I hurry to discard the robe — which I’ve decided I love so much I’m taking it home with me to live in like a female Hugh Heffner — and my bra and panties, set them on the chair, and then lay down to cover myself up before the masseuse comes in. I’d rather not give her a full frontal nude if I can help it.
Not long after I get situated on the surprisingly comfortable table, with my face pressed into this donut-looking pillow thing and the white sheet pulled halfway up my back, there’s a knock on the door and then a pause.
Not sure exactly what to do, I twist around, and call out, “I’m ready. Come in!”
The door clicks open and I rush to lay back down, not wanting to make eye contact with her. Somehow, that makes it more intimate in my mind. I inhale a deep, thought-clearing breath, doing my best to follow the girl’s instructions to relax and enjoy.
But any peaceful or calm vibe I tried to generate is immediately shot down when the silence is broken.
“Good afternoon, Miss Farewell. I’m Dennis, your massage therapist today. What areas would you like me to focus on during our eighty minutes?”
Oh, sweet Mother of Pearl… he’s definitely not a Denise. Shit! Shit! Shit!
My heart thumps wildly in my chest as my palms grow clammy and my pits sweaty. I don’t dare look up now, so I push my face even farther into the hole in the middle of the pillow. I’m not sure why the thought of this freaks me out so much; it’s not like I’ve ever been overly modest or a prude, but this guy is a complete stranger!
“Is everything okay, ma’am?” he asks when I don’t respond. “The bed comfortable? Too hot or cold in here?”
Not wanting to seem immature or be that person who asks for another masseuse, I squeak out a, “No, I’m fine,” even though inside I’m anything but.
Okay, calm down, Finley. Deep breaths in through your nose and out through your mouth. This guy sees numerous naked female bodies every day, kind of like a gynecologist. Wait, no. Nothing like a gynecologist… that’s a terrible analogy. Maybe like a tattoo artist, except without the inflicting-pain-on-me part. No, that’s not very good either. Maybe like—
When he rests his hand on my shoulder, I gasp and my entire body draws taut under his touch. “Just relax. I’m here to help you unwind, to loosen you up and make you feel good,” he says softly, soothingly, while he moves closer to my head.
His bare feet, sticking out from what looks like maroon scrubs, come into my view, and I find a tiny bit of comfort that they look like nice, well-kept feet, especially for a man. On the large side, hairless, with tidy and trimmed nails, and no weird bunions or growths. You know, because toes and teeth are important. If someone takes care of those two things, they’re more likely to have their shit together. At least, that’s what Mom always tells us. “Never get involved with a man with ugly feet or bad teeth. He’s bound to disappoint you at some point in life.”
I wonder if Mr. Sexy Eyes has nice feet…
“I’m going to place a warm towel on your back to warm the muscles up,” Dennis continues, once he realizes I’m not going to say anything. “Do you have a preference in oil fragrance? I have lavender, eucalyptus, or a jasmine-vanilla.”
“I’m, uh, goo—” The warm towel drapes over my back and my voice cracks like a pubescent boy, causing me to clear my throat before I can talk. “I’m good with whatever.”
He chuckles softly, but says nothing, then pads away out of my view. Fluttering my lids shut, I can’t help but start to relax under the heat of the terrycloth blanket and the tranquil rainforest sounds playing ever-so-lightly in the background. I hear him messing with something off to the left, and even though I’m dying of curiosity and want to sneak a peek, I force myself to keep my face down in the pillow with my eyes closed.
Let go and try to enjoy. You’re never going to see this guy again in your life. YOLO and all that shit people my age say. I just need to pretend he’s Mr. Sexy Eyes.
Footsteps approach, followed by the removal of the towel and the lowering of the sheet to the top of my hipbones. I shiver at the sudden exposure of my bare trunk, but before I have a chance to actually get cold, his hands land on my back, fingers spread wide, covering me from shoulder blade to shoulder blade. The faint scent of vanilla floats through the air.
“Starting with some light pressure, and then I’ll build. Let me know if it gets to be too much and I’ll lighten up, okay?”
