6. WEEK ONE
PANDORA
I don’t have a plan for my life. I’ll come up with something soon, though. My dad—doctor emeritus zoology professor of the universe, Mister Ambitious with a merit list that makes his colleagues all but bow to him at the university back home—he’s the one who’s got plans: I am to become a physician.
The thing about me is that I’m an only child, and I arrived late. Mom was forty-five when I was born. As soon as I came, she quit her job as a dental hygienist so she could dedicate herself to the offspring.
I’m the miracle. The Miracle. Note the capital letters. Yep, I better figure out what to become and pronto.
Freshman year should be easy, though. Except the chemistry classes. For now, I’ll do pre-med to keep my parents quiet, and hopefully something jumps at me soon.
Due to my constant companion, Scheuermann, I know my spinal column well. At the moment, it’s the lower section of the thoracic spine that’s making me miserable. These chairs.
I’ve managed through the entire first week of classes without taking any pain meds. I should have started working out already, but I—
—don’t have an excuse.
I’m hurting. I’m in class with Destiny, and we’re in the first row because that’s how she rolls. I forgot my pencil case at the apartment, but Destiny’s got a pen at the ready.
The philosophy professor drones on and on, adding to my agony. A liquid fire laps at the tender discs between my vertebrae. I should leave, find a massage place. Get exercise. I need to keep the pain from exploding into a full-on torture fest. Ten minutes to go. I think of how my dad’s pretty awesome in class; I’ve sat in before.
“Leon,” I say, flicking a glance at my friend. “It’s what Shannon said the biker dude’s name is, right? It suits him.”
She doesn’t take her eyes off the whiteboard when she leans into me. “Yeah. And how wild is it that he owns Smother?”
That part hadn’t registered with me. “Really? Who told you that? Shannon?”
Destiny nods. “Yep. She pumped Christian for info. He loves his boss, she says.”
I shift forward, exactly what Scheuermann needs to get in a wring of the sword I imagine for this disease. He’s destroying me right now, and I can’t choke back the moan in my throat any longer.
“You okay?” Destiny whispers, and I shut my eyes, unable to speak. My phone buzzes on the desk with a message from Mom.
Dora, I scheduled your first massage at 5 today. Not a PT practice, but this should do for now. Address below. Love, Mom.
Cautiously, I breathe out. My eyes swim with the knowledge that soon I’ll feel better.
I’m on my bed, face down and with my head hanging over the edge.
“Pills, dear?” Mica rattles the bottles. The most efficient of the drugs makes me woozy, and I hate it. Today, I have no choice, though. If a massage therapist is to touch me and not make me howl, I need to comply.
Destiny’s on the floor in front of me with a glass of water. “Here,” she says, plopping a straw in so I don’t have to move.
Afterward, we wait. Mica clicks on the TV and we’re stuck with The Best of The Cookie Monster. I don’t ask. Finally, sweet relief sets in, and I want to sleep and cry at once. I can’t allow myself to do either, because it’s almost five p.m.
Shannon volunteers to drive me to the spa, which is close to Smother in a less-than-quaint part of town.
The three-story building housing the Elysium Spa constitutes a run-down version of our own house. The Mediterranean blue façade makes it stand out from the surrounding brick-colored constructions. I take the three steps slowly while Shannon waits in the car.
“Pick you up at six?” she asks.
“Yeah. Thank you so much, Shannon,” I say. “Where’re you heading? Home?”
She hesitates. “Um.”
I turn for a full look.
“I just—I’m gonna go play some arcade games at Smother.”
I frown. “Really?”
“Yes, why?” She’s defensive. Interesting. “They’ve got the classics. Pac-Man, Puzzle Bubble, and Doom.” Like she ever cared about that stuff.
“Checking on Christian?” I ask.
Shannon snorts before sputtering out something unintelligible. I should let it go, but this is funny. “That a yes?”
“Whatever.” She rolls up the window and screeches off the curb. Oh yes, someone’s definitely tracking down a bartender.
Over the last ten phone calls since Sunday, I haven’t shared the pain I’m in with my mother. She still got me this appointment—I swear she’s psychic. Generally, I go to a physiotherapist, so this setting is a surprise.
I find myself in a small, pristine room with a fountain trickling soothingly in a corner. A lavender-type aroma emanates from the candles, which are also the main illumination in the tiny space.
