Feather Light (Knead Me)

by Lorenz Font

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Feather Light

  By

  Lorenz Font

  First published by The Writer’s Coffee Shop, 2013

  Copyright © Lorenz Font, 2013

  The right of Lorenz Font to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her under the Copyright Amendment (Moral Rights) Act 2000

  This work is copyrighted. All rights are reserved. Apart from any use as permitted under the Copyright Act 1968, no part may be reproduced, copied, scanned, stored in a retrieval system, recorded or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  All characters and events in this Book – even those sharing the same name as (or based upon) real people – are entirely fictional. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead … or undead … is purely coincidental. No person, brand or corporation mentioned in this Book should be taken to have endorsed this Book nor should the events surrounding them be considered in any way factual.

  This Book is a work of fiction and should be read as such.

  The Writer’s Coffee Shop

  (Australia) PO Box 447 Cherrybrook NSW 2126

  (USA) PO Box 2116 Waxahachie TX 75168

  Paperback ISBN-978-1-61213-129-0

  E-book ISBN-978-1-61213-130-6

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the US Congress Library.

  Cover Image - © Branislav Ostojic | Dreamstime.com

  Cover Artist - Claudia Trapp/Phantasy Graphic Design phantasygraphicdesign.wordpress.com

  www.thewriterscoffeeshop.com/lfont

  To Elise,

  who will rise above every challenge that comes her way

  Chapter 1

  “What do I always say on Mondays?” Parker called out as soon as he walked into his Los Angeles branch of Knead Me.

  “Lie down and allow me to ease your troubles away,” a chorus of masseuses, masseurs, and excited front office girls answered in unison.

  Slaps of good-natured appreciation landed on his back, as Webster, his loyal assistant, pressed a half-filled, steaming, and lidded cup of Sumatra coffee into his palm.

  “Three steps and the chair is to your left,” she whispered in his ear. “Glad to see you bright and early, boss.”

  “Thanks. Happy to be back, Webbie. I missed this place.” Parker set the cup on the conference table and sat on the chair she had directed him to. “Got another one for my baby bro?”

  “Of course. Here’s your decaf, Cork.” The crisp sound of a cup exchanging hands followed.

  “Thanks, Webbie,” Cork answered from his left.

  “Okay, folks, listen up.” Parker raised a hand to silence the people in the room. Through his hazy eyesight, he saw a blur of figures taking their seats, and also heard the scratching of shoes on the carpet, signaling that everyone was settling down.

  He took a quick sip of his coffee before he spoke. “Well, NYC is doing great. Thanks to our loyal customers and word of mouth, our New York branch has kicked off with a strong first month. I’m going to accept applications for transfers in the next five days. Anyone interested in trying out the cold, wet winter weather and hot as fuck summer, pardon my French, is welcome to give me their application, beginning today.”

  Laughter echoed throughout the room, letting Parker know everyone was in high spirits. Heck, he could practically smell their delight. Happy employees meant increased productivity, which, of course, would lead to satisfied clients. Bottom line—business had nowhere to go but up.

  The southern California branch of Knead Me, his very first, had opened its doors three years ago, right when he’d been at the height of his confusion over this terrible disease. Then had come the San Francisco branch six months ago, which had been a huge hit, too. With the success of their expanded locations, Parker had hoped that he could find some free time. Boy, had he been mistaken. Although his major clientele were happy with his massage therapists’ work, they still clamored for him, which left little to no time for himself. To continue to be successful, his diminishing sight, along with the desire for some much-needed downtime, would have to take a backseat to running the business.

  Enter Cork Davis, his younger brother. Cork had quit his full-time job as a high school football coach to work for Knead Me. Single and still very much into himself, his brother helped in managing the entire operation, and had also acted as Parker’s chauffeur and go-to guy. Cork had never divulged his reasons for leaving coaching to work for Parker, and he hadn’t bothered asking. Sometimes family and work didn’t go together, but in Parker and Cork’s case, it worked just fine as long as they stayed out of each other’s personal business.

  “Webbie, I can sense your indecision, so I’ll give you an all-expense paid vacation to Tahiti if you just promise me you’ll stay here and keep my chair warm.”

  Webster’s distinct melodious voice rose above the din of chuckles and giggles. “Aw, do I stink that much, boss?”

  Parker could almost picture her pout. He flashed a broad smile in her direction.

  “Fine, I’ll stay. Just make sure I fly first class and my return ticket is open.” Good-natured banter and light conversation had been the secret of their success as a unit.

  “My dear Webster, curse your father for giving such a gorgeous woman an outdated name. If I didn’t know you were a woman, I wouldn’t even give you a second glance.” He laughed.

  “But you know I’m very female.” More giggles exploded around him, as well as some throat clearing.

  “And what’s this about an open return? Are you going to leave me to fend for myself?”

  “I’m happy here. I just have to rattle you from time to time so I can feel I’m still needed.”