“Okay,” I murmur, slowly falling into a trance under his hypnotic touch.
Starting at the base of my neck, he works every inch of my skin — rubbing, kneading, molding — until I’m the consistency of a wet noodle. A really relaxed and happy wet noodle. Thankfully, he doesn’t talk anymore, allowing me to lose myself in the sheer physical pleasure of the massage and imagine he’s a certain someone else.
Slowly, his hands travel downward to my waist and lower back, the pressure increasing as promised. When his thumbs dip into the two dimples on the top of my ass, I stifle back an involuntary moan and clench my thighs together. Gratefully, he doesn’t seem to notice, or if he does, he doesn’t react, and even though I’m embarrassed of my body’s carnal, instinctive response to the stimulation, I don’t want him to stop. It’s been way too long since I’ve been touched by someone of the opposite sex.
Manipulating fingers continue to journey south in circular motions, dipping only slightly underneath the sheet covering my ass, never going too far. He then shifts his attention to my legs, starting at my left foot and massaging his way up to above my knee before switching to the right. However, as he journeys up my second leg, when he reaches the point where he stopped on the first, this time he keeps on inching his way higher.
A slow and steady throb begins to pulse between my legs, my brain so turned to mush that I can’t even remember why I shouldn’t be reacting like this. Teasing and taunting, his thumb trails up the inner seam of my thigh, stopping just short of the prize. A muffled grunt rumbles in the back of my throat as Mr. Sexy Eyes’ unforgettably gorgeous face flashes behind my screwed-shut lids.
I don’t know what’s happening to me, but I can’t stop it. Possessed by lust and pent-up frustration, I spread my legs slightly to give him better access to where I so desperately want to be touched. I’ve gone from wanting to flee the strange man to wanting him to finger me in a half hour. It’s like I’ve turned into Farrah.
My pussy is on fire, tingling and wet. If he doesn’t touch me soon, it may burst into flames of frustration. “Please,” I whimper, tilting my hips to faintly push my ass in the air. “Oh, my God, please.”
Suddenly, his hands are gone and something feels wrong. Very, very wrong. “W-what did you say?” he asks, his voice shaky and a pitch or two higher than before. “Did you want me to touch your p… pu… down there?”
Like a bucket of ice has been dumped on me, the flames of desire disappear as I try to sit up and lie about what I said. No way I’m fessing up to that. I am utterly mortified. How could I have read this situation so wrong? Oh, sweet, dear Mother Mary, please just let the earth swallow me whole right now.
However, as I try to turn around and look over at him, ready to swear on my life I didn’t want him to touch me down there, I can’t move my head. At all. My face is stuck in the donut pillow, and each time I try to lift up, a sharp twinge of pain shoots up by my ears.
“Oww!” I cry out, panicking. “Help, I’m stuck! The pillow!”
Temporarily forgetting about the first issue, Dennis rushes over to the head of the bed and tries to help me free myself from the confining cushion. I pull and he pushes. We twist and coil and maneuver, but I’m still trapped. This cannot possibly be any more humiliating.
“Let me get some oil. We can lube your head up and it should slide right out,” he suggests, hurrying over to get what we need and return.
Less than a minute later, he’s pouring a cool liquid by my temples and then spreading it all around my hairline. It only takes one tug after I’m greased up to slip through the open
ing, and as soon as I’m free, I wrap the top sheet around me and leap off the table, backpedaling away from Dennis and toward my robe and underclothes. Wow, he is not hard on the eyes at all, which somehow makes all of this even worse.
“I’m done with the massage. Please leave so I can get dressed,” I blurt out, fixing my eyes on the gold-carpeted floor.
He moves toward me. “But Ms. Farewe—”
“I said leave!” I shout, as I hold one hand out in his direction and keep a death grip on the one securing the sheet that’s covering me.
Several seconds of awkward silence follow, but eventually he says, “Yes, ma’am. I’m very sorry about this,” and exits the room.
My entire body is trembling as I hurriedly slip my bra and panties back on then throw the robe over them, cinching the belt tight around the waist. As I flee the room, I glance over at the bed and notice a small wet spot on the fitted sheet about where my crotch was, and I want to die all over again from indignity. I have to get out of this place. Now.
