Chapter 13
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Mase
Trixy climbs off the bed with a practiced smile on her face, her raven hair and smoky makeup still perfectly in place, clothes still on.
Though she says otherwise, I know she secretly likes the fact that this arrangement leaves her in good condition for her next paying client.
“Are you ever going to tell me why you always demand it this way?” Reaching for the key, she starts undoing the cuff on my left wrist.
“I can’t go giving away my secrets, Trix.” I grin at her, but she’s no fool. Even if she weren’t looking at me, she’d know the smile didn’t reach my eyes.
I’m sure she’s sensed from the very beginning that there was something wrong with me and there has never been any true enjoyment for me in doing this.
“If it’s a fetish, you can just tell me. You should see some of the weird shit people are into.”
“I’d rather not.”
She opens the cuff on my other wrist. “Don’t you worry.
I wouldn’t go spilling anyone else’s secrets, either.
” I rub my wrists, and she unashamedly looks over my body while she slips on her heels.
“I also don’t understand why you pay me when all you have to do is crook your finger and every person within sight would lose their underwear and bend over for you—fetish and all. ”
Reaching for the drawer on the side table, I pull out the envelope and hand it to her. “Maybe I just like your company.”
Trixy laughs lightly, stuffing the envelope into her purse after counting the cash. “Nobody likes my company, honey. I’m just an orifice used to help people cope or have a little fun. It can be a horrible world out there, and I’m just a tiny band-aid for their broken lives.”
I consider how true that is for other people as I reach for my boxer-briefs, laying them across my lap. “Well, maybe I just need a tiny band-aid,” I lie.
I don’t think there’s a band-aid big enough to fix a broken soul.
Trixy’s bright blue eyes lose a little of their sparkle, and she gives me a sad smile, thinking she understands completely. She doesn’t.
Seconds later, she lets herself out of my apartment—she never hangs around long, which I appreciate. Our interactions last no more than half an hour, and always with limited conversations.
The moment the door clicks shut, something a lot like shame forms a pit in my stomach, like it does every time. It hollows out my insides, leaving me feeling empty.
I rush to strip the sheet and pillowcases off the guest bed and throw them into the hamper before crossing the hall into my bedroom and grabbing fresh clothes. I need to get clean.
The shame won’t wash off in a shower, but at least her perfume and any other remnant of her will—not that much touching happens during her visit, anyway.
With my palms pressed flat against the tiles, I keep my eyes squeezed shut as the hot water pours onto the back of my head, soaking through every part of me before I reach for my body wash.
I only meet up with Trixy once in a while—sometimes months go by between visits—but it’s the same procedure every time. She serves a quick purpose, one I feel is necessary, and then she leaves me to get on with my day.
After scrubbing every inch of my body, I watch as all the soap and evidence of the past half-hour circles down the drain, along with my dark thoughts and self-respect.
Feeling clean enough, I shut off the water and roughly dry my hair and body before stepping into my underwear and sweatpants, then I head to the kitchen to make some lunch.
“Hey, Mom,” I greet when she answers my call, my previous thoughts drifting into the background. “How are you feeling today?”
I pull out one of the containers of chicken and rice I pre-made and quickly throw it into the microwave.
“Mase, my sweet boy. I don’t think there’s another patient in here who has children that check on them as much as you do with me.”
“You’re not a patient; you’re a resident,” I correct.
It’s been four years since my mom moved into the special assisted living facility. Her condition progressed to the point where she needed to have a nurse on hand twenty-four-seven. And since I was finally able to pay for it, I made sure she went to one of the best places in Chicago.
They check in with her every day, bring her food, help her bathe, go for walks, and assist with other basic needs, and all while treating her kindly.
“And I don’t think I’ve been a sweet boy for quite some time.”
“You just wait until you have kids of your own. They’ll always be your little boy or girl, no matter how old.”
I huff, my lips twitching, because I’m twice the size of my mother and hardly look sweet.
“Anyway, you should be busy with friends. Or maybe even someone special . . .”
“How do you know I wasn’t out with friends all night and just getting home now?” I take a seat at the table with my food, watching the steam rise as I lift a spoonful and blow on it.
Mom’s sigh is soft. “Because I know my son.”
I hum, neither confirming nor denying. “How’s Tatiana doing?”
Tatiana was recently assigned as Mom’s night nurse, and since Mom usually loves everyone who takes care of her, I’m sure she’ll have plenty to say.
“Trying to distract me with another topic?” There’s amusement in her voice, but she answers me, despite knowing it’s a tactic, “Tatiana is such a sweetheart and funny. Goodness, she has me giggling like a young schoolgirl every night she comes in.”
I take a bite of my food, chewing while Mom continues to talk about her new nurse.