  “You’re always needed as far as I’m concerned, Webbie.” Turning his attention to the group, he added, “Get your asses ready. Our ten o’clocks are going to pound our door in … five, four, three, two … one. Happy Monday to all! And please, knead their hearts out!”

  “And knead we shall,” Andy, another high-demand masseur, said from the door. Snorts and chortles followed him out as everyone spilled from the room.

  Once the sound of the departing footsteps faded, Parker breathed a deep sigh and turned to Webster. “Who’s my ten today?”

  “New client. The name’s Madame Baba. Does it ring a bell?”

  “Hmm … no. But we’ll find out soon enough, won’t we?” He waggled his eyebrows in her direction and saw, through his dot-sized vision, her head fall back in laughter.

  “I’m sure we will. I have room 101 set up for you. I also placed all the invoices on your desk at the two o’clock position. All they need is your John Hancock, and they’re all set.”

  Efficient, quick-witted, and attractive, Webster had been a trouper from day one and a valuable asset to his staff, considering the pounding his schedule and his personal challenges posed for her. She had taken on the role of his personal assistant with a fresh outlook and one giggle at a time.

  “Thanks. If you find an opening in my schedule this week, keep it open. I’m dying to go o
ut and try the new, remodeled track at Road Runners.”

  Parker clicked his tongue, trying to remind himself to call Andrew, his running partner, before the day was over. He was adept in sighted-guide techniques and formulated ways to help Parker jog and run outside without the fear of falling and hurting himself.

  “I’ll make sure you get some running time, boss. If you’re set, your client just walked in—raven hair, screaming figure … wait, beautiful, too.” Webster grabbed the cup and handed it to him before she followed him to the door.

  He had started counting his steps, so he knew Webster didn’t expect a response from him. Multitasking in his head, he thought about the “beautiful” and “screaming figure” comments. He stopped and turned around. “You’re joshing me, right?”

  Her laughter answered for her, but before he could start counting again, she added, “Well, the humongous glasses are hiding most of her face. Hard to tell.”

  “You’re still messing with me.” He pulled her into a friendly hug before she stiffened.

  “No more joshing. Hurry up. You don’t want to keep a client who ordered a Monday Delight waiting, right?”

  “Fine. Then stop distracting me.” Parker turned around and resumed his descent to the first floor, where the majority of the massage rooms were located. The second floor was dedicated to holistic treatments, such as meditation and relaxation.

  Counting had become necessary when his field of vision had deteriorated to dismal proportions. Parker’s left eye recognized shapes, but in his advanced stage, his central vision had been affected. His right eye registered blurry objects. It had been a year since he had been declared legally blind—a politically correct term used to make affected individuals feel good about their new reality. Retinitis pigmentosa had now gotten the best of him. It was a degenerative disease without any known cure, so he was fucked.

  For Parker Davis, his prognosis had ruled out the possibility of him ever driving a car. The disease had also ended his ability to read materials fully sighted people could, and most of all, it had terminated his visual appreciation of anything beautiful. On his good days, he saw specific shapes, but facial expressions and other small details were lost to him. Despite all that, he was never bitter. He was too busy to dwell on the things he couldn’t do. He needed to concentrate on honing his remaining senses.

  He reached room 101 and readied himself before knocking on the door. After his knock was answered with a soft and very feminine response, he walked in and smiled. “Good morning, Madame Baba.”

  Hers was such an odd name, but Parker knew better than to ask. These days, people seemed to run in weird circles. Maybe she was just looking for mystery and the added excitement of being on his table. He guessed he’d soon find out.

  “Hello, Mr. Davis.” The voice didn’t live up to the image he had in his head, sounding more timid than his initial expectation.

  Parker smiled at the tiny form sitting on the chair next to the massage table—tiny in the sense that his vision procured small images. “How about we dispense with the formalities? Call me Parker.”

  The ruffling sound of cloth was the only response. Parker suspected she had shrugged, but he wasn’t sure, since little movements tended to escape his notice. Most people didn’t realize the extent of his blindness, which, in a way, had been good for his ego. He still felt like a big part of the sighted world.

  “Let’s start you off with a full body massage, and then we’ll move down the rest of the menu. There’s a white robe for you on the table. I’ll move over to the other room while you get ready for me. Strip down to whatever makes you feel comfortable and remove all jewelry, navel ring included, and lie face down. Say ‘woo-rah’ when you’re done.”

  “ ‘Woo-rah’? ”

  Parker smiled. “Yes. It’s my own unique way of knowing when my client is ready. So ‘woo-rah’ me when you are.”

  When he disappeared behind the curtain, he heard what sounded like plastic being folded and placed on the little table, which must have been her glasses or sunglasses. Parker pressed the first button on his left, and soft, ambient music filled the room. The light, though already set low, needed to be adjusted. He turned the knob down one notch before proceeding to wash his hands.

  Parker strapped on his oil and lotion belt and heard Madame Baba’s shy “woo-rah” a moment later. He returned to the room, using the flickering candle sitting in the corner of the room as his guide. Three steps to the left led him to the side of the massage table.

