CHAPTER THREE
SAM
I bet high school wasn’t an easy ride with a ginger mop of hair like that, I’m thinking, watching as Morgan makes his way around his desk to me.
“I just wanted to make sure you’re settling in, Sam. I like to take an interest in all my employees, you see.”
It’s quite an office, large windows looking out to the flawless green field below. “Yes, Mr. Blake.”
“Morgan, remember?” He smiles.
I see why the players like him so much. He’s incredibly down to earth, approachable, and far from the corporate axe-wielder I had imagined.
“You’ve made quite the impression on the team already. I’ve had a lot of positive feedback. The players love you.”
One more than the others.
Morgan leans back against his desk. Poor thing sounds like it’s going to split in two. “I do hope the boys aren’t giving you too much trouble.”
I bring my hands together in front of myself. “I can handle it.”
“How was Chance?”
Rude, obnoxious, asshole-y… “Fine.”
“He’s running with a calf injury from last season. He told you about it?”
Only about his penis, sorry. Impressive as it is. “No, but I’ll definitely chase it up. I’ve been told I have magic hands.”
The second it’s out I know precisely how it sounds. Not good.
Thankfully, Morgan ignores the innuendo. “Excellent.” He checks his watch. “Why don’t you head down and get started? I’ll let Chance know you’re waiting.”
Great.
Downstairs, I’m nervous again as I wait in the massage room, but why the hell should I be? Give it to him, Sam. Let him know his behavior was not okay.
But when the great ‘arm of gold’ Chance Adams enters, he’s a completely different person. For one, he’s dressed in simple jeans and a white tee that does his chest and arms all the right kind of favors. He nods and says hello, jumping behind the screen in the corner to change. Up until this point I still haven’t spoken. I’m shell-shocked he hasn’t tried to hit on me yet or pull a stunt with his super-cock.
He comes out from behind the screen with a towel wrapped around his waist. “Where would you like me?”
Under my covers. “Um,” I splutter. “Morgan told me you’re having some issues with your calf? Was it the right or left? He leans down and run his hand across the back of his right, his abs crunching, each heavenly square hard and defined under that oh-so-tight tee. “Here.”
My mouth is drying by the second. “Okay. Lie on your back, please.”
He does as instructed, still no ‘Where’s the lube, baby?’ or ‘Why don’t you hop on?’ Instead, it’s “I want to apologize for the other day.”
He said whhhaaattt?
I check the door just to make sure I haven’t entered through a star-gate into a parallel dimension. Compose yourself. I smile. “No problem.”
He lies down, arms by his side, undoing the towel and leaving it draped over his crotch. “No, I was an ass. I know it. You know it, and I’m sorry.”
I apply oil to my hands. “Apology accepted. I’ll start with the calf first. Could you place your foot flat on the table, please?”
He lifts his leg up and for a moment the towel lifts in tandem, a shadowy box unveiled between his thighs.
I avert my eyes and start to work the calf, immediately finding the tension and trouble. I wasn’t joking when I told Morgan I had magic hands. My entire family is made up of healers, of doctors and nurses and therapists stretching back almost two centuries. Dad always said helping others was in the Carter genes. I was the only one who could fix his back. He called me his ‘lucky charm.’
A push away a pang of sadness at the thought of my parents long since passed. I’m an only child. They won’t get to see grandkids. You’d need a man first, Sammy.
I look over Exhibit A laid out before me, a fine specimen if ever there was one.
I use friction strokes to break down the connective tissue, running my fingers in a circular motion to avoid an inflammatory response.
“Yeah,” Chance moans, a little less brash this time. “That’s perfect”.
Incredibly, he lets me work in peace, only emitting the odd “harder” or “softer.”
I’m halfway through an Ischemic compression when I notice his towel has risen. I look twice to make sure I’m not seeing things, but no. It’s propped up like a damn tent.
