Preston
I strip the table methodically, corner by corner, roll the warm linen and towels into a bundle, and bunch it under my arm. My hands ache down to the bone, my shoulders are burning, and my lower back has been throbbing since client number three. Client number three out of five.
Months of full-day placements at the medical center followed by anywhere from three to six massage clients here are catching up with me.
Not to mention the headaches, the dull pressure behind my eyes now a constant reminder the inevitable is getting closer and closer.
I'm doing everything I can not to think about it until after I finish my studies in two months.
Yes, I realize I'm living in denial, propped up by an almost daily mix of Topiramate and Imitrex, but I just want to hang on to normal for as long as possible.
Andre pops his head into the treatment room. "Need a hand? Why is it so dark in here?"
"I'm fine. No!" I call out when he reaches for the dimmer switch. "I'm all done."
He cocks his head to the side like I'm a weirdo he still hasn't managed to figure out but doesn't turn the light up. Or ask any questions as I move past him, armed with dirty laundry, headed for the linen room.
"You look tired," he observes, falling into step beside me. I glance down. He's carrying a much smaller pile than me. "Busy night?"
"Yeah." I let out a tired yawn. "Five clients."
"Ouch. That's brutal."
"Tell me about it."
Don't get me wrong, I love helping people.
That's the whole reason why I'm studying physical therapy in the first place.
It's also why I jumped at the chance to work here when Ellie's ex put in a good word for me with the owner, who happens to be his best friend.
I completed a massage therapy program, got my LMT, and genuinely enjoy the work.
But the irony isn't lost on me, helping others feel better while my own body quietly falls apart.
"Anyone get inappropriate?" Andre asks.
"Not tonight."
"Good."
It happens from time to time. Male clients wanting a little extra.
We're not that kind of place, and we make it abundantly clear to clients.
It's on their paperwork they fill out when they come in, on a sign inside their lockers where they leave their clothes and belongings, and even displayed in the treatment room.
Still, it happens occasionally. Mostly, though, the worst thing I encounter is an involuntary erection that the client is hugely embarrassed about and that I have to explain is a normal, physiological reaction and nothing to be ashamed of.
And nothing I read too much into, I add, if I notice they're wearing a wedding ring.
"You need to look after yourself, man," Andre says in his deep, soothing voice. "I cap out at two clients."
"Yeah, well, that's because you have other ways of supplementing your income."
He smiles broadly as we enter the laundry room then opens the hamper for me with his spare hand.
I shove the dirty linens into it. Out of everyone who works here, Andre is the only person I'd choose to spend time with.
The other therapists like to gossip and are kind of standoffish.
Andre took me under his wing from the moment I joined the team.
He's like a big brother, always looking out for me and shielding me from any shit our coworkers try to sling my way.
"I keep telling ya, you should consider it, man." He tosses his stuff into the hamper and closes the lid. "It's easy money."
We head for the locker room to get changed out of our work clothes.
"So you keep reminding me."
I smile good-naturedly, and he rolls his eyes. "One day you might stop being such a stubborn ass and actually consider it."
"I have considered it," I say as I'm hit with the familiar smell of shower gel and fabric softener.
The room is narrow with dark wood lockers on both sides and a bench between them.
The overhead light buzzes faintly, and I squint to adjust. "I'm nowhere near as confident"—or attractive—"as you are. "
Andre is ridiculously good-looking. He's three years older than me and has gorgeous brown skin, a close-shaved head, and the arms of a guy who clearly put in four years on a college football field.
He takes a seat on the bench and kicks off his worn-white Dansko clogs. "You still sending money to your folks?"
I open my locker and start getting changed. "Of course. Their legal fees and medical bills are out of hand."
"And you and Ellie are still in that overpriced shitbox of a house out on Holcomb?"
"We are."
"Then you've got tuition, groceries, utilities—"
I slam my locker shut. "I'm well aware of how fucked my financial situation is, Andre." And that's without him knowing about my own medical bills. "But I'm—I'm coping."
Barely.
"Okay, okay." He raises his hands in surrender. "All I'm sayin' is, I earn seriously good money camming. And it's easy money, too. All I do is jerk off and occasionally show my feet. You'd do great at it, Pres. You're hot."
