her lips twitching as she suppresses a grin.
“The night is young, honey. I might have a surprise or two in store for you.”
“Somehow, I don’t like the sound of that.”
“Oh, c’mon,” she says, looping her hand through the crook of my elbow, leading me out the door. “You’ll be thanking me later.”
“Uh-huh.” I eye her suspiciously as we leave the restaurant.
Stepping out onto the sidewalk, the mid-February air is unusually warm, but I still button up my light coat. Feeling adventurous, I decide to go along with her game and see what’s up her sleeve. We take a left and walk down Wilmington Street, where most of the bars and action reside. The bars look busy, and I wonder if we’re going dancing. That thought is thwarted when we take a turn onto Hargett Street then stop in front of the Local Edge, a somewhat new and trendy bar for women only.
My brows shoot up, my curiosity peaking just as she places her hand on the door. I take a step back and hold my hands out in protest. “I heard that’s a pretty risqué bar.”
“Valerie Rose,” she warns, “we’re just going to have a little bit of fun. What’s wrong with that?”
“Nothing, I suppose,” I mumble, “if you're twenty-one, that is.” This type of place is not my kind of scene; it never has been. I’m not in
to watching crazy, loud women salivating over almost-naked men as they gyrate their hips in front of their faces. Stuffing a few bucks into a man’s G-string has never been my idea of a good time. I would die of mortification if a total stranger were to shake his junk inches from my face, handsome or not.
“We’re not here for the strippers,” Celia says, reading my mind. “It just so happens there’s a high-end spa upstairs. That is the surprise I have arranged for you tonight.” She takes two steps away from the doors to grab my wrist, because I’m still in reverse mode. She tightens her grip on me and pulls me back toward the entrance.
“Celia,” I protest, not sure what else I need to be cautious of.
“Just give it a try. If you don’t like it, you’ll never have to come back, but I’ll warn you—they give the best full body massages around,” her voice is over the top emphatic. “They’re so good you’ll feel like a brand-new woman afterward.”
“A spa? On top of a bar?” I ask disbelievingly. “No way.”
“Yep, they sure do. It’s noted the best in the entire state, and only the elite can get in.”
“I’m not an elite, Celia.”
“Of course you are, silly.” She opens the door, dragging my confused self through the doors.
“I’m still considered elite?” I ask, perplexed. I never did care for the high society status, let alone throwing it around. I hated it, actually.
“You deserve to spoil yourself every once in a while, and it’s been too long since you indulged in anything at all. So I took it upon myself to pamper you.”
I suppose a massage is an excellent way to end an evening. If Celia gushes about how good something is, it usually is. Maybe Celia’s touted world-class massage will have me sleeping like a baby tonight. I could sure use it, since I rarely sleep through the night anymore.
As soon as we enter the building, there’s an elevator in the mezzanine with a spa sign indicating to take the elevator. I’m thankful we don’t have to go through the bar in order to get upstairs. The thumping of the music from the bar vibrates through my chest as we enter the elevator. I can feel the promised excitement for those women in there; it hangs in the air like a thick cloud. I breathe a sigh of relief the second the elevator doors close and silence ensues. Crowds always set off my anxiety attacks. Celia punches a code into the keypad, and the elevator begins to ascend.
“Since when do you need a code to use an elevator?” I ask, confused.
“The spa gives you a special code once you make an appointment. It simply keeps the riffraff downstairs and not straying away to explore the upstairs. They work hard to keep their upstairs oasis trouble-free.” I shrug—makes total sense to me.
“You must’ve been here before?” I ask, because she knows exactly what to do and where to go.
“A few times,” she says with a gleam in her eyes. A few in Celia’s eyes could be a thousand, and the way she’s smiling, I’m figuring too many to count.
The elevator doors open, and the second they do, I feel as if I’m about to step into a different world. A dream world. “Is this a time machine? Because I swear I just came from downtown Raleigh and now I’m stepping into a Vegas hotel of the future.”
Celia giggles at my wonderment, holding on to me as she guides me out of the elevator and onto the plush carpet. She wasn’t kidding when she said this place was high-end, and the fact I’m not downstairs in the quagmire of sex-starved women relaxes me exponentially.
My feet sink into the soft, thick carpet as we walk by overstuffed sofas and chairs that are strategically placed around the room. The decor is full of rich colors with painstaking attention to detail. Everything here screams elegance. Behind the counter, we’re greeted with a warm, friendly smile. The receptionist addresses Celia by name, which does not surprise me.
Celia nudges me, getting my attention, then leans in to whisper in my ear, “See? I told you. Once you’ve had a taste of this spa, you’ll never want to leave.” She pulls away, giving me one of her signature winks.
I chuckle at all the enthusiasm bouncing off her. I’m pumped up now and ready for this surprise. The receptionist opens an ornate door and ushers us through. I can’t help but ooh and aah at every turn. I know I’m wide-eyed and mystified, acting like I’ve never seen a high-class establishment before. The fact is, I live in such a place twenty-four-seven, but I’ve never considered it my own.
