by Sarina Bowen
“Why didn’t it work out? Besides the harps. Why did you book a massage?”
He gave what was supposed to be a casual shrug. “I’d slept funny on the jet, and my neck hurt. No big deal. So I booked a massage at the spa. Left after ten minutes. I guess I just don’t like hands on me.”
“You don’t like to be touched.”
He looked at his hands. “It isn’t my favorite thing, no.”
The hair stood up on the back of Ari’s neck, and she had to restrain herself from asking why. Not liking to be touched wasn’t a common attitude. “Everybody’s different,” she said softly. “But we still have to work on your hip flexors. I have one idea that might help you.”
“Good.” He made a sheepish face. “Because I’m fresh out.”
She patted his wrist again—intentionally. If they were going to work together, he needed to become at least a little more accustomed to being touched. “Let’s try a more active technique. It will feel more like a gym exercise and less like massage. Can you roll onto your good side and bend your knee for me?”
He complied, turning his broad back to her. She adjusted his bottom leg to be somewhat straight, and then wrapped her hand around his right ankle. “Bend this knee a little more for me.” He did. “All right. I’m going to brace your outer hip. Like this.” She gripped the muscle as far in as she’d gotten before he’d begun fighting her touch. “And you’re going to put your own hand on the trouble spot. Show me.”
He pushed his fingertips into his flesh between his hip and his groin.
“Now, don’t use your back.” She put one hand on his lower back and tapped. “Don’t activate these. Instead, use your hip and leg. Press down and straighten that leg. Go.”
With a lazy-sounding rumble from his chest, he did as she’d instructed.
“Good! How’d that feel?” She dug her hands into the accessible muscle at his hip, warming it, working it as best she could.
“Not too bad.”
“You wouldn’t lie to me, captain, right?”
He chuckled. “No, ma’am.”
“Ugh. You ma’am’d me like an old woman. Just for that you’re going to do it four more times.” She grabbed his ankle again. “Bend.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“For that? Six times.”
“Yes, master.” She watched the taut muscles of his back shake with laughter.
Ari placed her hands on his body again, her palm warmed by the smooth skin of his lower back, the fingers of her other hand gripping his sturdy hip through the thin cotton of his navy blue briefs. “Ready, big guy?”
“Ready,” he rumbled.
“Push and go.” Together they worked around his trouble spot while he extended his leg. And the sigh he let out was a good sign. “Okay?”
“Yeah. It feels a little looser than it did a half hour ago.”
Ari’s small victory was like a warm tingle in her chest. Smiling, she made him repeat the exercise a few more times. “Now roll onto your stomach,” she insisted. “For fifteen minutes I want you to pretend you enjoy massage. Just to stroke my ego, okay?”
Chuckling, he rolled over. She spread a bit of oil on her hands and went to work on his calves, slowly working her way up to his hamstrings. Bit by bit she felt his body relax beneath her touch. “How am I doing?” she asked. “Feel free to lie.”
“Aw. This is the best massage I’ve had all year.”
She let out an un-ladylike snort. “This is the only one, right?”
“Yeah, but still.” He rolled his handsome face into the crook of his arm and sighed again.
Skipping his hips, she went to work on the muscles at the juncture of his lower back and his rather beautiful ass. “Do you have much pain here? The risk with a hip strain is that you’ll overcompensate by using your lower back.”
“By the end of a game, I’m feeling it there for sure.”
The honest answer surprised her. She gave him a pat on the back. “Okay. At your next visit, we’ll keep working on these trouble spots. Each time you put on a burst of speed on the ice, you demand a lot from these muscles. If we keep you loose, it’s going to help. I’m going to work into your hip a little now—but only from the back. But I’m not going to hurt you. And you’re lying on the trouble spot, right? No one can touch it.” She hoped his defensive position on the table would prevent him from tensing up.
“Got it. Do your worst.”
They were tough words from a tough guy, but now she knew better. Patrick O’Doul had some serious issues with having hands on his body. His reluctance probably stemmed from a refusal to make himself vulnerable.
