The Falling, page 2
He doesn’t look away from my eyes.
“And so unlike you,” he says.
“Huh?” I’ve already forgotten what we were even talking about.
“The hotel.” He takes a drink of his tea and I try to catch my breath.
Being around him is still so dangerous for me. Sometimes warning signs and butterflies are one and the same.
CHAPTER ONE
Two years earlier
I had hit the job jackpot. Not financially, but in all the ways that mattered. I didn’t have to open the massage studio until ten, so most mornings I could sleep in. And being able to walk there from my house—bonus! I loved this street: the mattress shop, the ice-cream place, the nail salon, and the old-fashioned candy store. I’d saved up my money and there I was, twenty years old, on that street, living in a tiny house that I’d bought. My own house. Not my dad’s. Mine.
The walk to work was brief—only five minutes and not quite long enough to be interesting. Walking along the alley behind the shops, I mostly tried to stay out of the way of the cars. The alley was wide enough for one pedestrian and one car at a time. Well, a Prius or some kind of small car would be an easy fit; unfortunately, people around here usually went for big trucks, so most of the time I pinned myself up against the bushes lining the alleyway until they passed.
Sometimes I’d create stories in my head about people in the world around me, a little bit of excitement before my shift started. Today’s story featured Bradley, the bearded man who owned the mattress store on the corner. Bradley was a nice guy, and he wore what I came to think of as his nice-guy uniform: a plaid shirt and khakis. He drove a white Ford something or other, and he worked even more than I did. I passed him every morning, already at his shop before I started at ten. Even when I worked a double or a night shift, I’d see that white truck parked in the back of the alley.
Bradley had to be single. If he had a wife or children, surely I’d have seen them at least once in the year since I’d moved to this side of town. But no, it didn’t matter if it was during the day, at night, or on the weekends—Bradley was always alone. He lived in the house next door to mine and he never seemed to have any company. All of his lights were usually off except one lamp in the living room.
The sun was shining, but not a single bird was chirping. No garbage truck was grumbling. Not one person was starting their car. It was eerily silent. Maybe that’s why Bradley’s presence seemed a little more sinister that morning. I looked at him anew and wondered why he combed his white-blond hair down the middle, why he thought it was a good idea to expose such a harsh line of scalp. Really, what I wanted to know was where he was going with that rolled-up rug in the back of his truck. Maybe I’d seen one too many episodes of Criminal Minds, but doesn’t everyone know that’s how you dispose of a body—roll it up in some old carpet and dump it on the edge of town? As my imagination was turning Bradley into a serial killer, he gave me the friendliest wave and a smile, a real one. Or maybe he was just that good at being charming and was actually going to—
I nearly pissed myself when he called out to me.
“Hey, Karina! Water’s out in the whole strip!”
His thin lips turned into a heavy frown as he waved his arms around to show how upset he was. I stopped walking and lifted my hand to cover my eyes from the sun. It was harsh, shining its brightest, even though the air had a little bite to it. Georgia was so damn hot. I thought I’d be used to it after three years, but nope. I longed for the chill of those Texas nights. “I’ve been tryin’ to get the water company out here, but no luck so far.” He shrugged and held up his cell phone as proof.
“Oh, no.” I tried to mimic his tone of frustration over the water, but honestly, I kind of hoped Mali would let us shut down for the day. I had barely slept last night, so I could have used another hour, or twenty, of sleep.
“I’ll keep tryin’ to call them,” he offered.
His fingers reached down and touched his longhorn belt buckle. He looked like he was already sweating, and when he grabbed the massive rug from the bed of his truck, I almost wanted to help him. Almost.
“Thanks,” I said. “I’ll let Mali know when she gets in.”
CHAPTER TWO
The door was locked, the lights were off—even the hallway light that we usually kept on—and it was hot as hell inside. I cranked the a/c, turned on the oil warmers, and lit the candles in the lobby and in Elodie’s workroom and mine.
My first client wasn’t until ten thirty. Elodie’s wasn’t scheduled until eleven thirty. She was still snoring on the couch when I left the house, which meant she’d rush through the door at forty past eleven and give her client a sweet smile and a quick apology in that cute little French accent of hers and all would be fine.
Elodie was one of the few people in the world I’d do most anything for. That was especially true now that she was pregnant. She’d found out about the baby just two days after her husband’s boots hit the dirt in Afghanistan. That kind of stuff was the norm around here. I saw it with my parents, with Elodie . . . and countless other women I met throughout my life who raised their kids mostly alone. Military wives are a rare breed of women. As much as I had endless respect for them, I never wanted to be one. My version of loneliness seemed easier than waiting for your love to come home—or, worse, not come home at all.
As soon as I started thinking about all the women and men who had lost their spouses, my heart sank and I could feel the cloud coming over my mind. I tried to distract myself but couldn’t help the overwhelming sadness. I needed some music in here. I hated silence. I wasn’t one to linger in silence; my mind wouldn’t allow it. Recently, I convinced Mali to let me play more relevant music over the speakers while we worked. I couldn’t handle another shift of relaxing spa tunes on repeat for hours. The sleepy sounds of waterfalls and waves got on my nerves and made me drowsy, too. I turned on the iPad and within seconds Banks was washing away the memory of all that soft, dreamy babble. I walked to the front desk to switch the computer on. Not two minutes later, Mali came in with a couple of big tote bags hanging from her thin arms.
