CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
There are times when you don’t need to say anything. Times when everything is easy and you can share a room or a moment without having to fill the space with words, when everything just falls into place.
Kael must have felt it, too, as he lay there on the table.
“I’ve been spending a lot of money on massages,” Kael said, attempting small talk.
“Self-care,” I said. “And I can tell that you really, really need them.”
We both laughed then, and relief poured through me. The way his laughter mixed with mine sounded like soft music. It was one of those moments I wished I could bottle up and keep in a vial around my neck, the way Angelina Jolie had saved her lover’s blood.
Okay, now, that was a weird thought. Why did my mind ricochet like that? I wished I could stay focused on one thought for longer than three seconds. His treatment was close to the end now. Only fifteen minutes left.
“Are you still mad at me?” Kael asked.
I shook my head and scrunched up my nose, making a disgusted face.
“What are we, twelve? I wasn’t mad at you, I was annoyed because you gave me no clue what was going on, so I thought I did something . . . or pried about something you didn’t want to talk about.” My voice dropped off. I felt self-conscious for bringing up his injury, but that’s where we had paused the conversation when he jumped up and left the house.
“Well, I’m sorry for that. I really didn’t mean to make you upset or question yourself. You didn’t do anything wrong.” He looked up at me.
“Thanks. I think.” Most people weren’t as generous with apologies as he seemed to be. Either he actually meant it or he was a really good liar. I was really bad at accepting sorrys. I just wasn’t used to them.
The massage had turned into a conversation, with no objection from the client. I turned the music down a notch. “The Hills” was taunting both of us. Raspy and suspenseful, the song fit perfectly between us, filling our occasional silence.
I only love it when . . .
“Last night was fun. I haven’t been out since I got back, and it was great to see Mendoza relaxing and enjoying himself.”
“If it wasn’t because of me, why did you leave?” I finally asked.
“It was a friend thing—” Kael’s expression changed.
“Friend?” I asked, and it clicked. “Oh, you have a—”
“Not that kind of friend,” he said. He wanted to reassure me, and that was thrilling. A line of electricity charged through me.
“One of my guys is having a rough time right now. He’s been really fucked, uh . . . . His wife called and I had to go over there.” Kael’s expression was stone.
I was confused. He was opening up, but I needed more. “So, again, if you were going to help a friend, why didn’t you tell me? I would have understood if you told me—”
“I’m not in the business of telling people’s business.”
“Was it Mendoza?” I moved across the room, stopping directly in front of Kael.
He sighed. He bit down on his lip. “It’s not my place, Karina. I’m not talking about what he’s going through.”
“Your silence serves you well when you want.” I meant for my words to burn him, or at least make him sweat. I had a bad habit of this, saying things to people to get a reaction. But Kael didn’t give me the reaction and he stayed quiet. I appreciated his loyalty to his friend, but I wished he felt like he could confide in me.
“We should finish your massage, and I should keep quiet. Unlike you, I can get fired.”
“Deal.”
I turned my attention back to my work. Lifting his arm and bending it gently at the elbow, I pulled softly, and as I did the thick muscles in his back shifted in response. I worked my way down his biceps. They weren’t beefy in that artificial way, jacked up on supplements and daily visits to the gym. He was solid under my hands, and I knew it came from hard physical work. Army work.
I used my forearm to apply pressure to the knot under his biceps, where he had a scar that looked like an unfinishedM. The pink-tinted skin was puffy and soft. It took everything in me not to run my finger over it again. I tried not to think about the pain he must have felt when it happened, whatever it was that had cut at his body.
The scar was deep, like from the lashing of a serrated knife. It made my heart ache for him. I slid my fingers down his forearm, the part of his body that was the deepest in pigment. He had a soldier’s tan, which was like a farmer’s tan, but worse, because they were in the desert getting baked by the sun. No rain, no fresh air to breathe in. Just smoke and IEDs. Body and mind damage. I couldn’t even imagine what he’d gone through . . . I lifted his hand into mine and pressed my thumb against the base of his palm and held it there. I felt his fingers go slack and moved the pressure along the center of his hand.