  “Comfortable?” he asked, feeling the edge of the table until he found the cotton sheet folded at the end.

  “Uh-huh.” Madame Baba’s voiced sounded remote, as if she didn’t want to be bothered. That was understandable. Most clients wanted to be left alone, but Parker always found a way to draw them out and get more information on how to ease them.

  With a gentle pat, he planted his palms on every pressure point, his way of marking the spots and orienting himself on the width of her body. Madame Baba had a long frame, judging from the length between her shoulder blades down to the base of her torso. She had a narrow waistline, soft skin, and baby-fine hair—and she was ticklish, made obvious by the way she jerked when he touched the small of her back. Interesting!

  The name didn’t fit the owner of the body but instead evoked images of a frumpy matron, a deadly cougar, or an overly cajoling older woman. In his mind, he saw a young, inexperienced, waif-like little girl.

  In a soft voice, he asked, “What do you find comforting, Madame Baba?”

  Parker pulled out the oil bottle and squirted a generous amount of the warm liquid on one palm and then some on her back before replacing the container in its holster. Rubbing both palms together, he eased his hands onto her back and began working in rhythmic circles. She sighed, seeming content.

  “I find long talks over an intimate dinner relaxing, rainy nights with a good book, and a nice person who’s willing to listen …”

  “Take a deep breath for me,” Parker suggested. When she did, he increased the pressure, working on the knots in the back of her neck, her shoulders, and wherever else she needed release.

  Kelly Storm had finally succumbed to her assistant’s goading to get a massage. It was not just a regular massage, but a Monday Delight from none other than Parker Davis, the well-known massage therapist who could bring his clients to tears. Skeptical, Kelly had decided it was time to shut Jessica up and secure an appointment at their LA location, which was closest to her home.

  Since Parker had been out of town, she’d waited for a month until he had gotten back and a Monday slot had opened up. If Kelly had used her real name, getting an earlier appointment would have been guaranteed, but she preferred anonymity. She could do without a bunch of camera-flashing, question-hounding barracudas following her every move, so she’d decided to wait.

  Kelly called for a cab to whisk her away from her Brentwood mansion under the veil of total secrecy. Most paparazzi camped outside her home would mistake her for Sima, her cleaning lady from the Middle East. Dressed in one of her many disguises, she walked into the Beverly Hills location wearing her black wig, a scarf to cover her head and mouth, and dark sunglasses.

  This Parker guy better be good! Kelly shook her head as the perky receptionist led her to a well-lit hallway and into a cozy little room to wait. She took off her face covering as soon as the door closed. When Parker Davis walked in, her jaw literally dropped.

  If she had done her homework ahead of time, she would have known the famed massage therapist was gorgeous beyond belief. Even in the darkened room with the glow of the candle illuminating his features, she could see his sparkling blue eyes and the strong set of his jaw, showcasing a full mouth that offered a wide and precocious smile. Serious muscles bulged from underneath his black cotton T-shirt, and his chestnut-colored hair was a glorious mop into which any woman would love to tangle her fingers. Kelly couldn’t pull her gaze away from him.

  Keeping her disguise in place, she answ
ered Parker’s questions with as few words as possible. Only when his hand touched her skin did she turn into a crumpled mess.

  “What do you find comforting, Madame Baba?”

  His question was nothing personal, but the quiet way he asked it compelled her to give him more details than she’d intended.

  Parker’s hands glided across her back, sending her to a place she hadn’t been before. Firm yet prudent in every touch, he treated her body like fine china. Kelly felt delicate and precious. His sensual touches evoked desires within her that no other man had ever come close to doing. The way his hands probed every inch of her body pushed her to tears. She had read that with a good massage, toxins were released at a rapid rate, causing the body to feel tired or sore afterward. Every firm stroke of his fingers on her skin, along with his soothing voice, released a flood of tension that she’d been keeping bottled up inside.

  Being on top wasn’t always what it was cut out to be. She had become an overnight sensation after one blockbuster movie and since then had been hounded by the media every moment of her life. Kelly had no idea what the words privacy and downtime even meant anymore. Her every movement caused a stir, and every outing became excruciating instead of enjoyable. She wanted fame and fortune, but she also wanted a little time still to be herself—to be able to talk and not worry about repercussions, shop without photographers snapping her picture, or dine out with friends without someone asking her for an autograph or to pose for a picture with them.

  A buried memory surfaced. One particularly crazed paparazzo had hounded her during one of the lowest points of her life. While they lowered her mother’s coffin into the freshly excavated earth, the persistent photographer had squeezed through the tight bodies that surrounded Kelly, snapping several pictures with no regard for her right to mourn in private. Nothing had been the same for her after that incident. She’d begun to closet herself away from the public eye unless necessary, and she’d kept her circle tight. People seemed to forget that even though celebrities were considered public figures, it didn’t mean every facet of their lives had to be displayed for everyone to see.