Momentarily, his eyes open and he looks down at the erection turning his towel into an apparition. There’s no shame, no embarrassment. “Sorry about that,” he muses, watching me, the cheek entering his smile again.
I continue to work on his right leg, can practically feel the heat coming from under the towel burning a hole through the table. As hot as the color lighting up my cheeks.
I swallow hard before speaking. “Don’t worry about it. It happens.”
Funnily enough, I don’t recall a section of the course entitled ‘Dealing with Erections: What to Do.”
You know damn well what to do with them…
Quiet, head. We had more than enough excitement last time.
I take a deep breath and wait for the line, the witty repartee to come, but it doesn’t. Chance lets himself lie back down and closes his eyes once more. As best I can, I have to ignore the rather erect elephant in the room.
I’m distracted. I mean, who works like this? It’s not how I pictured this job at all.
Like that Vegas parlor was more what you pictured?
I decide to cut the session short, finishing off with a light tapotement to stimulate the muscle.
That ain’t the only thing being stimulated by the looks of it.
God, what’s happening to me? I’m a schoolgirl again, half giddy at the sight of a penis.
More like a baseball bat…
“You’re good to go.” With it, I give him a tap on the leg, exactly the way you’d touch the roof of a car to signal the driver to take off. It’s the weirdest thing I think I’ve ever done.
He swivels up into a sitting position, legs either side of me, the offending member thankfully deciding to behave. He looks down at his crotch. “Sorry about him. He gets a little too excited sometimes.”
“You can’t… control it?” I cannot believe those words just came out of my mouth.
He laughs at the roof, holding his chest. “Fuck me. ‘Control it?’ I’m guessing you’ve never owned a penis?”
The idea of ‘owning’ a penis plays out in my hand. I picture a shop with rows and rows of dicks every shape and color, price tags swinging off them, a friendly salesman asking what size I’m after.
I shake my head, snapping out of it. Why can’t I stop blushing? “Can’t say I have.”
He runs his fingers through his hair. I notice he does that a lot. “How do I put this?” He touches the side of his head. “This has no control,” pointing to his crotch, “over this. In fact, I often think that,” he nods to his dick again, “this guy controls everything.”
You’re not wrong about that.
For a moment I catch him looking at my chest before his eyes finally decide to climb upwards. “Look, Sam. I want to start over. How about lunch, on me? I really do want to apologize, you know.”
I get another vision of Chance Adams spread out on a table like a body-sushi model, myself with chopsticks in hand looking to pluck a sliver of sashimi off those diamond-cut abs.
Calm yourself, woman!
I swallow again. “Lunch? I don’t know what to say.”
His jade eyes sparkle. “‘Yes’ would be the appropriate answer.”
And therein lies the problem. Chance thinks he can wine and dine me like his usual girls, that I’ll suddenly strip naked after a good steak and pinot noir. He’s wrong. I’m not one of his starry-eyed, silicone-infested playboy bunny wannabes. I’m not easy… so why I agree comes as a complete mystery. “Yes.”
“Good,” he nods, already thinking he’s got me in the bag, or sack, rather.
“What do you like?”
“Sorry?”
“Food.”
It clicks. “Oh, right. Um, I don’t mind. Whatever you think is best.”
He licks his lips. “I know somewhere. I’ve got training tomorrow, but how about Wednesday, twelve o’clock?”
I nod, unable to add anything vocally and still cursing myself for falling so easily into his trap.
It’s those damn eyes, damn their greeny gold super sexiness.
He pushes himself off the table, gathering his clothes from the chair behind the screen and looking down at his crotch one final time. “We’ll see you then.”
When he’s gone I press myself up against the back of the door shaking my head at my stupidity. “We’ll see you later?” I say aloud. “What the hell have you gotten yourself into, Samantha?”
Trouble, my head answers. Big, big trouble.
*
I’m still shaking my head back at the apartment, trying to fish for my keys while holding a week’s worth of groceries bundled up in my arms.
I take the keys out but manage to drop them, the bags not allowing me sufficient leverage to pick them back up.
