Chapter 9
It occurred to me too late to protest. Ricky had said something about wearing a swimsuit, but we hadn’t gone back to our room to get one. By the time I thought of this, I was halfway across the lobby of the spa, and Letitia, the wizened blond manager, was already hailing us.
“Well, fellas,” she said, giving us a mildly suspicious look, “you ready for this?”
No.
“Absolutely,” Ricky purred. “We can’t wait.”
“Okey dokey,” she said. “I got you on the books with Shawn and Cole for a couples massage.” She reached down below the counter and came back up with two neatly folded fluffy white robes, each with a pair of flimsy rubber shower shoes tucked under the waist tie.
She waved us toward a door to her left. “You can change in there, and then head through the door at the other end of the changing room into the waiting lounge. We should have your room ready in a couple minutes.”
I followed Ricky into the changing room, where he selected one of the wood-paneled lockers, plopping down onto the bench across from it and beginning to unlace his shoes.
I hung back, hugging the robe to my chest, reaching across it with one arm to dig my nails into the other, almost focused enough on this mildly painful self-soothing to ignore the vile rub of the shower shoes against the underside of my arm.
“So … what do we do here?”
Ricky turned to look at me, then patted the bench next to him encouragingly. I sat tentatively, facing the opposite direction.
“Take a deep breath,” he said in what I’m sure he meant to be a soothing voice.
I managed a hoarse, shallow gulp. “We’re going to take off our clothes—as many as you’re comfortable with,” he continued.
“Then we’ll put on these nice robes and these appalling shoes, and we’ll go wait in the waiting room.
If there’s anyone else in there, they’ll be in robes, too.
And we’re alone in here; if you want, I can stay facing this way and you can face the other way, and we won’t turn around until we both give the all-clear. Okay?”
Oddly, the part I found most reassuring in all this was that Ricky hated the shower shoes, too.
I nodded my agreement with his plan, and rose stiffly from the bench, then sat down again, realizing I had to take off my shoes and socks.
As soon as we were both barefoot, we stood up, each facing our respective directions—at least, I had to take it on faith that Ricky was.
I was pretty sure I trusted him … at least sixty-five percent sure.
To be really sure, as soon as I had pulled off my T-shirt, I threw on the robe, reasoning that I could drop my shorts with it on. I didn’t think twice about removing my underwear—that wasn’t going to happen. I tied the robe’s belt tightly around my waist.
“I’m ready if you are,” Ricky said from behind me.
“I’m mostly ready. You can turn around, anyway,” I said. I was still barefoot, looking sideways down at the hateful slippers on the bench. Ricky followed my gaze as he turned around.
“Yes, you have to put them on. I’m sorry,” he said, reading my mind. “Most of the time we don’t have to wear them. Only when we’re walking around.”
I sighed deeply and put on the sandals, which I discovered not only had a horrifyingly ridged texture to their institutional-grade rubber, but were also about three sizes too big.
Ricky laughed sympathetically, pointing down to his own too-large shoes, and I tried to muster a laugh, too, as we waded into the waiting lounge, our sandals making obscene sucking and slapping noises the whole way.
I was dismayed to see that the waiting lounge was not empty, and horrified to see that its occupants were Cecilia Rose and her daughter, Lis. I was also mildly annoyed to see that Ricky had been wrong. Cecilia was in a robe, but Lis was comfortably clad in her own clothes.
Cecilia was watching us with a small smile as we trooped in. She and Lis occupied one of two cream-colored love seats in the small room, and as Ricky and I settled into the other, she said, “Hello, Junior. We meet again. Here for a little R and R?”
I struggled to find my voice, finally croaking out, “No. Yes. Kind of.”
Lis, who had returned to the magazine on her lap after giving us a smile and nod of greeting, looked up again, her expression now tinged with polite confusion.
Ricky, as always, was ready to bail me out.
“Perk of the job. We get to sample the spa’s services as long as we write about them.
” I put my hand down on the love seat between us, burrowing the tips of my fingers into the cushion under his leg.
I was unconsciously reaching for his protection, acknowledging my appreciation that he always seemed so ready to offer it, but I realized almost at once how intimate the gesture felt.
It must have been okay, though; he in turn put his arm up over the back of the couch behind my shoulders, leaning slightly toward me.
