Tainted Touch Page 13

  He stiffens a little, and finally looks all the way up from the iPad. “Oh yeah?”

  “She said they were awesome.”

  “Awesome.” He gives a tentative nod. “Awesome that they’re…awesome. Here, look at this. Can you do that keyword thing you’re good at?” He pushes the iPad toward me.

  “You mean, read?”

  “Be quiet.” He shuffles about beside me while I scan the page. “So when you said she thinks they’re awesome, was there, like, a certain inflection to the word? How did she say it? Was it all, they’re awesome because they’re cakes, or was it more kind of, hey, look what Rich made. They’re awesome?”

  I snort at that one. “Seriously. How old are you?”

  “How old are we, you mean? You’re just as bad.”

  My upper lip twitches. “Am not.”

  “So reply to Mr Date already.”

  “I can’t. It’s–it’s complicated,” I whine.

  “It’s always complicated, Cait. Everything good is complicated,” he declares. “Women: good. Also, complicated. Algorithms, good–apparently–but also complicated. Chow breakfasts: bad. And forged by greasy simpletons in freaking McMordor.”

  He and I dissolve into high-pitched titters. The ache in my back bites viciously–stupid painkillers either aren’t working, or have yet to kick in.

  “Stoppit. I’m in pain, you’re making it worse!”

  “One does not simply walk into The Chow,” he sniggers.

  “Rich. You’re exposing yourself for the true geek you really are,” I warn.

  “Says the girl who’s taking a whole module about fucking Google statistics.”

  “Rub it in, why don’t you?”

  He rolls his eyes. “So. Next bake-aroo. Can we, uh, schedule it for a time when she might be around?”

  “Who?” I make quotation marks with my fingers. “Vickdemort?”

  “I’ll settle for She Who Shall Not Be Named, cheers. But…uh. Yeah.”

  “Rich,” I scold. “I told you, you’re barking up the wrong tree.”

  “That assumes she’s in a tree. And duh, she totally isn’t.” He dusts his shoulder and then blows on his knuckles. “Let it not be said that I suck, ever.”

  I’m about to sing Rich and Vicky, sitting in a tree, but that seems to be over-smithing somewhat and smacks of getting his hopes up. Although on the plus side, he’s unconvinced about trees.

  Huh. Maybe the painkillers are working.

  ***

  An hour later, Rich drops me at the gym to collect my payslip. Normally, I’d just wait until the weekend, but only one thing can cure the crappiness of not being able to work out. And that is shopping. Alas, since I’m not a girl in a movie with my daddy’s credit card, I have to check my budget first.

  Rosalie, one of the weekday receptionists, waves at me as I walk through the double doors. She has the shiniest brown hair in the bounciest ponytail, set off by a megawatt smile and Barbie-esque figure. She’s always reminded me of an air hostess. Truth be told, I think meeting girls like Rosalie was half my motivation for going to the classes here.

  “You’re not on today, are you?” she calls as I hobble to the desk.

  “Nope. Just wanted my payslip, if that’s okay.” Must try not to stare at the sheer pearliness of her teeth. “Shopping emergency.”

  “Ooh. What’s the occasion?”

  I shrug. “It’s Wednesday?”

  She turns to rifle through the stack of blue slips on the in-tray. “I like your style. Mmm…here you go.”

  I take the slip from her manicured fingers with a nod. “Thanks.” I did overtime last month, and today it’s going to buy me something pretty. Even if I gurn like a zombie through the pain of trying it on.

  “Ooh.” She leans over the desk, resting on her arms. Her made-up eyes shine in the fluorescent lights. “Don’t look now, but Mr. Lyons is about to make an appearance.”

  “Why would I–” I glance back regardless, only to see Art emerge from the spa with his client’s coat folded neatly over his forearm. Said client is a svelte blond thing in the tiniest gym shorts I’ve ever seen. I gulp. “Oh.”

  Rosalie blows air through her teeth with a little hiss. “Look at him, Cait. Ugh. Strong and silent type. I’ve been trying to talk to him all day and he’s just so…busy.”

  Hazel in Not Gossiping About Me and Art shocker? Eh?

