Chapter Eight One of the Worst Massages in Human History #3
lie or say something he shouldn’t have. He just went where he was told. “I have arthritis,” he blurts, hoping that’ll somehow
be a valid enough excuse to get out of this.
Normally he wouldn’t love outing himself like that. As Jacob would say, Owen’s condition is between him, his doctor, and God.
No one else. Hilariously, though, it feels like a much more believable excuse over “I don’t like to be touched.”
Brandon barely looks up, much more focused on setting out a bunch of small bottles. “Our massages aren’t just therapeutic,
but have the potential to offer a myriad of health benefits.”
Owen takes a second to process the words “the potential to offer” before he realizes that’s not important.
“Just lie down and we can get started!” Brandon says again, motioning for Owen to spin around.
Owen hesitates, wondering if he should just walk out.
But his back is tight, and it’s not like he hasn’t gotten massages before. They’ve just always been from Jacob. The man had a sixth sense
for knowing exactly where the tensest spots in Owen’s body are.
“Do you have any problem areas that we should work on?” Brandon asks.
“My back, I guess,” Owen tells him, still nervous. “I spend a lot of time hunched over.” Owen unties his robe, hanging it
on the wall, bracing for Brandon to make a comment about his body or the tattoos like most people do.
To his credit, Brandon doesn’t make any judgments, at least none verbally. Owen lifts himself onto the table, fitting his
head snugly into the hole at the top.
“All-righty!” There’s the opening of a bottle, then slick hands being rubbed together. Owen can’t help but flinch when he
feels the ghost of Brandon’s touch against his spine. “Just relax.”
Owen breathes, bracing himself as he feels a complete stranger’s hands press against a knot in his back. Touch is difficult
for Owen in a way that he’s never really been able to understand. Occasionally, he’s okay with it—when Kaitlyn puts her head
on his shoulder, or Abigail taps his elbow to get his attention out in public.
Most of the time, though, he could go without it.
He remembers the day he first felt that way, when a friend at lunch grabbed Owen’s wrist and stared at his skin, one of the
earliest signs of his arthritis, asking if Owen had an STD and if he was “infectious” in that dumb way teenage boys ask those
kinds of questions.
Owen’s skin felt electric, as if every nerve were crying out in pain, at the way the boy’s fingers wrapped around his wrist, trapping him as half a dozen sets of eyes focused on him, humiliation and pain washing over him.
Even as an adult, though, sometimes it’s a texture thing, like when Jacob hadn’t moisturized his hands in a few days and the
calluses that came with the weightlifting he did with Abigail would scratch against Owen’s palms. Or even food, especially
while doing the dishes.
“How does it feel when I press here?” Brandon takes his knuckle, digging into the small of Owen’s back. Owen does his best
not to flinch, telling himself that it’s okay that a stranger is touching him, that he can deal with it for forty-five minutes if it means his back gets some relief.
“Tight,” Owen tells him through gritted teeth.
“Yeah, I can feel it.” Brandon takes his chance to dig in even deeper. “How is that?”
Owen grunts as he’s pushed forward, faux leather squeaking underneath him. “Bad.”
Brandon either doesn’t hear him or doesn’t want to. “You’ve got a lot of ink!”
“Yeah,” Owen replies bluntly. “I do.”
“How much did all of that cost you?”
“Um . . .” Owen thinks for a moment. It’s not an unheard-of question, even from other artists, especially given just how much of Owen’s skin is covered in tattoos.
He doesn’t have an exact number—Owen’s not even sure how he’d calculate that.
Some of his tattoos he’s done himself, some were other artists practicing on skin for the first time.
Most were done professionally, though, by friends or fellow artists, usually at a reduced rate that Owen tries to make up with ample tipping.
“I’m not sure” is the only reply he gives.
“I’ve always wanted a tattoo,” Brandon says.
“You should get one, then.”
“Really! You think?” Brandon asks as he continues to dig into the knot in Owen’s back. He thrusts his hand, angling up.
“Oh!” Owen grunts, gripping the edge of the massage table. “I didn’t like that.”
“It can feel bad at first, but that means it’s working!” Brandon tells him without a care in the world.
Owen grips the table’s cushion in a vise.
“I’ve always been scared of what I’d get,” Brandon says, just moving on like Owen’s discomfort is nothing. “It’s permanent!
I want it to mean something, ya know?”
Owen doesn’t bother asking the masseuse what he thinks of the cat dressed as a clown on his bicep. Or the yaoi panel on his
thigh depicting a man with huge pecs having his chest grabbed by another guy. “Uh . . . sure?”
For him, tattoos can mean something, sure. But Owen just enjoys having art he likes covering his body so it’s always with him.
“How does that feel?” Brandon asks, digging deeper.
