5. Chapter 5
Loralee
By nine fifteen, the festival no longer feels like the place where I spent the day.
The artisan booths are closed, their displays covered or secured behind canvas walls.
Music still drifts faintly from the stage while the last visitors leave through the main entrance.
Battery lanterns glow inside my booth, turning the rust and cream fabric into warm pools of color.
Beyond the privacy screens, the maple branches move against a dark sky.
I finish locking the final crystal case and check the time again.
Rocco is twelve minutes late. It shouldn’t bother me.
The man is responsible for securing an entire festival, and our agreement is not an appointment I entered into my scheduling system.
He accepted twenty-five minutes of massage under duress from his own shoulder.
Still, Rocco counts everything. He knows he is late.
I am putting the unscented lotion back into the rolling cart when his footsteps approach. I recognize them before he enters the booth. They are measured and unhurried, but heavier than they were this morning.
Rocco appears between the fabric panels wearing black cargo pants and a fitted long-sleeved shirt with his company emblem over the chest. His hair has come loose from whatever held it away from his face earlier. Dark strands brush his shoulders, and fatigue has sharpened the lines around his eyes.
“You’re late,” I say.
“Thirteen minutes.”
His gaze moves over the closed displays. “Everything secured?”
“The cash box is locked in my vehicle. The high-value crystals are in locked cases, and nothing containing personal information remains in the booth.”
“The rear panel?”
“Fastened from inside.”
He checks it anyway.
I fold my arms. “Do you inspect hotel rooms before sleeping in them?”
“Yes,” he says, with no humor.
Rocco returns to the treatment area and looks at the massage table as if it has been waiting to interrogate him.
The cream sheet is fresh. An additional blanket rests near the foot, and the battery lanterns provide enough light for me to work without creating the clinical brightness he likely expects.
There are no candles, scented oils, crystals, bells, chanting, or ocean sounds. I gesture toward the chair beside the table.
“Sit.”
His eyes narrow.
“For the intake,” I explain. “Not everything I say is a command.”
“Most of it sounds like one.”
“You respond better to direct language.”
“I respond when necessary.”
“Sit down, Rocco.”
He sits.
I take the clipboard from the cart and settle into the chair opposite him. His knees nearly touch mine in the small space. Proximity amplifies everything about him. I instantly notice the heat of his body and the fatigue beneath his control.
“Before I touch you, I need information,” I say. “When did the shoulder injury occur?”
“Several years ago.”
“What happened?”
His jaw hardens. “Vehicle rollover.”
“Were you driving?”
“No.”
I lower my eyes to the form. “What was injured?”
“Right shoulder. Torn rotator cuff. Partially dislocated. Two fractured ribs and a collarbone fracture.”
The list is delivered without emotion. His body does not share the same detachment.
“Did you have surgery?”
“Yes.”
“Physical therapy?”
“Nine months.”
“Any numbness or tingling in your arm or hand?”
“Occasionally. Not tonight.”
“Loss of strength?”
“No.”
I glance toward the hand resting on his thigh. His fingers flex once, almost imperceptibly.
“Any current medications, blood thinners, recent procedures, or medical restrictions?”
“No.”
“Has a physician told you massage is unsafe for the injury?”
“No.”
“Do you have pain anywhere else?”
“Nothing relevant.”
“That means yes.”
“It means we’re discussing my shoulder.”
I record only the information he gives me. “What is the pain level right now, from zero to ten?”
“Three.”
“Be serious, Rocco.”
“Four.”
I wait.
“Five,” he says.
“Thank you.”
His mouth tightens as though accuracy has cost him something. I place the clipboard aside.
“We’ll work only on your upper back, shoulder, neck, and arm. You can leave your pants on. Remove your shirt, lie face down beneath the sheet, and tell me immediately if anything hurts, feels wrong, or brings up a response you don’t want.”
“A response?”
“Pain. Dizziness. Numbness. Anxiety. Memories. Anything.”
“I’m getting a massage, not undergoing interrogation.”
“The body doesn’t always recognize the difference.”
He watches me closely. I stand and pull the privacy panel completely shut.
“I’ll wait outside while you get situated. Call when you’re ready.”
“Loralee.”
I pause.
“No energy commentary.”
“I remember.”
“No reading anything into my reactions.”
“That may require clarification.”
His eyes narrow again.