  Unless…Art put her straight, told her there’s nothing between us. And there isn’t, I realise. Not unless you count the world’s biggest ant-climax of a date and one poxy voicemail. I feel like my mouth is stuffed with sawdust.

  Art’s walking straight towards us, and has most definitely noticed me. A vague smile flashes on his lips before he turns to speak to his client. No chance of me escaping, not now. Then he helps her into her coat, says something polite and professional no doubt, waves her off…and starts towards the desk.

  This next bit is where I blame the drugs, because I’ve never heard my heart beat like it’s mashed into my eardrums. Now, I do. A blush of epic force blossoms in the apples of my cheeks, stretching up to my eyebrows. I should look away at this point. It’s so rude to stare. But God help me, the sight of his broad form just inches away never fails to get me lust drunk, and I’ve had opiates, so it’s a wonder I’m not standing in a puddle of drool and weeping with abject humiliation.

  “Art,” Rosalie says brightly. “Can I get you anything?”

  “No thanks. Cheers.”

  “You sure? Because we have–”

  He clears this throat. “Honestly, I’m fine. Um…Cait. Hi.”

  “Hi.” In my head, he’s on the voicemail again, his tone equally unsure and hopeful. I’m looking forward to seeing you again. Do I imagine it, or does he actually look quite pleased? “I got–I got your voicemail. But only last night,” I add, trying not to flinch.

  He blinks at me. “Right.”

  Rosalie heaves a sigh. “I’ll be over by the computer if you want me.”

  Art watches her go, his eyes slowly slipping back to meet mine. They’re always so pretty–in a masculine way, but pretty nonetheless. “Is everything okay?”

  I yank my hand back; I’d been rubbing absentmindedly again. “Fine. I just wanted to–”

  “I mean, have you hurt yourself?” He nods at my hand. “You look pretty uncomfortable.”

  “Oh. That. I pulled something in combat. Lower back strain, doctor says.” I try to look like I’m not bothered, but my face has numbed slightly and for all I know, I could be going cross-eyed.

  “Come on then.”

  “I–what?”

  He cocks his head back toward the spa. “I’ve got a spare half hour. We’ll sort you out.”

  “Oh.” Oh.

  OH.

  “Are you offering me…um…?” I can’t bring myself to say the word massage because it sounds too erotic. Yes, I know, my brain is in the gutter.

  “No.”

  My pulse plummets with a painful thump of disappointment.

  “I’m not giving you a choice.” His eyes light up. “Now get a move on.”

  I follow him like a stray cat, paws all heavy and clumsy. Rosalie stares after us open-mouthed, and I fight the urge to grin at her. Note to self: gloating lunacy is not attractive.

  When we reach his clinic, Art holds the door open and ushers me in. It closes with a faint thud and then it’s just me, him and the pale ambient lighting. Me and him and whatever this crackling, smoking mess between us truly is.

  “Art.” I swallow hard. “Before, I mean, I just wanted to say sorry.” Another swallow. “For last night.”

  His mouth quivers upward. “I have no idea what you’re referring to.”

  “Don’t tease me,” I say glumly, lowering my eyes.

  “Look. We’ll talk about it in a bit, okay? But it’s alright.” He gives me one of his stroking nudges, and then runs a finger over the top button of my coat. “Let’s get you out of this and on the table. Actually–” He glances between
the table and me. “You take that off, and I’ll set up the chair. You’ll be a lot more comfortable.”

  Engage, brain! Undo the damn buttons. Stop watching the way his shoulder blades move beneath his shirt. And stop staring at his backside.

  “You okay?” He looks over his shoulder from the strange-shaped chair he’s prepping. “You look a bit spaced out.”

  “The doctor gave me some pills.”

  “Which ones?”

  I drag the blue and white box from my pocket with a wince. “Codydramol.”

  He cracks a proper grin. “I’ll make sure you don’t float away.”

  I distract myself by looking around. The one time I visited the spa, I sat at the counter to have my nails done, listening to panpipes and trying not to choke on Jo Malone room spray. In here, the walls are white as the rest of the complex, but Art has dimmed the lights a little and huge potted plants cast tall shadows to melt in the corners. Muscle group diagrams–modern, artsy versions in pastel colours–are mounted in thick white frames. There’s no music besides the soft effort of his breath.

