I’m always more comfortable with women than I am with men.

I quickly rap twice with a single knuckle and push the door open slowly. That’s how we’re supposed to announce ourselves. A quick knock at the door, and then we’re allowed to enter. It’s formal. Words aren’t supposed to be exchanged right away. We ask if we can come in by knocking, and then we enter unless we’re told not to.

I know the person waiting behind the door for me is a man. Women are better to deal with. They don’t have testosterone-fueled bodies that tell them there’s only one thing they need. Introduce the element of touch and men think they’re entitled to take what they want. They think the women who work here are willing to give them anything they want, for a price.

Or at least that’s what I’ve heard.

I’ve seen and heard shadows and whispers, and I know things happen after hours, that some of the girls here engage in activities after the doors are locked for the night and the parlor closes down. But that’s not why I’m here. That’s not how I make my money.

I enter the dim, candle-lit room. The man is already undressed, lying face-down, with the sheet we provide already covering the bottom half of his body. I exhale gratefully. He’s already appropriately set up. This man is professional, and he knows what he’s doing. This will be an easy client, an easy appointment.

“I’m Avery,” I say softly. “I will be your therapist today.”

Continuing into the small room, I walk around the table and gently place my hands on the man’s back, near his shoulders. His back is broad and muscular, covered with supple, sun-drenched, honeyed skin. I remove my hands and deposit a few dime-sized pumps of body oil into them. His appointment is for a thirty-minute Swedish massage. I check his left wrist and see he’s wearing a chrome-faced Cartier and no wedding band.

He’ll be a good tipper.

Rubbing my hands together, I warm the body oil between them and place them gently on his back. His muscles flex in response and I run my open palms over his shoulder blades and then up to his shoulders, applying medium-pressure sweeps in long, fluid motions.

“Anything I should be aware of?” I ask. “Any injuries, any pain?”

“No.”

His response is clipped. He wants to get in and out. Not one for small-talk.

I breathe in deeply, steadying myself to the slow rhythm of his breathing as I get into a smooth, even groove. His muscles ripple and move under my fingers as I apply alternatingly hard and soft movements to the muscles in his upper shoulders.

“That feels nice,” he remarks. His voice is smooth and low like toffee caramel. I swallow thickly. He smells of dark spices and pine. His words make my brain tingle, sending a spark from my scalp down through my spine. My breath hitches deep inside my throat as I exhale.

“Good,” I breathe. I try to make my voice sound cheerful. I remind myself to remain professional.

It’s cold outside tonight, and there aren’t many cars on the street. The only cars outside are yellow cabs, rushing transplants to the airport to go home for the holidays. The people left in the city are either from here or have no family. I wonder why the man with the gorgeous body is alone tonight.

I wonder if he’s wondering the same thing about me.

I move my hands across the top of his back and then swoop downward, putting more pressure as I move my hands lower, using his body to leverage myself. I’m small, but I’ve been told I have strong hands. They’re small, but I’ve been using them for a long time.

“You have some knots in your shoulders,” I say. “Do you get massages often?”

“No,” he says, a slight wince to his voice. I move my hands up his body again and glide them down the arm closest to me and capture his wrist softly with my fingers, maneuvering it so it’s laying against his lower back.

His fingers twitch when his hand lands there. The muscles in his ass flex beneath the thin sheet as his body shifts so subtly on the table. I begin taking my hands away, allowing his arm to nestle against the dip in his lower back.

My heart clenches suddenly when his fingers twitch against mine again, and I move myself away quickly. My stomach flips with relief when I glide my hands naturally up his back again, pretending nothing’s wrong, and his arm remains where I put it.

I don’t have to pretend nothing’s wrong. Nothing is wrong. I’m just paranoid.

I smile softly and shake my head, leaning into the massage with more force. I knead his shoulder and flex his arm back, allowing the shoulder blade to protrude. It’s quiet in the room and the walls flicker with my shadow.

I wonder again why he’s alone the night before Christmas Eve.

Maybe he isn’t alone, not exactly. Maybe he simply doesn’t celebrate Christmas. That wouldn’t be unusual at all. Maybe he’s just taking a few moments for his own health and well-being as a nice gift to himself.