“You get your own locker,” Celia instructs, as she opens a sizable wooden door. “Once you get undressed and put all your stuff in there, you put on this complimentary bathrobe.”
I look inside the locker assigned to me, and sure enough, a plush white bathrobe hangs on the hook waiting for my arrival. I smile on the inside, because I love nothing more than to wrap up in these. “Okay,” I say gleefully, “I have to admit at first I was skeptical with your surprise, but now I can plainly see this is really, really nice.”
“Squee!” Celia claps her hands enthusiastically, happy to get my approval. “I knew you would love it. Now just wait for the massage,” she says, dramatically fanning her face as if she were hot. “You’re going to die of sensory overload.” I roll my eyes; Celia’s always been so overly dramatic.
Once I change out of my clothes and I’m snuggled into the most awesome robe I’ve ever had wrapped around me, Celia looks at me and frowns. “What?” I ask, confused.
“Girl, you don’t go into a full body massage with your panties on.”
“Since when?” I arch a skeptical brow and secure my robe tighter. “I’ve always worn my underwear.”
She shakes her head at me in disapproval. “I think you need to leave them behind. Trust me on this.”
“Umm… I’ll take my chances, thanks.” Me being in my birthday suit is not happening.
“Okay,” she says in a warning tone, “have it your way.” Once Celia slips into her robe, she takes me by the arm and leads me out of the locker room.
“Shouldn’t we wait in here? Aren’t they supposed to take us to our room?”
“They know me here, and I already know where to go,” she explains, dismissing my concern. She stops in front of a closed door and turns to me. “This is typically the room I’m given.” She points to the decorative eraser board, which houses the number two in a fancy script. “You take this one. I know the masseuse personally, so I know he’ll treat you right.” She gives me another wink, and I eye her warily.
“What’s up with all the winks?”
“Just relax, girl.” She pats my shoulder. “I’m just excited to be out with you for a change.”
“All right. Thanks,” I tell her, not thinking any more of her odd behavior. I brush past her to open the door.
“You hang your robe over there on the hook,” she points in the dimly lit room to a gold hook on the wall, “and then make yourself comfortable on the table. They always start with your back and shoulders, so go ahead and get cozy on the table and lay face down.”
I narrow my eyes at her. “Are you sure you don’t work here part-time?” I tease.
“I wish, honey. If I did, I’d be useless.” She then giggles at herself. She gives me a quick hug and a warm smile then steps out, slowly closing the door behind her. Before the door fully closes, she whispers in a knowing voice, “Enjoy your massage, beautiful.”
CHAPTER 4
~ Valerie ~
The door to the room clicks shut with a finality and I’m left with silence. I shrug off her almost eerie, but silly demeanor. She’s been acting strange all night. Alone in the room now, I turn around in a slow circle, soaking in the ambiance and decor. I take a deep breath, inhaling a beautiful, relaxing fragrance. Mental note: I must ask what fragrance this is. I slip out of my robe then hang it on the designated hook before I slip underneath the thin sheet on the massage table.
Once I get settled on the table, I let out a sigh in hopes the buzz from the wine will keep any anxiety I have at bay. I don’t know why I’m on edge, but I tell myself it’s because I haven’t b
een out in ages, which is true. Soft, quiet instrumental music has automatically begun playing in the background, and I close my eyes, willing myself to wind down and find some inner tranquility. Celia was right; this night out has been good for me. I should do it more often. I need to start acclimating myself to being able to handle social situations and not have an anxiety attack.
It’s been a few years since I’ve been to any sort of actual spa, so this truly is a treat for me. Graham used to spoil me, giving me his own personal massages, especially when I’d decline his offer to take me to places like this. It used to irritate him that I was so frugal, always concerned about wasting his money. Any time the subject was discussed about him spending his hard-earned money on frivolous things for me, he’d get so upset, but in a cute way. I feel a small smile tug on the corners of my lips, thinking about how handsome he looked when he’d get aggravated with me. He always went above and beyond to make me feel like a queen, but I never felt I deserved it; maybe that’s why he did it, because I appreciated him and his unconditional love. Reminiscing over these thoughts, I scold myself. I’m not going to dwell on memories that will turn my mood solemn. This is supposed to be a fun night out, and I plan to keep it that way.
I’m brought back into the here and now when I hear the door softly open behind me. I’ve mentally prepared myself for this as I now lay in anticipation, looking forward to having my full body massage.
Faint footsteps echo around the room, growing louder as the person nears me then the heavy footsteps come to a halt beside me. I’m suddenly aware there’s a different kind of energy going on. I cannot only feel it, but I also smell it. A strong, masculine cologne surrounds me as I suck in a shallow breath, instantly realizing I have a male masseuse. I should’ve known Celia would require a man to do her massages.
I’m face down, my cheeks cradled against the sides of a soft doughnut hole for a face pillow, so I can’t see him. I’m too nervous to try and sneak a peek. I tense the second a set of large, calloused yet gentle hands come to rest on the bare skin of my back. I’ve never had a male masseuse before, let alone a male touching me at all for quite some time.
