Tainted Touch Page 5

  “Well yeah.” He glances around, mashes his fingers together, and rests his elbows on bent knees. “Around all these oldies, kinda makes you stand out.”

  “Oh.” I find myself desperate to make conversation–anything to distract from the fact that I look freaking terrible, and that I was apparently doing my sit-ups wrong. Gah. “Shouldn’t you be, uh, massaging people?”

  “I should. Only the thing about starting somewhere new is that you don’t have any clients. Soooo…Hazel’s making me do this info booth thing in here to help build my list up.” He cocks his head back to a corner of the room where a table has been set up. Sports Massage, Soft Tissue Therapy and Remedial Therapy, it says across the front in black Courier New. Leaflets splay across the green tablecloth, and a tablet blinks softly to one side. I was so wrapped up in Dominic that I failed to notice it. “It’s supposed to be a Q&A thing, but these guys aren’t exactly my target audience.”

  “Not even the ladies?”

  “There are some injuries I can’t fix.” He grimaces. “Namely, the ones where some frisky old gal’s husband comes in to whinge about her inappropriate therapist.”

  “That happens?”

  “Once or twice. Although I sure as hell wasn’t the inappropriate one.” He holds up a finger, silencing me. “Don’t say it–I know, I know. If I was, I could charge more.” Then he rolls his eyes.

  “I wasn’t even going there.” I totally was. Weep. “Is that like gallows humour, but for massage people?”

  “Something like that.” He drops a fist down and brushes one knuckle to my hip. “You can get up, you know.”

  It’s the briefest of touches, but I shiver. Like a layer of intimacy has been peeled back and breeched. “I…uh…” Engage, brain! “I have six left to go.”

  “Oh.” He falls to his knees, the mat crunching, and shuffles back. “Well don’t let me stop you. Want a hand?”

  “A what?”

  “I’ll sort out your posture.”

  He says it like it’s nothing. You just lie there on the floor beneath me, darling, and I’ll put my big wide palms on you like a normal person. In a moment, he’s going to try to touch me, and I’ll spring into a corner like Bambi. It will be mortifying. All I want is the sexy part. Why does my brain not get this?

  “Okay,” I say finally, though I sound unconvinced. “What do I need to, um, do?”

  “Oh, ye of little faith.” He comes forward again, bent at the hip, and reaches for me–but pauses. “Am I okay to…?” He mimes taking my hands.

  “Yeah,” I say softly. I mean no. NO.

  But he’s not psychic, so he reaches for me anyway, bringing my hands behind my head. And I breathe through it. In and out, in again and oh God, please don’t let him notice what a complete nutcase I am. He’s barely touching me, really; it’s like he instinctively measures and rations pressure.

  The world blurs a bit. Despite my trembling, his palms are cool and lovely, and his forearms, I notice, are lined with a fine dusting of dark hair–enough to roughen boyish edges, to make him seem older than his face suggests. When he’s done rearranging me, he places one confident hand across my waist, and the other sweeps up to rest on my forehead. My nose is filled with the aftershave at his wrists; spices warmed on his tanned skin. My eyes long to close, to enjoy this, and I battle to keep them open. It wasn’t like this with Dominic. His touch didn’t carry such weight or power–not chemically, not this way. His influence hid in barbed little words, innocent until I processed the welts they left hours later.

  Art gives me a cursory once-over. “Okay. On the count of three, you’re going to come right up to where my hand is, down here. And by this, I mean that you pull from here, rather than actually sitting up.” He gives my stomach a single, light pat. “If–or when–your head comes too high, I’ll put a little tension in my arm so you’ll feel it. The aim is to focus on working your core, not straining your neck. Ready?”

  “Ready.” I almost believe it, too.

  He begins to count. Now, I allow myself the briefest of luxuries: two full seconds in the dark, eyes closed, my senses spitting like snow thrown on fire as I commit the feel of his hands to memory–the weight behind his pressure, the wisps of clove and ginger in his cologne. I’ll need it later to analyse why this is different, why I don’t shrink away like a pathetic puppy when his skin hovers beside mine. Not that it’s easy to bear. It isn’t. But the pleasure is sweet as the swift prick of a needle, and the release as it comes and goes borders on euphoria.