“I won’t interpret your reactions aloud,” I promise. “Unless one indicates that you are injured or need me to stop.”
“And no surprises.”
“No surprises. You remain in control of the session.”
Something in him eases. Barely. I step outside the treatment area.
The night has turned colder while the festival emptied.
I secure one lantern near the entrance and look toward the main path.
Members of Rocco’s team move between the booths.
Two uniformed deputies speak near the pavilion.
Everything appears calm, but the sense of order does not happen naturally.
It exists because people like Rocco remain alert while everyone else relaxes.
“Ready,” he calls.
I return and close the screen behind me.
Rocco lies face down with the sheet covering him from the waist down. He left his pants on, as expected. His arms rest along the sides of the table rather than above his head, protecting the injured shoulder from unnecessary rotation.
For several seconds, I forget every professional thought I possess.
His body is leaner than his clothing suggests, built through disciplined strength rather than size alone.
Muscle defines his back and narrows toward his waist. A dark tattoo spreads across his left shoulder blade, disappearing along his ribs beneath the sheet.
Several scars interrupt the smooth brown skin of his back.
One crosses the top of his right shoulder. Another curves near his spine.
The physical evidence of his history lies openly before me while the man himself remains guarded.
Attraction moves low and warm through my body. I acknowledge it and set it aside. That is part of the work, too.
“I’m going to begin at the left shoulder,” I tell him. “The uninjured side will give me a comparison. I’ll use light pressure first.”
“All right.”
I warm a small amount of unscented lotion between my palms, then place both hands against his upper back. Rocco stops breathing. The response is so immediate that I remain still rather than beginning the first stroke.
“Do you want me to move my hands?”
“No.”
“Do you want me to stop?”
“No.”
“Then breathe.”
He exhales slowly beneath my palms.
I begin with broad, light movements across the left side of his back, allowing his body to adjust to contact.
His muscles remain hard beneath my hands.
They’re not flexed for strength, but held.
The tension extends from his shoulders down both sides of his spine, as though relaxing any one part might compromise the whole.
I work gradually, increasing pressure only when his breathing becomes steadier. The left shoulder responds first. Muscle softens beneath my fingers, and his arm relaxes heavily beside the table.
When I move to his right side, the difference is immediate.
Scar tissue tightens the skin near the surgical line.
The muscles surrounding his shoulder blade have spent years compensating, some overworked and others reluctant to engage.
I trace the border carefully without pressing into the inflamed area.
“Still a five?” I ask.
“Four.”
“Sharp or aching?”
“Aching.”
“Any tingling?”
“No.”
I move along the edge of his shoulder blade using slow, controlled pressure. Rocco’s breath leaves him in a low sound he tries to suppress.
Heat gathers beneath my skin.
Professional distance becomes more difficult when my hands are moving over a man I have imagined touching since yesterday. I concentrate on anatomy, pressure, and the subtle responses beneath my fingers. His body tells me where it will permit contact and where it expects pain before I create it.
The shoulder is only part of what he protects.
“Pressure?” I ask.
“Fine.”
“That isn’t one of the choices.”
“More.”
I increase it carefully. His muscles resist, then release by degrees. Rocco’s fingers uncurl beside the table. His breathing deepens. The controlled energy that has surrounded him since we met begins to loosen, spreading outward instead of remaining compressed around his body.
I say nothing about it. He trusted me to keep that promise.
I work down his arm, supporting the joint while moving it through a limited range. When I return to the shoulder, his body no longer anticipates each touch as a possible threat. That realization arrives with unexpected sadness.
I move to the head of the table and work along the base of his neck. His hair brushes the backs of my hands. Up close, it is dark brown rather than black, with warmer strands catching the lantern light.
Rocco exhales again. His head relaxes more fully into the cradle. For several minutes, neither of us speaks.
The festival sounds continue beyond the privacy screens. A metal gate closes in the distance. Radios murmur along the main path. Someone laughs near the food-vendor lane, then the sound fades.
Inside the booth, there is only breath and touch. Rocco’s body grows heavier beneath my hands. The change is not complete relaxation, but it is closer than I expected him to allow. I move from the neck to his shoulder again, following the hardened line of muscle toward the old surgical scar.
A flash breaks through me.
Darkness.
Metal folding inward.
The hard pull of a restraint across my chest.
Dust filling my mouth.
A voice shouting a name I cannot understand.