She could work around that, though. She’d have to.
Eddie Vedder sang “Black” through her speakers and Ari hummed along, rolling the waistband of his briefs down just an inch, giving her better access to his skin. She oiled up her hands again and leaned into him, closing her eyes, applying all of her strength to the task at hand. Muscle and bone pressed against muscle and bone. Skin met skin. She let the oil do its work, reducing friction, bringing her hands into better contact with the body she was trying so hard to heal.
That’s when she felt it—finally—that beautiful connection, the moment when the client opens himself up to the treatment. He seemed to go slack beneath her, his muscles relaxing beneath the rhythm of her hands. If it wouldn’t have disturbed his newfound peace, she would have hooted in victory.
She finished up the massage at his big shoulders, now supple. His eyes were heavy. His breathing was steady. And if she checked his pulse, she knew she’d find it at a slow, relaxed rate.
It almost seemed mean when she had to pat the back of his neck gently and tell him that time was up.
His eyes widened. “Okay,” he said a little sleepily. “Thanks.”
“Here,” she said, placing a towel on the edge of the table. “You don’t want to get massage oil on your clothes.”
She turned her back and washed her hands at the little sink in the corner, giving him a moment alone to peel himself up off the table and gather his things. “See you Saturday in Chicago,” she said over her shoulder. “I’ll text you a location. I think we’ll be at the hotel.”
“Right. I’ll be on time,” he mumbled. “Thanks.”
“Be well!” As he opened the door to leave, she stole a look at his face. The expression she found there tugged at her heart. It was a little dazed, as if he couldn’t quite make sense of how he’d spent the last hour. She gave him a smile, and the corners of his rugged mouth turned up, too.
Then he was gone, probably to the showers. The hot water would do him some more good, and keep him loose. But it would also give him a few minutes to pull himself together. Somehow it hadn’t been easy for O’Doul to let someone touch his body. But he’d done it. He’d let down his guard. Now he’d have to pull it back up again for game night. In a few hours he was expected to mow down the visiting team from Quebec, and maybe take a few punches to amuse the fans.
While Ari found some aspects of hockey barbaric, she had tremendous respect for the competitive demands these men placed on both their bodies and their psyches. While she was donning her coat and wondering what to eat for dinner before the game, two dozen men would think of nothing but victory for the next seven hours. Cameras would follow their every move on the ice, then reporters would argue afterwards about their odds of making the playoffs for the first time since Nate Kattenberger bought the team.
Ari walked home, heading north toward the tiny Brooklyn neighborhood of Vinegar Hill, where the streets were brick and the buildings were barely three stories high. The houses here were smaller and older than in almost any other part of Brooklyn. The townhouse where Ari lived dated back to the Civil War. Someone had put a rather pedestrian brick facade on it during the sixties, which dimmed some of its charm. But as Ari approached from a block away, its blue-
painted wooden door beckoned her home.
She was lucky as hell to live here. The building was worth a couple of million dollars at least, in spite of the fact that a Con Edison substation blocked the entire neighborhood from having any decent views of the river. The townhouse belonged to Ari’s great-uncle. He and the rest of her Italian family had decamped for Florida a decade ago. She looked after the building in exchange for paying only a very modest monthly rent.
As she approached, though, she saw something that made her slow down. The back end of her ex’s dark red van was visible just around the corner. The sight of it made her stomach ache instinctively, but its presence wasn’t necessarily bad news.
Three days ago she’d sent him an ultimatum—an e-mail notifying him that he had two days to finally clear the rest of his belongings out of her storage room. He hadn’t replied at all. Just this morning she’d been wondering what to do about that.
But if Vince was finally clearing out his junk from her basement, that was progress.
Ari dug out her keys—still shiny from their newness—and covered the rest of the block quickly. She jogged up the four steps to her front door and unlocked the brand-new deadbolt. Then she closed and locked the door. And listened.
