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 sayhe better tipwith 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 . . .