“I thought you were a photographer,” Cecilia observed drily. “I don’t see your camera.”
Ricky grinned conspiratorially at her. “I said it was a perk, didn’t I? He has to write about it; I get to tag along and get a massage for nothing.”
She grinned back. “You two have it all figured out, don’t you?”
I looked shyly at Ricky, who gave me a wink and moved his hand on my shoulder to pull me closer.
A young woman with a long, dark ponytail and a set of white scrubs entered the waiting room. “Mrs. Rose, I’m ready for you. Right this way, please.”
“Ta-ta, boys,” Mrs. Rose grunted as she hoisted herself up from the love seat to follow the young woman. “Enjoy your perks.”
After she had left, Ricky turned his attention to Lis. “Not joining her?”
“No, I’m not really in a pampering mood.
She needed the distraction, though; she was very agitated this morning, and of course neither of us slept well last night.
” Lis was reflective, watching the door her mother had left through.
“I worry about the strain on her. She wouldn’t say so, but I don’t think she’s feeling very well.
I should have made sure to tell the massage therapist to keep it gentle.
Excuse me, won’t you—I think I’ll see if I can go make that request.”
As she got up, she passed another young woman in scrubs coming into the waiting room. The young woman ignored her, saying to us softly, “Ricky and Oliver? Your room is ready, if you’d like to follow me.”
Ricky squeezed my hand briefly as we stood up, then dropped it as we headed down the hall.
The woman half turned toward us as she guided us, keeping up a gentle patter.
“How are you both doing today? My name is Shawn; Cole and I will be giving your massages. But we have you in for the Lovers’ Package today, so first you’ll have a half hour in the hot tub. ”
I fought the urge to turn on my heel and run the other way. Ricky reached over and took my hand again, this time feeling less like he wanted to reassure me and more like he wanted to make sure I didn’t flee.
Shawn opened a door at the end of the corridor, standing aside to usher us in.
“The tub is already warmed up and the jets are on, but there’s a button if you’d rather turn them off.
And there are chocolate-covered strawberries and Champagne for you, too!
We’ll come back in half an hour for your massages, but we’ll knock before we come in. ”
Her smile seemed too serenely blasé for the situation she was throwing us into. And Ricky’s hand gripped mine too firmly as he pulled me into the room and she shut the door behind us. These people were conspiring to trap me in some kind of sexy prison.
I sucked in my breath and took in my cell.
Two massage tables, draped in white sheets, took up most of the floor space.
A countertop along one wall and a credenza on the opposite side of the room were both littered with fake candles giving off a soft, artificially flickering glow.
On the far wall was the hot tub, really a glorified jetted bathtub, with a pyramid of rolled-up towels on one side, a pair of teak steps leading up to it at the middle, and an open bottle, two filled flutes, and a platter of chocolate-covered strawberries sweating on the other end of the ledge surrounding the tub.
Ricky was checking out the wine, reading the label and taking a small sip from one of the flutes. “It’s Prosecco, not Champagne,” he said, “but it’s not bad. You might even like it, if you want to try some.”
I was still frozen by the door. All I could think to say was, “I don’t really drink.”
“I know that,” Ricky said. “Is there any particular reason why? You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.”
I shrugged, feeling a little less trapped by this benign conversation. “I don’t like the way most alcohol tastes. It usually tastes bitter to me.”
Ricky took another sip of the Prosecco. “I don’t know. You might like this okay. It has a little edge to it, but it’s also fairly sweet. Most of the alcohol flavor gets covered up by the sharpness of the bubbles.”
I had begun to edge closer to the tub.
Ricky smiled and set down his glass. “Well, shall we?” He reached for the belt of his robe, and I froze again, feeling all of my color flush out my toes. He stopped and laughed. “I’m kidding! I was thinking maybe we could put our feet in. You know, sit on the edge?”
I could breathe again. Sitting on the edge and putting my feet in with my robe still on I could do. He climbed the two little steps, gingerly lifting the hem of his robe to keep it out of the water as he walked across to sit on the far edge of the tub. I followed suit, crossing to sit next to him.
“See,” he said. “Not so bad. And still kind of romantic, in a chaste sort of way. Do you want to try the wine?”