Or maybe he really is alone, and my suspicions are true. He’s beautiful, though maybe I shouldn’t be thinking that about a client, even though I haven’t seen his face. His body is perfect; it has the appearance of having been sculpted out of pure marble from hard, rushing water flowing over it in just the right way for millennia. Ancient but young all at the same time. Like a Platonic ideal of what a man’s body should be.

And his skin is warm and soft over the hard, corded muscle I work with my hands.

I don’t believe this man could be alone tonight, unless he’s choosing to be alone. I don’t know which is sadder to me.

His body shifts again beneath my touch as he begins to rotate his head toward me, leaning up on his elbows

“Oh,” I say. “Is everything alright? Do you need me to stop for a moment?”

“Miss,” he says simply. His face is as gorgeous as his body is, with a strong jaw and green eyes that pierce into me through the dimness of the room. I can see a hint of his chest, hairless, and when he lifts himself up on his elbows, his hands and forearms become stronger than they seemed before, leading up to those shoulders. He could lift me with one finger and throw me over his shoulder and do whatever he wants to me.

Something strange stirs inside my belly. It’s almost something like perversion. Desire, maybe? Something foreign. I can taste it inside my throat.

“Yes?” I feel my tongue form the word. It’s alien, though. I feel it fill the room. It’s as though someone is in the room with us, animating me somehow.

“I’m a paying customer, aren’t I?”

“Yes.” The voice that comes out of me is now confused, indignant. “You’re a paying customer. I want to make sure everything is alright, sir.”

“I like that,” he growls.

Shit.

“If everything is okay with the service, I’d like to ask you to lie down again so I may continue with the massage. The massage you are paying for, like you said,” I remind him.

“No sir this time?”

I freeze. He shifts onto his arm that’s farther away from me. His hand comes forward on the table, about mid-thigh height on me. His face comes forward toward me as he puts his hand on my thighs, between them, his eyes never leaving mine.

Sickness hits my stomach like a boulder’s been dropped down my throat.

I step back.

His hand stays where it is.

I move away from him, faster, as I bolt toward the door. I see my shadow rush across the wall and I hear him laugh behind me.

Without stopping, I leave the small room. Blood courses through my veins, and my breathing comes rapidly. I press my back against the wall outside the room as a few of the other massage therapists I work with walk past me through the narrow hallway, tending to their own appointments or going back into the miniscule break room.

I look down the long hallway, toward the reception area, and look past it out the window. It’s begun snowing, and the windows of the parlor are beginning to fog up, the cold air outside meeting the warm air inside, colliding at the thick pane of plexiglass covered with ornate metal grating.

It’s beautiful, but it’s there to be pretty. It’s there for protection.

The door creaks open next to me, and I’m still frozen on the inside. I feel my body turn to see the man from my table. He grins down at me with a lurid smile plastered on his face.

To think I had those thought about him. The idea that I thought he was beautiful just a few moments ago. That I actually felt bad for him, wondered where his family is tonight. It’s enough to make me feel ill on the inside.

“I need to speak to your manager, miss,” he says mockingly. He shrugs his jacket on and turns on his heel, heading down the narrow, dark corridor lined with purple velvet above the waist and tufted leather below. He looks like he belongs here, and I’m just passing through, trying to get a crumb that some rich dickhead in a suit will throw to me on a whim or because he feels like being charitable.

I follow him tightly down the corridor. I want to scream and bang my fists against the walls. I want to collapse and cry. I want to jump onto his back and weave my fingers through his perfect dark brown hair and pull so hard it hurts him.

He breaks left toward my boss’s office, despite the protestations of the girl currently hosting the front desk.

Shit.

Because if he’s about to make a scene, I’m screwed.

I’ve seen guys come in here before making scenes. Unhappy with the service they received. They’ve left their room unsatisfied and pitch a fit.

The rumors I’ve heard seem more believable now. I wonder how many girls I’ve seen fired after their clients demand to complain to a manager have turned down a man for sex before.

My boss comes out of his office. It’s dark inside. I don’t know what work he was doing in there, or how work would be possible in a darkened room like that.

When I see his face, the situation is thrown into harsh relief. His grimace tells me I’ve made a mistake, an error in judgement.

And I know I’m about to lose this job.