Preston
Client number four for the night, and it's taking every ounce of energy I have left in me just to stay on my feet, let alone focus on the deep tissue massage I've got twenty minutes left of.
The few times I checked with the client to make sure the pressure was okay at the start, he grunted, so at least he seems happy.
Thankfully, I'm done after this guy. I cannot wait to get home.
After what happened outside the clinic the other night, Ellie has insisted on picking me up at the end of my shift.
I tried arguing that it was overkill, but there was no use.
Once he makes up his mind about something, it's game over.
I totally love him for it. I've never enjoyed night walks back home, but I'm saving every penny I can, so wasting money on an Uber, or even on a bus fare, is out of the question.
I apply some more massage oil onto my hands and warm it up between my palms. Hairy backs suck up oil like it's nobody's business.
We should charge extra. Then again, he's been quiet and completely undemanding this whole time and was already lying face down when I stepped into the treatment room, saving me from another round of small talk, which I greatly appreciated.
"Neck, please," he says, and I jolt, his voice reverberating around the small room. He's got a heavy accent that I can't quite place. I'm terrible at stuff like accents and geography, but he's definitely not American.
I finish working on his lower back then lift up the towel to partially obscure him. "Can you please turn around so I can do your neck for you?"
He makes a grunting noise as he shifts onto his back. When I lower the towel, everything in me goes still.
I know that face.
I've been seeing it in my sleep for a week.
It's the man from outside, the one I maced, and the cold, calculated expression on his face tells me he's been waiting for this moment since he booked the appointment.
I open my mouth to scream but don't get the chance. Farkas jackknifes up off the table and punches me across the cheekbone with a closed fist. I taste blood and get my arms halfway up to protect my face when he strikes me again, clipping me across the jaw.
"Heeeel—"
He swings at me, again and again. I stumble back as the room spins. I hit the equipment cart on my way sideways, oil bottles clattering to the floor. I manage to grab onto the door handle, and then I'm running down the corridor, screaming for help.
A door swings open.
It's Andre.
"Holy fucking shit."
Farkas is stalking down the hallway with a towel around his waist and murder in his eyes.
Andre doesn't hesitate, pushing me behind him and charging toward the guy.
I'm almost afraid to look as Farkas takes a swing.
Andre ducks out of the way and socks Farkas a few times, knocking him into the wall.
Other doors start opening.
"Call the police!" I yell, and a petrified-looking therapist runs out into the reception area.
A client emerges from one of the treatment rooms, identifies himself as a police officer, and despite being naked except for a towel, helps Andre restrain Farkas. With the off-duty cop handling Farkas, Andre rushes back to me and scans my face. "We need to get you to a hospital right away."
My legs give out, and I crumple against him. The contact of my face against his shoulder sends a fresh bolt of white-hot pain through my cheek. When I pull back there's blood on Andre's polo.
I'm already crying, my whole body shaking. Andre braces me by the arms to keep me upright as I sob. It doesn't sound like anything I recognize.
It just hurts.
Everything hurts.