“What’s wrong?” she asked, as I took the bags from her.
“Um, nothing?” No Hi? No How’s it going, Karina? I laughed and made my way to the back room.
The food in those bags smelled so good. Mali made the best homemade Thai dishes I’d ever tasted, and she always made extra for Elodie and me. She graced us with it at least five days a week. The little avocado—that’s what Elodie called her baby bump—wanted only spicy drunken noodles. It was the basil leaves. She had become obsessed with them since getting pregnant, to the point where she’d pick them out of her noodles and chew on them. Babies made you do the strangest things.
“Karina,” Mali said, smiling. “Answer me. How are you? You look sad.”
That was Mali for you. What’s wrong? You look sad. If it was on her mind, it came out of her mouth.
“Hey—I’m fine,” I said. “Not wearing any makeup.” I rolled my eyes.
“That’s not it. You never wear makeup,” she said, poking my cheek.
No, that wasn’t it. But I wasn’t just sad. And I didn’t like that my mask had slipped enough for Mali to notice. I didn’t like it one bit.
CHAPTER THREE
Ten thirty came and my client was right on time. I was used to his punctuality, not to mention his soft skin. I could tell he used oil after his showers, and that made my job easier, massaging already pliant skin. His muscles were always so tight, especially around his shoulders, so I assumed he sat behind a desk all day. He wasn’t military. I gathered that by his longer hair, curling at the tips.
Today he was so tense that my fingers hurt a little when they rubbed the patch of tissue at the top of his shoulders. He was a groaner—a lot of clients were—and he made these deep, throaty sounds when I loosened the knots he held in his body. The hour went fast. I had to tap his shoulder to wake him when it was over.
My ten-thirty client—his name was Toby, but I liked to call him Ten-thirty—was a good tipper and kept things simple. Never talked, except for that time he asked me out. Elodie freaked when I told her. She wanted me to tell Mali, but I didn’t want it to become a thing when it didn’t need to be. He was fine with my rejection—not the usual male reaction, I know. He hadn’t even hinted at any attraction toward me since, so I figured things were okay between us. What’s more, he hadn’t asked me out while I was treating him. I had run into him while I was walking out of the nail salon next door on a day off.
Forty-five minutes past eleven and there was still no Elodie. Usually she’d text if she was going to be more than fifteen minutes late. The man in the waiting area must have been new, because I didn’t recognize him and I never forgot a face. He seemed patient enough. But not Mali; she was about to call Elodie.
“I can take him if she’s not here in five minutes,” I suggested. “My next appointment can be moved an hour later, it’s Tina.” Mali knew most of our clients who came in and out of her spa; she remembered names like I did faces.
“Fine, fine. But your friend is always late,” she scolded. Mali was the nicest woman but was made of pure fire.
“She’s pregnant,” I said, defending my friend.
Mali rolled her eyes. “I was pregnant five times and I worked just fine.”
“Touché.”
I kept my laughter quiet and texted Tina to see if she could come in at one fifteen. She immediately responded with a yes, like I knew she would.
“Um, sir,” I called to the man in the waiting room. “Your therapist is actually running late. I can start you now if you’d like. Or you could wait for Elodie.” I didn’t know if he was partial to her for some reason, or if he simply wanted a massage. Now that we were on Yelp and booking online appointments, I never knew which clients wanted a specific therapist and which didn’t care.
He stood up and walked to the desk without saying a word.
“Is that okay?” I asked.
He hesitated for a second before he nodded. Okay . . .
“All right—” I looked at the schedule. Kael. What a strange name. “Follow me, please.”
We didn’t have assigned rooms—not technically—but I had fixed up the second room on the left to almost perfectly fit my taste, so that was the one I used the most. No one else took it unless they had to.
I had brought in my own cabinet and decorations that included lots of fake plants and was in the process of convincing Mali to let me paint the walls. Anything would be better than this dark purple color. It wasn’t exactly relaxing, plus it was dull, with chipped corners and edges that dated the room by about twenty years.
“You can leave your clothes on the hanger or the chair,” I told him. “Go ahead and strip down to however you’re comfortable. Lie facedown on the table, and I’ll be back in a couple of minutes to see if you’re ready.”
The client didn’t say a word; he stood next to the chair and lifted his gray T-shirt over his head. He was definitely military. Between his solid build and his nearly shaved head, he screamed soldier. I grew up inside and outside of Army posts my entire life, so I knew a soldier from a mile away. He folded his shirt and set it down on the chair. When his fingers tugged at his athletic pants, I left him alone to undress.
CHAPTER FOUR
I pulled my phone out of my scrub pocket and read the first line of a text from my dad:
See you tonight? Estelle is cooking and wants you to come.