“Shit,” I mutter, the swearing uncharacteristic, but hey, it’s been a long day.
“Need some help?”
I look sideways to find a skinny blonde making her way over. She bends down, legs sideways to keep her miniskirt in place, and swipes the keys off the floor.
“Let me,” she smiles, opening the door with efficiency.
“Thanks.”
She points behind herself, extending her hand towards me. “I’m Amy. I live next door.”
I manage to get my hand out from behind one of the bags. “Sam.”
“You need some help getting those inside, Sam?”
Normally I’d be suspicious of strangers, but given Amy’s build I doubt she could take me if it came down to a street fight, as ludicrous as the idea is.
I pass a bag over and we both head inside. I flip the lights on, dumping the groceries on the kitchen bench. She does the same and looks around, no doubt a little surprised at how spartan the place is given I’ve already been here a week.
“It’s very… minimalist,” she remarks.
I laugh, starting to unpack. “That’s one way to put it. Have you been here long, Amy. In the complex, that is?”
She leans against the kitchen bench admiring her nails. They’re colored the same cerulean as her skirt. “About a year.”
“You’re an actor?” It’s a stab in the dark, but ninety percent of the beautiful people in this town are, and Amy is beautiful in a Bachelor kind of way—save for the red and blue streaks I notice in her hair. Holy shit. I live next to Harley Quinn.
“A model, actually.”
I stop what I’m doing. “Wow. I’ve never met a model before.”
She spots a bag of Twinkies I just unpacked. “Oh. My. God. I love Twinkies.”
I take the hint, smiling as I reach for the bag. “You want one?”
“Hell yes!”
I’ve never seen anyone so excited over a high-fructose snack cake.
I open the bag and pass one across. She doesn’t eat it. She inhales it, licking her fingers and looking about one morsel away from orgasm.
“You weren’t kidding, huh?”
She goes to take another, looking to me for permission.
I nod, smiling.
Amy’s so caught up in her sugar-fest she doesn’t even notice Chuckles rubbing up against her leg. “So,” she says, mouth full of Twinkie, “what do you do?”
I realize this is the first time I’ve been asked since arriving in LA. “I’m a massage therapist.” I say it proudly until I figure how it must sound.
“Oh,” she replies.
“No, not like that. I work for the LA Wildcats, the football team?”
She points at me, does a little dance backwards. “Yes, cool. Very cool. So you totally know all the players and everything?”
It’s like this poor girl has stepped out of Legally Blonde. All she’s missing is a pocket-sized Chihuahua.
“I’ve only been on the job a couple of days, but I have met most of the players, yeah.”
Her eyes grow wide. “Chance Adams? Have you met Chance Adams?”
I almost burst out in laughter. Have I met Chance Adams… “Yes.”
“And?”
“He’s…” All manner of adjectives fill my head. “interesting”.
Amy won’t let it drop. “Like Aurora Borealis interesting or David Boreanaz interesting?”
“A bit of both. He’s… easy on the eye. I’ll give him that.”
“And you’re his masseuse, like hands on and everything?”
Understatement of the century. “I guess you could say that.”
“Have you seen his,” she does a little whistle, “you know?”
Ha. “Unfortunately, I have.”
She throws her arms up, wild. “Holy shit! The girls are going to love this!”
Chuckles purrs from the floor between us, still unnoticed.
“The girls?” I query.
“All the girls in the complex hold a little get-together once a week at my place. You’ve got to come.”
Doesn’t sound like I have much of a choice.
Something beeps. Amy withdraws a bedazzled cell from her cleavage, which, of course, makes me wonder what else she’s hiding in there. Car keys, a change of underwear, the Ark of the Covenant? “Shit. I’ve got to go, but you’ll be there, won’t you? My place next door, eight o’clock.” She snags another Twinkie before she leaves. “And bring more of these. Bye.” She waves, running back out through the front door to who knows what critical appointment.
“Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” I say to myself.