The only voices she could make out were muffled, and coming from the rear of the building. She set her bag down on the bottom of her staircase and tiptoed through the dining room and on into the kitchen, stopping only to kick off her boots to silence the sound of footsteps on her hardwood floors. She hung back near the old refrigerator, taking a cautious, oblique glimpse out the back window.
Nothing.
Her heart was racing for no good reason. Vince was outside and she was inside, behind the safety of new locks. His presence unsettled her nonetheless. Vince Giardi was the embodiment of her worst, most embarrassing mistake. The grandmother who’d helped raise her—God rest her soul—had been right about Vince. Thank you, Nonna. Sorry it took me eight years to notice.
Ari leaned against the fridge, its hum at her back, and took a six-count breath, expanding her diaphragm. She wouldn’t let Vince get her riled up today. There was no need, anyway.
She heard the distinctive slam of the exterior basement door, and stood on tiptoe to take another peek out the window. A beanie hat appeared. But when the man came into view, it most certainly wasn’t Vince. That was obvious even with the guy’s back to her. He was thin and wearing dirty jeans. Vince would never dress like that. And, damn it, the man wasn’t carrying anything. If there were strangers coming in and out of her basement storage room, they’d better have moving boxes containing Vince’s clothing and video games.
Damn. It. All.
More than a month had passed since the awful weekend their relationship finally ended. They’d had an epic fight. Her flight was late in from Ottawa, and she’d gotten home to find Vince waiting up for her, drunk and angry. He wanted to know where she’d been. Why she hadn’t called.
This was nothing new, sadly. Ever since she’d taken the job for the Brooklyn Bruisers, things had been heading downhill. But on that awful night he didn’t bother to couch his jealous little jabs behind a tense chuckle. He flat out accused her of sleeping with a hockey player.
Even as she’d taken out her phone with shaky hands to show him the official arrival time of their charter flight on her Katt Phone, she’d understood that he’d finally gone too far. That she couldn’t live under a cloud of pointless suspicion anymore. It ended right then, even if Vince didn’t know it yet. But instead of playing it cool like a smart girl, she’d raised her voice. Blame it on her Italian heritage, but her top blew right off. “I shouldn’t have to prove it, Vince,” she’d said angrily. “If you think I’m a cheat, then leave me already! Go on! Just fucking stop this!”
He did stop it—by grabbing both her wrists and shoving her toward the stairs. In her wool socks, she’d slipped. Heart-stopping fear rose up in her chest as the staircase sliced into view. Her head bounced off the wall as she grabbed for the carved antique bannister.
Her foot stopped her fall, though—caught between two balusters. At first it was such a relief to stop falling that she didn’t feel the pain shooting up her instep. And then, shaking with fury and freaked out, she’d tried to conceal it. But that’s hard when you can’t put weight on one leg.
At the sight of her injury, Vince had sobered up fast and used Uber to get them a ride to the ER. “I’m sorry, baby,” he babbled. “Terrible accident.” “Never happen again.”
It wouldn’t, either. Because the next night when he went to work at the club, she’d had an emergency locksmith come over to change the locks. She’d asked her tenant, a flight attendant named Maddy, to help put Vince’s clothing into trash bags. It was possibly the most embarrassing favor she’d ever asked of anyone. It had been far easier to shake off the hospital staff’s probing questions than Maddy’s. “He did this, didn’t he?” she demanded, pointing one long red fingernail at Ari’s walking cast. “I never liked the look of him. Good for you for showing him the door.”
Ari had neither confirmed or denied Vince’s role in her tumble. He probably hadn’t meant to break a bone, but it really didn’t matter. A bone was broken, and he’d been the cause of both her trip to the ER and her sudden wake-up call. With Maddy’s help she’d hobbled around, doing her best to be respectful of his things even as she scrambled to get them all out of the house and into the basement storage unit. Maddy made all the trips down those back stairs herself, which meant Ari owed her. Big.