  “Two…one…up you come.”

  I lift. It’s like my bent arms propel me forward, and I’m dizzy as the tension spills down his left arm to buffer my forehead.

  “Easy,” he says, in the shape of a smile. “You’re still straining your neck a bit. One sec.” Art shifts sideways until he’s almost behind me. The hand on my stomach has moved, and now prods at my upper back. “Might be easier if I show you how to bend here. Your lower back doesn’t move, okay?”

  I don’t know where to look–he’s right above and if I dare open my eyes, I’ll be staring straight into his. But if I keep them closed, I’ll seem weird. Or…aroused. This is not the time for sad little truths; it’s time to show him I’m not a complete ditz, and thus capable of a simple crunch–all while trying to ignore that he has one hand on my forehead and the other between my shoulder blades, surely two of the sweatiest places he could’ve chosen. I’m not even sure what to do with that.

  Art counts me down again, and this time, I come up properly. He gives me a soft little hmm of encouragement, and I go again. Pride sends new ribbons of heat through the aching muscles of my stomach.

  After three more reps, he sits back, hands falling to his sides. And I’m still trying to work out if I’m relieved or disappointed.

  “Not bad,” he says.

  “Why thank you.” I pretend to dust off my shoulder. It’s almost instinct to flirt with him–like putting on armour. Like play-fighting is preferable to the real thing, and I should get in there first.

  He leaps to his feet, dusting off his knees. “I like a fast learner.”

  “I’m…uh…happy to oblige?”

  “Speaking of obliging.” He waits for me to join him in the dizzy world of standing people, and then offers a lopsided grin. The apples of his cheeks are faintly flushed. It makes him look ridiculously healthy. “Fancy returning the favour?”

  I frown. “You need help with sit-ups…?”

  “I need someone to come to this booth and ask me some questions.” He jabs a thumb back towards his corner. “For the love of God, please come and make me look busy.”

  “Oh. Yeah, of course.” I grab my towel and follow him past the cross trainers to the booth, trying not to trip over my own feet in the process. “Doesn’t helping me out of my crunch fail count?”

  “Nope. Well. Not when I’m not technically qualified to do it. And if I have to sit through Hazel’s public liability insurance rant again, I may be reduced to eating my own pants. But I did physio at uni, so…” He shrugs. “Seems silly not to help where I can.”

  Obvious questions hang between us, then. So why aren’t you qualified? Why are you here? He knows this; the air turns jagged in the midst of awkwardness.

  “It wasn’t for me,” he adds, perhaps too quickly.

  I can feel sympathy creeping into my smile, and I bite my bottom lip to stem it. Then I’m embarrassed because it’s not like he’s asking for pity–hell, the way I saw him go at that punch bag, it was quite the opposite. I couldn’t imagine dropping out of my degree, but I’m reading way too much into this.

  Art takes a theatrical, sliding step behind the table, and spreads his arms. The green shirt stretches across his chest to strain at the shoulders, and I get another waft of his warm aftershave. “So here I am. Ask me something.” He gives me big puppy eyes. “Anything.”

  I fiddle with one of the leaflets. It’s covered with massage photos, and way too much skin-on-skin for my liking. I’m still alight
from the feel of his hands–the hands that make those fists. Still trying to work out what’s going on in this fizzing body of mine.

  “Okay. So…tell me about the…difference between sports massage and soft tissue therapy?” My voice wavers, unsure.

  “Excellent question. I can get my speech on.” He weaves his fingers together and flexes them. “Soft tissue and remedial therapies are part of the healing process. If you had a specific muscular or soft tissue injury, we’d go for those, and we’d use massage and manipulation to ease any pain or tension. Sports massage is more about readying the muscles before an event or promoting recovery afterwards. It stimulates blood flow and preserves mobility.”

  “So basically, it stops you feeling like you’ve been molested by bears after a marathon?” I can’t believe I just said that. I hang around with Drew too much.

  Art purses his full lips, and swipes up a leaflet. “It doesn’t say that on here. Huh. Still.” He smacks the leaflet back down and stares at me, amber eyes flaring. “Maybe it should. It’s catchy.”