  “Cait? You want to come over here?”

  I walk slowly toward him, dropping my coat on the table as I pass. The chair has a high, padded back that he’s tilted slightly before covering it in a white sheet, similar to the smaller one he clutches.

  “Here.” He hands it to me. “I’ll make myself scarce for a couple of minutes while you get ready.”

  “You want me to…oh.” Oh is apparently the word of the day. “I’m meant to take my clothes off?”

  “Just your top half. If that’s okay, of course.” He says it cheerfully, like he’s a doctor asking to examine some weird mole I’m worried about.

  “But I’ll be topless,” I squeak.

  “That’s the general idea.”

  I gesture to the chair. “You’re meant to be looking at my back, Art.”

  His tan slips back several shades, and his brows fall. “Ah. No, see…I’ll show you how you’re meant to sit, okay?” Then he hops on to the chair, straddling it so he faces the padded back, his chest pressing into it while his arms and chin come to rest over the top. “You can wrap yourself in the drape and I’ll just expose the areas I need to work on. Is that all right?”

  “That’s…very professional.” God, I sound like an idiot. Of course he’s professional. This is his bloody job.

  He slips back off the chair and comes to stand beside me. “Cait. Relax. I’ll be an absolute gentleman. Promise.”

  “Well, that’s a disappointment,” I huff, barely thinking.

  “Huh.”

  The word’s barely out of his mouth before it crash-lands on the wooden floor, skidding along until it explodes against the wall in a mist of electric blue. I only notice because I see the reflection in the dark, dilated pupils of his eyes. And perhaps it’s really just the sky pouring in through the window, or a side-effect of the dim light; maybe it’s the drugs playing tricks on me–but if you gave me a knife, I couldn’t hack through the sheer embarrassment I feel at saying that line, or the thick voice that purrs in my ear, you’re the dirtiest kind of innocent.

  “So I’ll get on the chair,” I say eventually, still staring at him.

  “And I’ll be back in five.” He gives me a brief once-over, nods his approval–at what exactly, I have no idea–and then disappears out into the corridor.

  So. Getting undressed in Art’s clinic. I should not feel this giddy about a procedure he probably goes through with clients multiple times a day, but I’ve got to take my bra off in a weird place, so I reserve the right to quake in my ballet flats. Let it not go unmentioned, too, that surely I’ll be flashing some serious side boob. Oh crap. Did he just spend the last hour looking at that blonde’s sideboobs?

  Why won’t he talk about Saturday? Seriously, life, all the WHYs.

  I alternate between shedding bits of clothing and telling my brain to shut the hell up. My t-shirt and black bra make a neat pile atop my coat; looks kind of like the heap of clothes I woke up to on Sunday, the clothes anointed with chlorine and Cloisters candles and him. The memory is too sharp and cloying, so I tuck the bra beneath the other items, ignore the goosepimples that flare up my spine, and straddle the weird chair with all the grace of a drunk. The drape sits where I left it–neatly folded on the floor–and I shake it open to find the fabric soft and stretchy. After a moment or so of experimentation–none of which is easy due to sitting backwards, and pain–I settle it over my shoulders like a shawl. It lands gently, cupping me.

  I wait for Art with my face pressed into the cradle of my arms, counting seconds in semi-darkness. Breath pools against fine hairs, warming my cheeks, blowing a shiver to my eyelashes. When the door creaks open again, my heartbeat is slower and safer. I’m relaxed–just like he said. Kind of.

  “All set?”

  I manage a nod as he approaches.

  “Okay. Good, good. You comfortable there? I can adjust the angle, if you’d like.”

  “It’s fine,” I say, my voice softer than I’d anticipated. “It’s nice, actually.”

  He tugs a stool with a pale leather seat towards me, and parks himself behind the chair with a little thump of empty air. “Are you warm enough?”

  I shift about beneath the drape, trying to usher away goosepimples. “Tiny bit cold,” I admit.

  “One sec. I’ll turn up the heating.” His wide, even steps echo towards the corner of the room, where he pauses, humming low and smooth before pacing back. “It’ll probably take a moment or two to kick in.”

  “That’s okay.”

  Art leans in. The inches between us swell with heat. My pulse acts as a motion sensor, gaining speed the closer he gets. “Any other injuries I should know about?”