I could name at least a thousand things I’d rather do, but this is what the three of us—sometimes four—did every single Tuesday. I’d missed only one family dinner since moving out a year ago, and that was when my dad drove Estelle in our family RV to the boot camp graduation of some distant relative, so technically I guess I wasn’t the one who missed it. They still had Tuesday dinner, on their family vacay, while back home Elodie and I shoved our faces with Domino’s pizza straight out of the box.
I didn’t respond to my dad because he knew I’d be there at seven. My “new” mom would be in the bathroom curling her hair while dinner kept warm in the oven. I’d be there on time, like I always was.
It had been at least three minutes since I got lost in my own world, and Elodie’s client was waiting. I sent her a quick text to say he better tip with a smiley-face emoji so she would know I was teasing. I quietly announced myself, pulled back the curtain, and walked into the room. The lights were dimmed but still reflected the hideous shade of purple from the walls; it had always been my least favorite color. The candles had been burning long enough for the air to take on the clean smell of almond. Even after my restless night, the scent had the power to calm me.
He was on the table in the center of the room with the white blanket pulled up to his waist. I rubbed my hands together. My fingertips were too cold to touch someone’s skin, so I walked over to the sink to warm them. I turned on the faucet. Nothing. I had already forgotten Bradley’s warning, and for the last hour, I’d managed without water.
I wrapped my hands around the oil warmer on the edge of the sink. The burner was a little too hot, but it did the trick. The oil would be warm on his skin, and he probably wouldn’t notice that the water wasn’t working. It wasn’t convenient, but it was manageable. I hoped that whoever worked last night’s closing shift had put clean towels in the warmer before they left; I always made sure to do that.
“Any specific areas of concern or tension that you’d like me to focus on?” I asked.
No answer. Had he already fallen asleep?
I waited a few beats before I asked again.
He shook his shaved head in the face cradle and said, “Don’t touch my right leg. Please,” adding the flat “please” as an afterthought.
I had requests from people all the time not to touch certain parts of their bodies. They had their reasons, from medical conditions to insecurities. It wasn’t my business to ask. My business was to make the client feel better and to provide a healing experience. I hadn’t looked at his treatment form—actually, I don’t even think I’d asked him to fill one out. Mali was the one who’d checked him in, so maybe she did?
“Will do. Would you like light, medium, or deep pressure?” I asked, grabbing the little bottle of oil off the cabinet shelf. The outside of the bottle was still really hot, but I knew it would be the perfect temperature when it hit his skin.
Again, no answer. Maybe he was hard of hearing. I was used to this, as well, working outside a military installation; all forms of difficulties and disabilities from war were familiar and welcome here.
“Kael?” I said his name, though I didn’t know why.
His head popped up so quickly, I thought I’d frightened him. I jumped a little myself.
“Sorry, I just wanted to know what level of pressure you wanted.”
“Any.” He didn’t sound like he knew what he wanted. Probably a first-timer. He put his head back into the cradle.
“Okay. Tell me if the pressure is too light or too firm and I’ll adjust my touch,” I told him.
I could be a little heavy-handed and most of my clients liked that, but I’d never worked on this guy before, and everyone was different.
Who knew if he’d ever come back? I’d say only four out of ten first-timers actually returned and only one or two would become regulars. We weren’t a big salon, but we had a steady clientele.
“This is peppermint oil.” I dotted the little bottle against my forefinger. “I’m going to rub some into your temples. It helps with—”
He lifted his head up, lightly shaking it. “No,” he said. His voice wasn’t harsh, but it let me know he absolutely did not want me to use peppermint oil. Okay . . .
“Okay.” I screwed the lid back on the bottle and turned the faucet. Damn it. The water. I knelt down and opened the towel warmer. Empty. Of course it was.
“Um, just a second,” I told him. He laid his head back into the cradle and I shut the warmer door a little too hard. I hoped he didn’t hear it over the music. This day was turning to shit and I was only on my second client . . .
CHAPTER FIVE
Mali was in the hallway when I pushed through the thin curtain to search for towels. “I need water. Or warm towels.”
She put her fingers to her lips to tell me to hush. “There’s no water. I have towels. Who didn’t stock?”
I shrugged. I didn’t know and didn’t really care, but I needed a towel quickly. “He’s been in my room for five minutes and I haven’t started yet.”
At that she moved faster, disappearing into the room across the hall and popping back up with a few hot towels. I grabbed them from her, shifting the steaming bundles from palm to palm to cool them off.
When I got back into the room, I waved the towel through the air one last time and rubbed it across the bottom of his bare feet. His skin was so hot to the touch that I pulled the towel away and touched the back of my hand to the top of his foot to make sure I felt correctly. I hope he isn’t sick? I couldn’t afford to get sick; that’s the last thing my mortgage payment and electricity bill needed.
Literally. The days on my dad’s Tricare were coming to an end and I couldn’t afford health insurance on my own.
His skin felt so warm. I lifted the blanket a little and realized he was still wearing his pants. That was just . . . strange. I didn’t know how I was going to rub his other leg, the one I was supposed to massage.
“Did you want me to avoid your legs altogether?” I quietly asked him.
