Chapter 3 #2
The only part of her life she can control, she once told me.
The only place she feels competent.
I park my bike out front, cut the engine.
Through the front window, I can see the reception area—soft lighting, calming music probably, that generic spa aesthetic that's supposed to make you relax.
A blonde woman sits at the desk.
Not Ingrid.
I push through the door, bell chiming softly.
The receptionist looks up, smiles that professional customer-service smile. "Good morning! Welcome to Calming Spaces. Do you have an appointment?"
"No. I was hoping you had an opening for a back massage. Today, if possible."
She clicks through her computer. "Let me see... We have a 2 PM with Ingrid, or a 4 PM with—"
"Two PM with Ingrid is perfect."
"Wonderful! Can I get your name?"
"Gunnar."
She types. "And is this your first visit with us?"
"Yeah."
"Great! Ingrid will take excellent care of you. She's one of our best." The receptionist hands me a clipboard. "Just fill out this intake form—medical history, areas of concern, pressure preference. Ingrid will go over it with you before your session."
I take the clipboard, scrawl answers to questions about injuries and medications and whether I prefer deep tissue or Swedish.
What I really want to write is:
I slept with your manager last night and she ran before sunrise and I need to know why.
But that probably wouldn't get me the appointment.
"All set," the receptionist says when I hand it back. "See you at two!"
I kill time at a coffee shop down the street.
Stare at my phone.
Consider texting Ingrid a warning that I'm coming but decide against it.
The element of surprise is the only advantage I have.
At 1:55, I walk back into the spa.
Different receptionist now—older, friendly.
"Gunnar? For your 2 PM with Ingrid?"
"That's me."
"Perfect timing! She's just finishing with her last client. I'll let her know you're here. You can have a seat."
I sit in one of the waiting room chairs, surrounded by women's magazines and the scent of lavender.
Feel completely out of place in my jeans and cut and boots.
Five minutes pass.
Ten.
Then I hear her voice from the hallway.
"—so glad you're feeling better, Mrs. Valazzar. Same time next week?"
"Absolutely, dear. You're a miracle worker."
An elderly woman emerges, moving easier than when she probably arrived.
She smiles at me as she passes.
Then Ingrid appears in the doorway.
She's in professional mode—black pants, fitted spa shirt with the Calming Spaces logo, hair pulled back in a neat ponytail.
Composed.
Put together.
Nothing like the broken woman who came apart in my arms last night.
Her eyes land on me, and she stops.
Just for a second.
Long enough for me to see the panic flash across her face.
Then the mask slams down, and she's smiling that professional smile.
"Gunnar. Right this way."
Her voice is steady.
Neutral.
Like I'm just another client.
Like I didn't watch her come undone eight hours ago.
I follow her down a hallway lined with soft lighting and gentle music.
She opens a door to a private room—massage table in the center, dim lighting, the scent of eucalyptus.
"This is your first massage with us, correct?" She's reading from my intake form, not looking at me.
"Yeah."
"Any injuries or areas of concern I should know about?"
"My back. Gets tight."
"I can help with that." Still not looking at me. "You can undress to your comfort level and lie face down on the table under the sheet. I'll give you a few minutes to get situated, then I'll knock before coming back in."
"Ingrid—"
"I'll be right back." She slips out, closing the door behind her.
Fuck.
I strip down to my boxer briefs, fold my clothes on the chair.
Lie face down on the table, pull the sheet over my lower half.
The table's comfortable, but I'm wound too tight to relax.
A few minutes later, there's a soft knock.
"Ready?" Her voice is muffled through the door.
"Yeah."
She enters, closes the door softly.
I can't see her—face down in the cradle, staring at the floor—but I can feel her presence.
Hear her moving around, probably sanitizing her hands, preparing oils.
"I'm going to start with your upper back and shoulders," she says, all business. "Let me know if the pressure is too much or not enough."
Then her hands are on me.
Warm.
Firm.
Professional.
But I feel the slight tremor in her fingers as they press into my shoulders.
She tries to hide it.
Tries to treat me like any other client.
But I know better.
"You left," I say quietly.
Her hands pause. Just for a second.
"I'm going to use more pressure here. You're very tight."
"Ingrid."
"That's normal for people who work physical jobs. Riding bikes, working on them, it creates a lot of tension in the upper body."
"Stop."
"Stop what?" Her voice is carefully neutral. "The massage? I can adjust—"
"Stop pretending."
Her hands press harder into my back, working a knot near my shoulder blade.
"I'm not pretending. I'm working."
"You promised you'd stay."
"I said just for tonight. Night ended. I left."
"That's bullshit and you know it."
Silence.
Her hands move lower, working down my spine.
Each touch is torture—professional but intimate, her fingers on my bare skin bringing back every memory of last night.
"Why did you come here, Gunnar?"