  Only mental ones, of which I could weave myself a crapbasket. I suppress a dry laugh.

  “I’ll take that as a no.” I can hear a smile shaping his words. “You want to tell me a little more about this, before we get started? When did it happen?”

  “Last night. I…over-exploded a bit.” Which doesn’t sound dirty at all. Gaah. “I mean–”

  “It’s not uncommon. How long ago did you take those pills?”

  “About an hour and a half ago, maybe?”

  “Right.”

  The drape drags across my bare back as he lifts it, setting it over my right shoulder with a breezy draught. I hide my face again, try to detach myself from the moment. Although I’ve had his hands on me, it’s never been in such an intimate capacity, and already, Saturday night feels lost and broken and dragged backwards through a bush. This is the skin of a new bubble. Close and fragile…like me.

  “Okay,” he says in that deep, flowing Professional Voice he uses to such soothing effect. “I’m not going to do a lot of work today, mainly because this is quite fresh and I don’t want to aggravate any bruising within the muscle. Also, you’ve had those pills and I wouldn’t want them to mask any pain in what I do. If it’s all right, I’m going to start by just feeling around, see what’s going on. And then we’ll warm the muscle up a little. That sound all right?”

  “Yeah.” Just feeling around. I have no idea what to do with that. I love him on my skin in all combinations, but this…I feel so vulnerable.

  “I’m not going to use oil. It’ll let me be a little more precise, but it also might mean that my hands feel a little cooler to begin with.” He shifts, breath spewing over me. “Ready?”

  As I’ll ever be. “Um, yeah.”

  And then he lays his hands on me.

  He told me his hands might feel a little cooler. He lied. They’re splayed warmth, crushed embers worn soft at the edges, and they wrap around my shoulder blade to lift it with gentle ease.

  “Breathe slow,” he tells me. “I want you to say red if I hurt you, or if I find a tender spot. Okay?”

  “Uhuh,” I mumble through my tangle of arms.

  Art begins his feeling around, and I pretend that I am a candle: wax melting, reshaped beneath his fingers. W
ick claimed by orange and at its centre, electric violet blue. I am the table-bound bystander at Cloisters bar, the voyeur of my own windowsill, the scented reminder of things lost but not forgotten. I wonder if he knows what I really am? Touching beneath my skin like this…can he tell?

  “Red,” I say sharply as his fingers press along the lower side of my back.

  “That’s what I thought.” He withdraws, and then begins to describe the muscle, all curving Latin name and list of functions. How it works with the other muscles, why my shoulder is sore and tense as well. Just when the goosepimples have returned, he lays his palm flat over the most tender area and applies a slight amount of pressure. “It’s a little swollen, but not much. You’re lucky.”

  “What…what are you doing?” The heat of his palm blooms deep into my skin, kissing life into crushed capillaries. I ache with the release of a dim, pulpy kind of orgasm, shivers spewing from the point where his flesh meets mine.

  “Just a little pressure point work.” His hand slides aside an inch before pressing down again. “It’s a safe way to warm things up, release some of the tension. Cait?”

  “Yeah?” My voice wavers.

  “About Saturday…I’m sorry.”

  “Oh.”

  “And I’m sorry I’m even bringing it up now. It’s not the right time.” He gives a low bleat of a laugh. “But would you believe me if I said that it’s easier if I don’t have to look you in the eye?”

  “Uh…thanks?”

  Art shifts his palm again and this time, kneads the flesh with rippling fingers. “I’m probably about to haemorrhage man points, but you make me nervous, sometimes.” He clears his throat, shifting away from the Professional Voice and into the husky tones that once cradled the soft cartilage of my ear. “I just…I was drunk, on Saturday. More drunk than I planned on being, anyway.”

  I stiffen because I know exactly what’s coming. He didn’t know what he was doing; he shouldn’t have led me on. No longer do I soften into his touch. I’m a wild horse, poised to buck him right back off.

  “Shit. I–I just didn’t want to slobber all over you like some inebriated idiot. It felt like too much of a hook-up, which I didn’t like.” He sighs. “And then I felt stupid for backing off the way I did. I fucked up, Cait. I know it must’ve seemed strange.”