Dashing down the hall to the dressing area, I don’t even bother changing into my clothes. I simply ball them up in my arms and take off yet again. I make eye contact with no one I pass in the hallway, afraid they’ll all know what happened if I do, or worse… I’ll see him.
I bulldoze my way out into the lobby area, stopping at the front desk to inform GiGi that I’m ill all of a sudden and to please let Farrah and Fiona know to meet me back in the room. Despite her puzzled expression, she nods and agrees, then says, “Sorry you aren’t feeling well, Ms. Farewell. I do hope Dennis took extra special care of you.”
Red-hot heat burns in my cheeks as I mumble something nonsensical then dash out of the spa and to the closest elevator bank, not giving a flying fuck who is staring at my oiled-up head or my robe. I push the penthouse button repeatedly after I’m safely inside the elevator, and then, as I exit on the floor of my suite, I sprint like Usain Bolt down the corridor to our suite.
I fumble with the key, dropping it on the floor not once but twice, before the door finally opens. Exhaling a massive sigh of relief, I stagger into the suite and lurch onto the zebra-printed sofa, vowing not to leave the room again until we check out. Which will be before sunrise tomorrow.
I’m still not sure what Fiona meant by the dog’s bollocks, but if this is it, I think next time I’ll pass.
Teague
“YOU GOT MY text with the address, right?”
“I did,” Jessica replies through the phone, “and my GPS says I’ll be there in an hour and twenty-two minutes."
Briefly diverting my eyes off the old dirt road, I glance down at my watch and see it’s a little after ten in the morning. “Perfect. I’m on my way into town now to pick up some groceries and a few other things, but I should be back to the house in less than an hour. I’m going to grill up some homemade hamburgers, if that works for you?”
I don’t tell her that by a “few other things,” I mean condoms. She may think that she’s coming only to eat lunch and hang out with Grandpa, but I’ll be damned if I don’t get a piece of her ass before she leaves. It’s been nearly three weeks since I’ve had sex, the longest stretch in my adult life, and the well-being of everyone around me is in jeopardy until I do. I’m teetering on the brink of insanity.
“Sounds good. Do you need me to bring anything?”
“No, but I do have a favor to ask.” I pause, nervous about her reaction to what I’m about to say. All day yesterday, I mulled over how to go about this, never coming up with a good solution. Now, I’m out of time and just need to rip the bandage off. What’s the worst that can happen? She can hang up on me and never talk to me again. I’ve got to take my chances.
“Okaaaay…” she prompts.
I suck in a deep breath for courage and then blurt it out. “While you’re here, I need you to pretend your name is Finley Robinson, that you work in the hospitality industry in San Francisco, and that we just started a long-distance relationship.”
Tensing as I wait for the angry yelling, I’m caught off-guard when she erupts with howling laughter. Wait. What happened? Why is she laughing? This is where she’s supposed to scream and tell me there’s no way in hell she’s pretending to be some other chick and that I’m an arrogant pig for even suggesting it.
“W-what’s so funny?” I stammer, as I pull my truck into a parking spot outside of Rudy’s store, staying inside the cab to finish the conversation.
It takes a few seconds for her to catch her breath, but finally, she’s able to talk. “You are crazy. You know that, right? If you were anyone else, that favor would lead to a serious ass-chewing, complete removal from my life, and maybe, if I had a couple of drinks, a nice, long car-keying, fender-to-fender.”
“So it’s a good thing I’m me?” I ask, unsure of what I should say to that.
Another round of chuckles. “Yes, it’s a damn good thing, Teague. I don’t know why I like you, but I do. And if you tell me why you need me to do this, I may consider it, but this better be good.”
I explain to her the little white lie I told Grandpa a few weeks ago, how he’d gotten so excited about the idea of me dating someone and possibly settling down, and how I don’t want to disappoint him right now, especially with his recent health issues. I may play up his heart condition a bit for a little extra emotional pull, and when I’m finished making my case, I lean back and wait for her decision.