  I like his sarcasm more than is advisable. It appeals to the blunt side of me, the side that is happy to play with words because they’re so much safer than flesh.

  “I mean, I could try it out in here. Just imagine.” He mimes marching, then catches sight of the OAPs surrounding us. “Actually, let’s not go there.”

  I try not to giggle, which makes my eyebrows ache. “Want me to ask another question?”

  “Please.”

  “Okay. Um…” I’m at that point after a workout where I’m going cold beneath my own sweat, and the shower’s calling my name. With anyone else, I’d already have made my excuses. I’m such a lost cause.

  “Ask me how it’s different to normal massage,” he suggests. “That’s always a good one.”

  I can’t suppress my smile now. “How is it different to normal massage?”

  “I’m glad you asked. Now see, other types–like Swedish, or aromatherapy–they’re for relaxation, so they’re a lot gentler. Sports massages are about boosting circulation and keeping things supple and flexible, so they’re often vigorous. Or at least, the pressure is different.”

  Supple. God, I like the way he says that even more than the sarcasm.

  “Aren’t they meant to be, like, quite hard?”

  “Not exactly. It’s just deep work.” He zeroes in on me, his tone suddenly the tiniest bit more serious. “There’s a big difference between deep and hard, you know.”

  That’s it. I’m officially done for. My hormones are about to declare war on my lonely skin, and if I don’t escape soon then I’ll end up a heap on the floor, drowning in my own sad excuses.

  “I-I have to get going.” I lower my eyes. “Sorry to bail out on you.”

  “Places to go, people to see?”

  “Showers to die under,” I say bluntly. “And accounting modules to suffer.”

  “Try not to get the two mixed up.”

  “That would be unfortunate.”

  “And you’d be naked in an accounting lecture,” he adds, mischievously. “Which would be–”

  “Also unfortunate,” I blurt. “Not good.”

  “I’m a horrible person for even suggesting it.”

  A horrible person who’s trying so hard not to grin at me, his mouth is twitching at the corners.

  I clear my dry throat. “So yeah. Good luck with your booth thing.”

  We exchange nods, and I go to leave.

  “Cait?”

  My nerves itch as I turn. “Yeah?”

  “You in again on Saturday?”

  “Uhuh.” I press my lips together. “You?”

  “Yep.” He puts a big hand up and tugs at his dark hair. “See you then.”

  “See you.”

  I jog all the way to the locker room, the sharp burn of his gaze sending prickles down my spine.

  Ten minutes later, I’m collapsed in the shower cubicle, my bare back against damp tiles. Hot water throbs down to mingle with the mess of lime-scented conditioner dripping from my hair, and goosebumps ripple across my calves where the heat has yet to reach. I rub milky cleanser into my face, rinse, then lean forward to pat dry with the towel strewn over the door. Slowly, I become clean again. Clarity returns.

  I’m not crazy. He is flirting with me. It’s not like it doesn’t happen; guys talk to me from time to time. But they’re not usually as mesmerising or intense as Art. They’re not usually as hot, frankly, and they don’t touch me with such grace or ease.

  I don’t usually want to flirt back. The urge doesn’t flood every synapse until I ache to reach out, to–ah, I shouldn’t.

  And all because of Dominic. Ugh. I take thick lungfuls of steamy air, trying to cleanse the bastard out of my system. I checked my phone as soon as I opened my locker and he hadn’t sent another message (although Facebook has helpfully informed him I’ve read the first one. Thanks for nothing, internetz). I don’t understand why he’s contacting me now–hell, he barely had reason to when we were together.

  If I could sum up the way I felt in that relationship, I’d say flattened. 2D. It started out awesome, the way these things always do, I guess, but then he just stopped doing or saying anything…nice. Like the love had been sucked out of him and only obligation remained, a rusty shadow of a tether that tainted everything. And I stayed in that shadow, miserably unaware that the sodden comfort I took from it was just rot setting in. All the bad relationships I saw on TV were passionate and fiery, the couples swinging between bitter arguments and violent make-up sex; Dominic and I were not that at all. So I let myself think we were okay.