“You’d do the same for me,” Maddy protested. And surely it was true. When the job was done, Ari gave her a hug and a pre-apology for whatever grief Vince might give her if he happened to show up when Maddy was coming or going. “I can take care of myself, hon. You do the same.”
The four AM pounding on the exterior door had been awful. When Ari didn’t come to the door to explain herself, he’d begun yelling terrible things up at her bedroom window. “Fucking cunt! Get down here and let me in.”
Maddy’s chainsaw voice had rung out from her third floor window. “Go away or I’m calling the police. You have ten seconds. Tomorrow Ari will tell you how to get your stuff.”
“Meddling bitch!” he’d returned. But when Maddy told him she was dialing 911, he actually left.
In the morning she’d e-mailed Vince to let him know he could retrieve his own things from the storage room with his old key. The fact that he didn’t answer or turn up for a week only made her more anxious. It was unlike him to give up and walk away. Especially if his collection of expensive suits was on the line.
But then one day she’d spotted his van nearby. And she’d heard the basement door open and close. It happened again a couple of days later. For the past few weeks he’d either been moving out one article of clothing at a time, or merely torturing her with his sporadic presence.
That’s why her latest e-mail had threatened to change the locks on the basement door, too. She should have done that weeks ago. It’s just that the basement was so inhospitable—its entrance barely a step up from the cellar door in The Wizard of Oz—she thought he’d get sick of the lurker charade and leave her alone for good.
Maybe today was the day.
Hugging herself, Ari kept up her vigil by the fridge. Eventually the door slammed again and Vince strode into view, his back to the window, his swagger intact. He disappeared around the corner of the building. A moment later she heard what had to be the van’s engine start up and then drive away.
Finally, she relaxed.
With her heart rate finally returning to normal, she checked her messages and reheated a square of lasagna she’d saved for dinner. She even poured herself a half glass of wine to go with it. Everything was fine, or soon would be. Tonight her team was going to beat the visitors from Washington, D.C., and tomorrow she’d relieve their aching muscles.
After her early dinner she lay down on
the couch with a book. The house was so very quiet. She still wasn’t used to living alone. She’d met Vince when she was just twenty-one and bartending at one of his clubs. She’d never been an adult on her own.
It was obviously time to start. She read her book and tried to think soothing thoughts.
By six-thirty it was time to get ready for the game. She went up the creaky narrow staircase to her bedroom and chose a knit dress with three-quarter sleeves and tights. The NHL liked its staff to look professional, even if she might be called upon to give some last-minute attention to stiff muscles. It had taken her a few months on the job to figure out what to wear. Now her closet held four comfy game night dresses in shades of eggplant (the team color). She wore ballet flats to keep herself comfortable and mobile.
Ari grabbed her bag and headed out the door. Instead of walking toward Water Street where cabs were more plentiful, she walked around the block for a moment, casing her own block like a thief. She peeked into the alley. The basement door of her little building was closed, as it should be. There was nobody in sight. Checking over both shoulders like a paranoid fool, she walked around back, slipping her keys out of her pocket.
But she stopped at the rear door, confused. There, gleaming against the beat-up metal door was a new lock. Even though it didn’t make sense, she tried her key anyway. This was her building, for God’s sake.
The key wouldn’t even fit in the lock.
Anger rushed through her veins like a drug. Damn you, Vince! He was like a cockroach that couldn’t be killed off. If this was his idea of revenge, she was going to give him a piece of her mind. He’d locked her out. Of her own basement.
What the hell?
The only windows back here were narrow and just above her eye level. Shaking with fury, she stood on tiptoe to peek inside. She cupped a hand over the glass to try to reduce the sunset’s glare. But it took her eyes a moment to identify the shapes in the basement’s dim light.
The first thing she could make out was the lights of a computer modem, doing their little dance to announce their connection. And their light helped illuminate a sort of folding table which held the rest of a computer setup—a screen and a keyboard and mouse, with a chair pulled up to them. But the item which really drove home the problem was the wastepaper basket on the floor. There was something so freaking civilized about it that it could almost make steam come out of her ears.