"You know why."
"This is my job. My workplace. You can't just—"
"Can't what? Try to talk to you? You left. You won't answer your phone. What else was I supposed to do?"
"Leave me alone."
"No."
"No?" Her hands still on my lower back.
"No. I told you last night—this is different. I meant it."
"You don't know what you're talking about."
"Then explain it to me. Make me understand why you ran."
She doesn't answer.
Just keeps working, keeps moving her hands.
But I can hear her breathing—faster than it should be.
Can feel the tension radiating off her.
"I meant everything I said," I continue. "About wanting you. About this being different. About—"
"Stop." Her voice cracks slightly. "Please stop."
"Why?"
"Because I can't—" She breaks off. "Your session is almost over. Let me just finish—"
Before she can continue, there's a knock on the door.
We both freeze.
"Ingrid, honey?" Charm's voice. "Are you in there?"
"Yes, Mom," Ingrid calls, stepping back from the table. "I'm with a client."
The door opens, and she ducks her head down to see who it is.
Her eyes land on me and widen slightly. "Gunnar!" Surprise and pleasure in her voice. "I didn't know you had an appointment today."
"Last minute thing," I say, face still in the cradle. "Figured I could use some relaxation."
"Well, you came to the right place. My daughter's wonderful at what she does." Charm's voice is warm, but there's something underneath. A question. "How are you, sweetheart? Is Ingrid taking good care of you?"
"She's great."
"Good, good. You work too hard, honey. All you boys do. It's important to take time for yourselves." A pause. "Are you relaxing?"
The question carries weight neither Charm nor I can quite explain.
But Ingrid feels it.
I feel her tense behind me.
"Getting there," I say carefully.
"Wonderful. Well, I won't interrupt." Charm's voice shifts slightly. "Ingrid, your 3 o'clock canceled, so you have extra time if Gunnar needs it."
"That's fine, Mom. We're almost done."
"All right then. I'll let you finish." A pause. "Good to see you, Gunnar."
"You too."
The door clicks shut.
Silence.
"She knows," Ingrid whispers.
"Knows what?"
"Something. She knows something's off."
Before I can respond, my phone buzzes on the side table where I left it.
Once.
Twice.
Three times in rapid succession.
"You should check that," Ingrid says, stepping further back.
I lift my head, reach for the phone.
Three texts from Runes:
Lead on trafficking ring. Need you at clubhouse NOW.
Potential location identified. Moving fast.
20 minutes.
"Fuck." I sit up, sheet pooling around my waist.
Ingrid's across the room now, arms wrapped around herself.
Not looking at me.
"Club business?" Her voice is carefully neutral.
"Yeah. I have to go."
Something flickers across her face.
Relief? Disappointment? Both?
"Of course you do."
"Ingrid—"
"You should get dressed. Runes is waiting."
I stand, sheet dropping.
Move toward my clothes.
But I stop in front of her first.
Force her to look at me.
"This isn't over."
"Your massage is. That's all this was."
"Liar."
Her jaw tightens. "Go. Do your club thing. Save the day. I'll still be here, same as always."
"You're relieved I have to go."
"I'm not—"
"You are. One more excuse to run." I step closer. "But it won't work forever, Ingrid. Eventually, you'll have to face this."
"Face what?"
"That you feel something. That last night mattered. That you're terrified because for once, someone actually sees you and doesn't run."
Her eyes shine with unshed tears.
"You don't know what you're talking about."
"Then prove me wrong. Tell me you felt nothing. Tell me it was just sex. Tell me you don't want this."
She opens her mouth.
Closes it.
Can't say the words.
Because they'd be lies and we both know it.
My phone buzzes again.
Runes.
Fuck.
"I have to go," I tell her. "But we're not done. Not even close."
I dress quickly—jeans, shirt, boots, cut.
She watches from across the room, arms still wrapped around herself like armor.
At the door, I pause.
"Tonight," I say. "We finish this conversation."
"Gunnar—"
"Tonight, Ingrid. No more running."
I don't wait for her answer.
Just walk out, past the reception desk where the older receptionist smiles, through the door into the parking lot.
Charm's at the front desk now, watching me with those knowing mother eyes.
"Take care, Gunnar," she says.
"Yes, ma'am."
"And Gunnar?" I pause. "Whatever's going on... be patient. She's more fragile than she pretends."
I nod, throat tight.
Outside, I throw my leg over my bike.
My phone's still buzzing with messages.
Trafficking ring.
Club business.
Duty.
But all I can think about is the way Ingrid's hands shook when she touched me.
The way she looked relieved when I had to leave.
The way she's still running, even standing still.
I kick the bike to life, engine rumbling.
Runes needs me.
The club needs me.
Kids are being trafficked and we need to stop it.
But tonight—tonight I'm going after Ingrid.
And this time, she's not getting away.