A receptionist about my age led me here. As requested, I remove all clothing and flop onto my stomach so I end up staring at the floor through a hole in the headrest. Stacy will be with me soon, the receptionist assured me; she’s just a little behind schedule. Should be about five minutes.
The stupid pills overpower me. I want to be upset, but then I think of what my therapist at home said.
“Go with the flow, Pandora. No need to stress over something you can’t change. Go with the flow.”
Flow.
The music is so smooth it’s “Café del Mar” on horse tranquilizers. It adds to the sensation of absolute relaxation, and I’m sinking into the massage table. Why don’t I take these pills more often? I surrender to slumber, because finally, finally I’m not hurting.
DOMINIC
I can’t wait to finish this last year in school. The first week took off like a rocket, with a professor dumping all-but-extinct muscular disorders into our laps. The faculty expect us to go fucking apeshit on their stuff already. It’s week one, guys. Week one!
On top of that, Miss Geraldine takes no prisoners at the spa. Sure, she hired yet another girl, but she doesn’t ease them into things. Once “adopted,” she bogs them down with fifty-hour weeks from the get-go, so of course they flake.
Here we are on a Friday afternoon. Stacy quit after ten days, and the rest of us are picking up the slack. Twenty customers, four hours, and four employees. You do the math.
The girl I’m doing next is a rich bitch whose mother stayed on the phone with the missus for fifteen minutes to ensure she got her money’s worth.
I’ll do my regular thing. Work the client so hard she can’t even focus on the clock by the time I’m done.
I crunch my hands into fists, readying myself. Yeah, I’m mad, but the clients get the best when I am. No one ever complains. After my shift ends tonight—closer to midnight than eleven, I bet—I’ll head off to the gym. Then, I’ll have my beer and a Saturday all to myself. Which reminds me—
Last Friday.
Was fucking. Epic.
I shake the memory off and stride down the hall to the customer I’ve inherited. Mom paid for a whole hour, so watch out, brat. I’m about to give you your money’s worth. Prepare to get worked over.
At her door, I stop and breathe. I’m too agitated right now. Spoiled rich girl or not, she doesn’t deserve this; in the mood I’m in, I could bruise her.
I open and enter. As always, a candle-lit ambience meets me. Lavender drowns out all other smells, and like a good girl, the brat’s already face down on the bench. This one’s young and slim, and what I see of her skin above the sheet glows in the semi-darkness.
I shoot a glance at the clock: 5:15 p.m. I might be able to get the hour down to forty-five minutes. With light hands, I lower the white cotton covering her until it barely covers the swell of her buttocks. She doesn’t stir.
A citrusy scent hangs in the air, mingling with the familiar spa odors. Generally, I wouldn’t pay attention, but for the second time today, I’m reminded of last Friday, of the freshman who blew me off after our one-night stand. She smelled like this.
I’m hardening.
The girl’s asleep, so I allow myself to growl quietly in frustration. Six, maybe seven hours to go before my day is over. I spread my fingers over the small of my client’s back to get acquainted with her muscle structure. I rub upward, fanning out enough to cover both flanks of her spine while I work.
The soft flesh of her breasts yields to my fingertips as I slide over their sides on my way to her shoulders.
I shake my head, trying to clear my thoughts. I keep coming back to the freshman from last Friday. She has popped in and out of my mind all week, and now I drop my hold to adjust myself.
On a whim, I reach up and brush a lock away from my customer’s neck. As I do, I recognize that I’ve touched this long rush of hair before. Hell, I’ve touched this body before—in a very different way.
“Panda?” I whisper quietly, but she doesn’t answer. I step back and stare. I’d like to turn the light on, but I don’t. I wish I’d checked her records before coming in here.
The room won’t give me any clues, but I scan it anyway. Next, I hunch down beside her and skim every detail of her face. I am so drawn to this girl.
“Pandora,” I try another time, and then I do something I never do. With my whole hand, I stroke her, starting with her neck, down her spine, to the sheet covering her ass. I do this because I want to feel her.
This is insanity, and I’m risking my job. Still, I need to be sure, so I scoot the fabric further down. Slowly, I reveal part of the perfect butt I’d recognize anywhere.
Damn. It is her.
“What’s going on?” Her voice is small, drowsy. I swallow as my mind fills with the squeal she let out when she came around me. I pull myself together and start massaging her in earnest.
“Nothing, Pandora. Nothing.”