“As much as I’m against the whole idea of this scheme, because I think it’s gonna come back and bite you in the ass somehow,” she begins, as hope grows inside of me, “I will agree to play Finley for the day… if you agree not to try to get me naked. I know you, Teague Goodman, and I’m well aware of what you think is gonna happen when I show up today.”
“I-I-I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I lie, my fingers gripping the steering wheel with frustration.
“Mhmm, sure you don’t,” Jessica snickers. “I’m not an idiot, mister. But let me assure you one last time. No hanky-panky until you make contact with the real Finley and at least tell her who you are. I’m all for role-playing, but there’s something about this girl… something changed in you after you met her. And the fact you made up this story about her to your grandpa is even further proof.”
I growl, annoyed. “Yeah, something changed. I gave her my damn winning lottery ticket that would’ve taken care of this lawsuit shit I’m dealing with. And now, on top of all that, I’ve got Gramps’ medical bills to worry about too, and a fuck buddy who doesn’t want to fuck.”
“Careful, Grumpy Gus. I’ll turn this car around and go back home, leaving you without a buddy too,” she threatens, even though her tone remains playful. “Now, get your ass to the store and back to the house before I change my mind about agreeing to be your California cutie. Is there anything else I need to know that you’ve told him?”
“Not that I can think of,” I reply, trying to recall everything I’d told him about Finley. “Just that we met when I was on a business trip a few weeks ago. You can say you flew in to surprise me and have to go back tomorrow.”
“All right, sounds good. I’ll get into character and see you in a little bit.”
Before I disconnect the call, I remember what else I needed to tell her. “Oh, and Jess? There’s one more thing.” I pause to make sure she’s still there.
“Yes?”
“I haven’t really told Grandpa much about the lawsuit yet,” I confess. “So don’t bring it up, please. I don’t want to stress him out any more than he already is.”
She blows out an exasperated-sounding sigh. “Okay, Teague, I won’t. But mark my words: all these little lies and purposeful omissions are gonna catch up with you soon. I get you don’t want him to worry, but don’t be surprised when he’s pissed after he finds out the truth.”
“Noted. Thank you, Therapist Jessica. Send your bill to my office so I can pay it never.”
Laughing, she says, “Sure thing… buddy,” before hanging up and leaving me to the
dreaded grocery shopping. Now, I can only hope I get in and out of the store without running into anyone I know. But I should know better. That’s damn near impossible in a town like this.
“RUDY AND LUCILLE both said hello and wanted me to let you know they miss your Friday visits,” I announce to Grandpa, who is, of course, in his rocker on the porch, as I tread up the steps to the house with a full brown paper bag in each arm.
“Did you tell them you were the one who wouldn’t let me go last week?” he grumbles, peering up at me from the crossword puzzle in his lap.
“Yes, I took full responsibility for being the meanest grandson ever, keeping you from your weekly gossip hour because I was,” I fake gasp, taunting him, “worried about your health. It’s terrible, I know, having someone who cares about you and wants to take care of you.”
“I don’t need anyone to take care of me,” he insists, glowering at me as I stop in front of him. “I’ve done a fine job myself the last seventy-one years.”
Letting his crankiness roll off my back, I hope the next piece of news I have for him will improve his mood. “I do have a surprise for you though,” I tell him, with a sneaky grin.
“Hopefully it’s in the form of a bottle of root beer and a package of licorice straws, or I don’t want it.”
I roll my eyes and shake my head. “No, you know you can’t have either of those, but while I was at the store, I got a call from Finley. Remember the girl I told you about from San Francisco?”
His cobalt eyes brighten as his thick gray brows pop up into his forehead. “Yeah, I remember. What’s going on?”
“Well, she wanted to surprise me with a little visit, so she caught a morning flight to Cedar Rapids, not knowing I was staying out here with you. So when she called from the airport to get my address, I let her know what all’s going on, and she’s renting a car to drive here to meet you and spend the day on the farm. She should be here in about twenty or thirty minutes.” The lies fall from my mouth one right after another, each one adding to the growing pile of bullshit I’m sure to step in soon.