The tips of my ears burn. "I would not."
And I am not.
I change out of my scrubs. I'm not insecure about my appearance, just realistic. I have a pretty decent body since I like to take care of myself. I have nice hair that looks great messy, suiting me perfectly since I'm a big fan of doing as little to it as I can get away with.
But my favorite feature would have to be, ironically, my hazel eyes. I love how they change color depending on the light or my mood. As a kid, I thought it was something only I could do, that I'd been blessed with some sort of secret superpower.
I swap my clogs for sneakers. "So why do you keep working here then?"
"Because I'm closing in on thirty, and there are only so many times I can blow a load in one day." He lifts a shoulder and grins. "And besides, the staff here are all so lovely."
I return the smile since we both know that's not true.
When one of them found out about Andre's side hustle as a camboy, they reported it straight to the owner.
Tripp is super strict about staff not engaging in any extracurricular activities with clients ever since it could shut the place down.
Sex work is legal in Nevada, but only in counties with populations under 700,000.
That rules out Washoe County, where Reno sits, and Clark County, where Vegas does, which is kind of ironic given both city's reputations as places where anything goes.
The cam work Andre does isn't technically sex work, and the law only applies to prostitution. Adult content creation is legal federally, so the tip-off went nowhere. But it made me and Andre distrust our colleagues even more than we already did.
"You sure you don't want a ride?" he says, grabbing his helmet. "I've got a spare in the pannier."
"Nah, I'm good. I could do with the walk."
Andre rides a two-tone tobacco fade Harley Sportster S. It's a beast, loud enough to hear from two blocks away. I know he's a safe rider and never does anything reckless or dangerous, but I just can't bring myself to get on the back of it.
"Suit yourself. Have a good one, man. I'll see you next time."
"See ya, buddy."
We part with a quick bro hug, and I step out the side entrance of the day spa to begin my twenty-minute trek home.
In front of me, the sidewalk narrows into a strip of orange streetlight and shadow.
I keep my eyes low. Night vision has never been my strong suit, and it's been intermittently getting even worse lately.
I barely make it ten yards before a figure suddenly peels out of the shadows between two buildings. I stop dead as he blocks my way. He's large and broad-shouldered, his face hidden under the brim of a cap.
For a long second neither of us moves. My heart hammers in my chest. I squint, dropping my gaze to his hand. No knife or gun, as far as I can tell.
He takes a step toward me and sneers, revealing a row of small, square teeth. "Need you to pass on a message."
His voice is low and rough, and he's got a thick accent that only creeps me out even more. Who the hell is this guy, and what does he want from me?
"I think you've got the wrong guy, mister." He takes a step closer, and my hand immediately reaches inside my messenger bag. Mace, inside pocket. "Stay where you are," I warn him. "I don't know what your deal is, but you've got the wrong guy."
His brow furrows, like he's realizing that I'm right, and this is all some sort of mix-up.
I glance around the street. Apart from a few parked cars, it's completely empty.
I hear the roar of Andre's motorbike and curse that the parking lot is on the other side of the building, away from where I am, holding my ground against this creep.
He's still standing in my way, but I sidestep him, moving out onto the street. I start crossing when he calls out, "Do you know Vadim Piotrowski?"
I stop in the middle of the road and turn around. He moves in.
My fingers wrap around the Mace inside my bag. "What did you say?"
"Vadim Piotrowski. Ring any bells?"
"I—I don't know him.”
I met the guy one time. Doesn't mean I know him the way this guy's implying.
"Need you to deliver a message to him."
"You can't do that yourself?" My breath starts coming in shallow pulls. I flick off the safety cap of the Mace with my thumb. "And I told you, stay back."
He keeps coming toward me. "Tell him he's not as smart as he thinks he is…"
"I'm warning you." I inch out farther into the middle of the road. Somewhere down the street, I hear a car door slamming shut.
"Tell him he was an idiot for underestimating Lev Farkas."
The guy finally reaches me. I pull the Mace out of my bag and spray him in the eyes with it. He doubles over, letting fly with what sounds like a bunch of expletives in a language I don't understand.
Hands shaking, I turn, run, and don't slow down until I'm five blocks away.