Trouble

“So, you see, I am desperate,” I sigh to myself, scanning the office directory outside the elevators of the Member’s Mark building.

A chubby security guard sits near the glass doors staring at his phone. He doesn’t inspire a lot of confidence, but at least he’s here, he has a gun, and he nodded when I said I was seeing Mr. Santiago.

The bell dings, and I step inside the glass tube heading to the top floor.

We spent the weekend scouring Zillow for apartment listings and doing our best to keep things upbeat and normal for Oliver. Our nightly police drive-by has continued, which makes us feel a little secure, and Spencer’s offer has been burning a hole in my chest since Friday.

My heart is screaming I should have let him kiss me, but my head is a stubborn old nun saying I did the right thing. I won’t be used and tossed in the trash… although, I am a bit embarrassed about overreacting to seeing him with Heather.

Way to show your cards, Sly.

The elevator dings again, and I step out into a dim hallway. With all the office doors closed, the reception area is illuminated only by the emergency exit lights. If it weren’t five in the afternoon, it would be creepy.

I follow the directions to the third door on the left and tap lightly, “Mr. Santiago?”

The door slowly opens with a light creak, and lying before me on a table is an olive-skinned man without a shirt. He’s face-down, so I only see his back, and he’s not as defined as Spencer. Still, I can tell he works out.

The blinds covering the windows are closed, and the room is dim. He’d said in our text he had his own equipment, which is unusual but not unheard of. I didn’t question it. The less I have to carry, the easier it is to get out of here if I feel uncomfortable.

“Miss Winthrop, I’ve been waiting for you.” It’s a mid-level voice with a touch of an accent I can’t place, almost British.

A Bluetooth speaker is on the edge of the desk playing island music.

Shaking away my hesitation, I lower my bag into a chair. “Looks like you know as much about my job as I do.”

“I’ve spent time with massage therapists.” He doesn’t look up, and it’s starting to get weird.

“I’ll just get started then.” Taking out my oils, I place the warming plate beside the small speaker. “Would you prefer peppermint or lavender?”

“Neither, if you don’t mind.”

A quick nod, and I put the items back in my bag. “You said the pain is coming from a lower back strain?’

“Yes.”

Rubbing my hands together, I start with light strokes on his shoulders slowly making my way down. “If the pressure is too intense, just let me know.”

I’m quiet, working steadily, focusing on my hands. I assume he’s fallen asleep when he speaks. “Tell me about yourself.”

It’s an odd question, but I don’t mind answering. “Well, let’s see… I grew up in a small town about two hours from here…”

“What brought you to the city?”

“College. I started at the university in horticulture, but then I switched over to Palmetto to study sports medicine. I really got into the massage therapy and wellness aspect of recovery.”

“Horticulture to sports medicine is a big switch. Is it because you had friends in the field?”

I’ve answered this question before, and I start to relax as I talk about my goals. “I was drawn to the program because I’ve always been interested in the healing arts. Flowers bring joy and lift the spirit. Certain scents can elevate your mood. It’s all related.”

“So you made friends in college?” His question is forceful and a little confusing, jumping back to why I came here.

I return to my original assumption he’s foreign—perhaps he’s looking for a way to make friends? But he works in this busy office.

“Miss Winthrop?”

Clearing my throat, I move my hands into what he said was the injured part of his back, deepening the pressure. He doesn’t even flinch.

“Is this too much pressure?”