  But what kind of boyfriend is so smothering and possessive towards a girl he’s not interested in, physically? Still, this perplexes me. He trapped me at every exit. No, I don’t want her. No, you can’t have her either–not even a conversation. The crap I used to get just for having male friends–it sucked me further into his flaccid, dismal balloon, kept me bound by a hundred emotional obligations. And then at the end…he just switched them off. Cleaved right through the soft tissue of us with a machete and left me bleeding in a dark street.

  Exhausted, I finish rinsing my hair off, and slide down the tiles to hug my knees. White suds disappear down the drain in clumps; I follow the path of each bubble. I think about how my skin sang beneath the sweep of Art’s fingers, and realisation claims me like a giant fist.

  I know little of Art, but right now, I like him for what he is.

  My mistake was loving Dominic for all the things that he isn’t.

  Chapter Six

  Four PM, and the wind just massacred my blow dry. Great–now I look the same way I feel.

  I have two options. I could contemplate Art’s apparent interest in me, but more than a moment of that feels like being wrapped in sandpaper. It’s too much like hope, too provocative. My other option is to attempt to find closure over this Dominic crap. Just saying his name in my head makes my stomach swill vacantly, but I’m dying here. I have to do something, so on my way into town, I duck into the grounds of the cathedral to call my little sister.

  Although the city itself is beautiful–the medieval town gates make it seem encased by an ancient castle–the cathedral is the reason I chose Foxfield for uni. I grew up an hour away in Guildford, and in school holidays, my grandma would bring Millie and me here for day trips. The building itself is gorgeously gothic; the spire, thrust up to meet the clouds, is one of the tallest in England, and gargoyles hang from stone arches, mouths twisted and fingers clasped. Statues of past kings stand boldly ingrained into the higher walls. On warm days, Grandma would sit in the grounds with her knitting while Mills and I tore about the place, pretending to be knights or princesses. In a few months, the whole place will smell like rain on rocks and freshly cut grass–similar to my sweet pea candle. I’ll sit below the statues and ponder if they will melt like wax in midday heat.

  Today, the grounds are quiet. A small group of Japanese tourists babble near the huge doors, and a mother a
nd toddler are parked on a bench nearby, sharing something from a paper bakery bag. When the wind calms, I dig about in my gym rucksack and yank out my phone.

  Millie picks up after a couple of rings. “Caitlyn,” she says in her deadpan-but-pleased voice.

  “Mills.” I mimic her with fondness. “How’s you?”

  “Snowed under with coursework. I’ve got a debate as well on Friday, so am up to my eyeballs in marijuana propaganda. In fact I’m reading some random experiment report about monkeys.” Fingers ripple along a keyboard in the background. My little sister is a genius; she just got accepted into Cambridge. She may be snowed under but I can tell from her tone that she actually enjoys this. “How about you?”

  I ignore the question. “Did you win the last one?”

  “Slayed them. It was epic.” She chuckles to herself, and I can almost see the freckles bouncing up and down her nose.

  “And how are your Sims?”

  “Naomi’s still evil. Maurice just retired to write gay pirate novels, though he’s started to think about a second career in interpretive dance.” She pauses. “Did you read that book yet?”

  “I…not yet. But it’s on the top of my pile, okay? I’m working on it.” She gave me a copy of The Waves on my last weekend home, and has been bugging me to read it ever since. It’s something to do with a woman who drops everything to move into a lighthouse at the edge of the coast. At the time, I’d just seen Anchorman 2, and all I could imagine was Will Ferrell bottle-feeding a shark. I suspect The Waves is a tad more serious.

  “Well hurry up. I need someone to dissect it with, and I can’t drag Grey or Loki away from Robin bloody Hobb.”

  “I don’t know how you can call him Loki with a straight face.”

  “I don’t.” She sighs. “But I try not to be mean about it. If he gets touchy then his eyeliner gets all smudged.”

  “It’s a dog’s name,” I insist. “Maybe I’ll give all my friends dog names. I’ll start calling Drew Bowser–”

  “Is it Drew who wears the pink cardigan? Because he could give Loki a run for his money. I keep seeing him on Facebook.”