“I know I’ve thanked you plenty of times,” she continues. “But I truly am grateful that you got me in here.”
“And it only took a thousand feet pics to do it.”
“Mase Turner,” Mom gasps. “You did not sell pictures of your feet!”
I chuckle, leaning back in my chair. “Relax, Mom. I was joking.”
A huff sounds through the phone. “I even knew that, and still, I got myself all worked up.”
“Sorry.” Lifting my bare feet onto the opposite chair, I smile softly. “And you’re welcome. I’m glad you like Tatiana as well.”
“I really do. Now back to what I was saying earlier . . . I just don’t want you to feel obligated to call me all the time.”
“Mom, you know I never feel obligated.” It’s so much more than an obligation. “And that’s never going to change.”
She lets out a soft hum. “Well, are you calling to let me know you’re coming by again today?”
“No, actually. I’ll be going to work shortly.” Not to mention that I never see Mom and Trix on the same day. It’s just . . . wrong.
“So, you just wanted to hear my voice?” she teases. “I do wish you’d find a lovely girl you could call just as much.”
The last swallow almost gets stuck in my throat, and I grunt. Not going to happen. “I’m fine with the way things are.”
Mom gives her usual soft sigh before thankfully changing the subject again.
We chat for a little while longer while I tidy up the kitchen, then it’s time for me to leave.
I quickly put on a tank and a jacket, then add some gym shorts to my duffle bag and throw it over my shoulder before heading to my old pickup. She rumbles to life at the turn of my key, then it’s a twenty-five-minute drive to the gym.
Thoughts of that woman, Jayne, from the seedy club have been pushing to the front of my mind since I walked out of there. It’s been bugging me that I can’t pinpoint why she seems so familiar. It’s not from one of my classes; I know that for sure.
After parking, I walk into the gym where I’m both a personal trainer and an instructor for self-defense classes for women who have been assaulted or who work in fields that make them feel vulnerable.
We offer drop-in classes from Tuesday to Thursday evenings, where one can learn basic maneuvers, or they can register for a more in-depth eight-week course that I teach on Friday evenings.
We have an arrangement with the local women’s shelter to send them my way, but I often offer one-time complimentary classes to people like Jayne who work in places like Tease.
That’s why I was at the club last night.
I’ve been told that, quite often, the women at those clubs want to feel like they can protect themselves if needed. Out of all the women I saw there, I hope Jayne accepts the free lesson I offered her. Something tells me she needs it.
“Hey, Mase,” Carol greets from the front desk. She and her wife have owned Fit for a Lifetime for about ten years. They’re both in their early forties, and though I’m bigger than them, some days I think they could kick my ass if they wanted—not that they want to, of course.
“Hey, how was last night? Did you end up taking Danielle on the river cruise for her birthday?”
Carol grins. “Yeah. I took the old lady out.”
“Who are you calling old?” Danielle calls from inside their shared office behind the desk. “It was a good suggestion, Mase. Thanks.”
“No worries,” I say to the open doorway.
“Your little fan club is here early today.” Carol nods over to the stair machines, where a few women are chatting while looking over here.
I sigh.
Two of those women have asked me out for a drink on separate occasions. And despite my polite decline, they still come in multiple times a week and try to talk to me or ask for help at every opportunity.
Apparently, you’re supposed to be a dick and not polite for them to know you’re not interested. Unfortunately, I wasn’t raised that way.
It’s not that they’re unattractive, and I’m sure they’re nice people. It’s just . . . women and I have a complicated relationship. Actually, more like people in general.
Luckily, I’ll be too busy to stop for most of the day.
I turn back to Carol. “Thanks for the heads up.”
“Hopefully, they won’t bother you much.” She winks, then moves to greet someone who walks through the door behind me, leaving me to go to my small office to get started.
Taking a seat at my desk, I lean back in the chair and go through my schedule for the day: four personal training sessions with a little manning the free weights section in between, then my class at the end of the day.
I check which clients I have so I can get their programs ready, but my eyes pause on the third name, and I lean forward in my chair.
Jennifer.
I’ve been training this lady for six months now, and she’s come a long way. She’s also the only female client I have.
But it’s not her that I’m fixated on right now; it’s the name.
Jennifer. Jennifer. Jennifer.
The name bounces around in my head, pushing something to the forefront with each pass, and then suddenly, everything becomes clear as if a veil was lifted in my mind.
Fuck. No way.
I know why Jayne seemed so incredibly familiar.
I have seen that heart-shaped face, slightly sloped nose, and plush lips before.
I’ve also seen those stormy gray eyes filled with fear before, and they were directed at me the last time as well.
Her name is not Jayne.
Her name is Jennifer Lapmor.