Chapter 8 – Rule #5 Never trust a caller. #2
“Pajamas or nekkie?” His answer will make the dirty thoughts I would never have more vivid.
“Boxer briefs and an old T-shirt.”
“Okay, in bed, you. Close the window, and make it quick so you don’t get too cold.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
I growl at him, and his warm laugh in response gives me goose bumps that I try to rub away. The slide of the window is followed by the sheets slipping against each other as he snuggles into bed.
“Henry, are you comfy, hands-free with earbuds, all of the things?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
I hiss at him this time, and he chuckles at my predictability. Then he confesses, “I’m so tired everything is heavy.”
“Is your alarm set?”
“No.” He sighs, a tiny sound of relief. “I have tomorrow off.”
“Fanfuckingtastic. You need to be able to sleep until you wake up, sweet pea. Phone plugged in with ringer off, front door locked, lights off, stove was never on?” When he’s this tired, he forgets things.
One night, I got him to sleep only for him to tell me the next day the oven was on overnight.
No harm, no foul, but I’m more careful now.
“Yes, yes, turning off my light now. I closed the room-darkening shades and curtains so I can sleep in.”
“Perfect. Let’s start with deep, cleansing breaths.
Long slow inhale, hold, hold and release.
” I repeat the exercise nine more times, each one a bit slower.
We’ve gotten better at this in the last month or two.
We can get him down in twenty minutes now, but we chat longer, and those minutes talking are the best part of my days.
The three or four hours a week I get with him make all the other hours seem anemic and flavorless.
Our time together is easy, quietly gratifying.
“You’ve had a hard week, sweet pea. You’ve earned a massage. I’ll use the lavender stress relief massage oil and kneel on the bed alongside you.” If it were anyone else, I’d be thrilled to string this along for hours, but what’s best for him is rest.
I walk him through a deep-tissue massage, spending lots of time on the delicious ass—errr, glutes that I’ve decided he has, despite a lack of evidence. I’m confident in my fictional massage abilities.
“I’m finished with your back. I’ll have you turn over and work on your hips.
They tend to hold a lot of stress.” The bits that I would like to get a peek at are under an imaginary sheet, and like a professional masseuse, I don’t wander there.
He needs to sleep, not think about his dick while I’m thinking about his dick and counseling myself not to think about his dick. Dammit.
His breathing slows as I walk him through a world-class hot rock massage.
Lacing my fingers with his to massage them fills me with warmth that isn’t imaginary.
Henry’s still, but I’m not convinced he’s asleep; his breathing isn’t quite as deep as I expect.
I pause, trying to decide if I should keep going.
I’m about to start on a guided meditation, just in case, when his voice breaks the silence. “I’m not asleep.”
At this rate, I’m going to fall asleep before him.
“I’m wide-awake, but I’m relaxed. That was incredible, but I’m not dropping off.”
I try the technique where he clenches all of his muscles, then lets go. I finish, and he immediately asks if I need to go to sleep. “You sound exhausted, Kait. It’s okay, we can hang up.”
Always thoughtful, my Henry.
“Absolutely not. I’m here to help you. Desperate times call for desperate measures.” I know what he needs, but what does he want? Everything I want seems to start and end with him lately. The more we talk, the more joy it brings me as he loosens up and gets comfortable, hour by hour.
“I suppose.” He’s soft and sad, his hope for a restorative night draining away as I fail, and it makes my heart hurt.
“What about Ambien or whatever medicine people take these days?”
“Did I not tell you? It was fantastic. I slept like I had been hit with a tranquilizer dart designed for an unruly elephant. On the third night of perfect sleep, I walked a few circles around the lobby of my hotel in my boxers at two a.m., no shirt, and headed for the front door. I took a barefoot stroll through Dublin in the middle of the night in February. It was snowing. The front desk staff chased me down and returned me to my room. I woke up feeling like a million bucks, refreshed and ready for the day, completely unaware it had happened.”
“I should’ve known you would’ve tried things.”
“My doctor brother says I can’t take any of those meds safely.”
“Lachlan?”
He murmurs a quiet affirmation. It’s not weird at all that I know the names of his siblings in birth order. I know the names of the siblings of all of my callers. This is totally typical.
“Henry, please tell me what you need.”
“You’re already doing it. Being cared for, however you want to say it,” he says, and a huge yawn follows. “At first, I wasn’t even sure why you’re so good at this, but I realized that it’s like you care.”
My spine straightens at his words. It’s not like I care.
I care. I mean, I kind of do a wee bit, even though that’s weird and this is a job and not personal at all.
Callers are for money, my livelihood. They are a means to a solitary end: grad school.
Period. Show me the money. I don’t care at all.
Not even for Henry Sterling. Really, really.
“You watch over me. I feel like someone’s priority.” He huffs. “I’m not delusional. It is possible to have a transaction and still experience compassion.” The statement has the ring of something he’s told himself repeatedly as he torments himself for calling me.
“Henry, I’m sorry. I try so hard to take excellent care of you, but it’s not going well at the moment.” Dammit. I don’t care. This is work, and my caring stops when I hang up. This is fake caring. #workcaring
He doesn’t know I’ve broken my own rule for him.
Rules. I’ll be breaking another one tonight.
The nagging thoughts are pervasive, the generalized horniness and neediness growing worse by the call.
Not Henry, nope, he’s a gentleman. Those thoughts are mine.
I’m so hot for the man that he says hello and I squirm.
“It’s just a transaction” is my new mantra.