“Terrible,” Owen grunts. “Again.”
“We’ve got more work to do, then! Loosen up a bit, the more tense you are, the more it’ll hurt.” Brandon pushes Owen’s arms
down, forcing Owen to dangle them over the edge of the massage table.
Owen feels more oil dripping on his back, heating as Brandon continues to knead it into Owen’s back like he’s a ball of dough. Owen winces as Brandon focuses on his shoulders. “Can you go a little lighter?”
“Of course!” Brandon says, not changing the amount of pressure he applies at all. “How’s that?”
Worse somehow, Owen thinks.
Then Brandon presses down sharply, and something pops. Owen can’t tell if it was supposed to or not.
“Oh my God . . .” Owen’s eyes roll back in his head.
“Better?”
“No, no, not really.” In fact, the tightness in Owen’s back only feels like it’s gotten worse. He can sense Brandon taking
a step back, as if reassessing the situation.
“Hmm . . . maybe we could try some hot stones?” he offers. “I can step out and grab some if you’d like?”
In a flash, a plan forms in Owen’s mind. “Sure, stones sound great!” He musters as much faux enthusiasm as he can through the pain that’s only growing in his back.
“Excellent! Just wait here, I’ll be back in a jiffy!” Brandon tells Owen cheerfully as he steps out of the room. Owen is on
his feet in an instant once the door is closed, stretching his back out a bit before he grabs his robe.
He pauses at the door, making sure that Brandon isn’t already on his way back, and when the coast is clear, he tiptoes out of the room, moving down the hallway, careful of every step.
He almost expects Brandon to pop up out of nowhere, grab him by the ankles, and drag him back to the room.
Not that that’d really happen, Owen knows that.
But he can just as easily imagine the disappointment on the poor guy’s face as he’s told that he gave—what Owen suspects could be—one of the worst massages in human history.
Perhaps he could word that a bit better, let Brandon down a bit easier?
But just as he’s rounding the corner to what he hopes is the mineral bath area, Owen collides with something heavy and soft
so suddenly that he almost falls to the floor. In fact, he should have fallen to the hard, damp tile. Owen’s never been all that good at catching himself.
That’s what Jacob was always there for.
It almost feels like a dream, standing there with him in the hallway, the both of them in their matching robes. Jacob’s arm
is stretched around Owen’s waist, exerting just enough energy to keep Owen from falling flat on his even flatter ass.
“Hey,” he says. Jacob’s lips are mostly hidden by the bushiness of his mustache, but Owen can tell that he’s smiling.
“Hello.”
Jacob helps Owen regain his balance. “You okay?”
“Yeah, I was just—”
“Hey, Taylor, have you seen my client?” a familiar voice asks from around the corner. Owen freezes, barely stopping himself
from making a run for it.
“Just what?” Jacob asks, none the wiser.
“I gotta hide,” Owen says.
“Huh?”
Owen doesn’t think, he just acts, opening the first door he can, which just so happens to be a storage closet.
He closes the door behind him, searching frantically for a light switch to illuminate the small space, eventually finding the chain dangling from the ceiling.
Shelves are stacked with folded towels, robes, extra pairs of slippers.
There’s a pile of miscellaneous cleaning supplies, and a bin filled with dirty, damp laundry that smells sort of moldy.
Not exactly the most inviting of spaces, but it works.
There’s a soft tap on the door, followed by Jacob’s quiet voice. “Owen? Everything okay in there?”
Then another voice.
“Excuse me, have you seen another passenger? Shorter than you, long blond hair, lots of tattoos?”
Please, Jacob . . . Owen telepathically signals. Please.
“Oh, uh . . .” Jacob’s voice is louder as he replies. “No, sorry. Doesn’t ring a bell.” Owen feels his stomach unclench.
“Okay, well . . . thanks. Let me know if you do!”
“Got it!” Jacob reassures Brandon, and then there’s a beat. Owen tries to listen for the sound of fading footsteps, but he
can’t hear anything, not until Jacob chimes in again. “You’re clear.”
Owen opens the door slowly, still checking around the corner for any signs that Brandon might be doubling back. But there’s
just Jacob, standing guard, smiling down at Owen with his arms crossed.
“Jilted lover?” Jacob teases.
“You wish.” Owen rolls his eyes, opening the door further. “I think he was doing permanent damage to my back,” he says, rubbing
circles into his neck.
“You signed up for a massage?” Jacob asks, surprised.
“No, my masseuse got me mixed up with Kevin.”
“He mixed up a stick-thin white boy and a Vietnamese gym rat,” Jacob says smarmily. “Yeah, the two of you look so alike.”
“Hey!” Owen glowers, unable to keep himself from smirking at Jacob. “Whatever.”