“Mmm.” I sigh, my body relaxing another notch into the table.
“Does that hurt?” she asks.
“Yes, but not in a bad way like the shoulder.”
“You carry a lot of tension here,” she says in a low voice. “Deep breath. In and out.”
I try to follow her breathing instructions.
Her touch transforms into something firmer, pressing in circular motions. Soothing. More like a massage than an examination. I continue the deep breathing and finally, my body fully relaxes.
I don’t even tense up when she starts prodding my shoulder again—until she pokes a certain spot. “Fuu—ow.” I flinch but, trapped on my stomach, I can’t escape without knocking her on her ass.
“Is it tender here?” She jabs the spot again.
“Like a hot poker. Quit it,” I growl.
She ignores me and continues her exploration. I shift and twitch but she’s relentless. If it didn’t hurt so damn much, I’d respect her tenacity.
Finally, her pokey little hands of steel retreat.
“Do you need help sitting up?” she asks.
Torture time must be over.
“No.” I roll to my side and push myself upright.
“All right, I think I’ve tormented you enough today.”
“Got that right,” I grumble, clasping my shoulder with my left hand.
“They ruled out a rotator cuff tear at the time of the injury,” she says, proving she actually read what little was in my chart.
“Yeah.”
“That’s good. We’ll start with two times per week.” She glances at my chart again. “I don’t see any insurance information—”
“It’s fine. I’m paying out of pocket.”
“Oh, well…”
“It’s not an issue,” I say with more force than necessary. Don’t need her thinking I’m some scrub who can’t pay his bills.
“If you wouldn’t mind wearing something maybe without sleeves next time…”
That might be a problem. Got some ink inside that I’m not exactly eager to show anyone. Instead of coming here, I should’ve searched for a place to cover them or burn ’em off.
“If you’re comfortable,” she adds.
I grunt a non-committal noise and slide off the table. “Are we done?”
Not deterred by my tone, she outlines what she wants me to do at home and what we’ll do at our next session, all without looking at me.
Finally, she takes a breath. “I’ll walk you up front so we can schedule your next appointment.”
As she reaches for the door, our eyes lock.
The dark blue color holds me hostage. Inside the shining depths, it’s easy to see she’s not a teenager. Today, she helps others heal their injuries. But she’s had her share of pain. Things that still haunt her.
Maybe I’ve lost my mind, but damn, if I’m not ready to hunt down her ghosts and slay every one of them.
Chapter Six
Serena
Don’t focus on the rearview mirror. You’re not going that way.
Life isn’t meant to be traveled backwards. And yet somehow, tonight, I’m about to undo all the hard work I’ve done over the past year.
I’ve lost my mind.
And for what? To see one of my patients outside of our therapy appointments, which could possibly get me fired?
The party is being thrown to celebrate Grayson’s release from prison. Every single muffler bunny who shows up will be vying for his attention, hoping to give him comfort and welcome him home in order to prove their loyalty to the club. So at best, I’ll witness him getting a blow job from one of the club girls. At worst, I’ll find out he’s married or already has an old lady. Bonus misery points for discovering he’s married and cheats on his wife.
“I’m so excited you decided to come with me!” Amanda shouts in my ear. She grabs my shoulder and jumps up and down, forcing me to smear black liner into the corner of my eye.
“Knock it off,” I mumble, dabbing at the stray black smudge with a Q-tip.
“Sorry.” She picks up a brush and fusses with her newly layered and feathered hair. The style is straight out of the Seventies. Reminds me of the cut my mother favored. She’d had a passion for everything from that decade—the music, hairstyles, clothes, and drugs.
“What made you go for the Farrah Fawcett hair?” I ask.
“Who?” She pats the little blond, feathered wings above her ears. “It’s cute, right? Kinda retro?”
“It’s kinda something,” I mutter.
She punches my shoulder.
“Sorry, yes.” Who am I to judge when the only hairstyles I choose are “up” or “down”? “It frames your face nicely.”
“Thank you.” She fusses with the big, bouncy curls. “It’s totally on trend.”
“It is,” I agree. I’ve certainly seen enough videos on social media featuring similar styles. My heavy hair would never hold the look, so I’ve scrolled on by. Besides, makeup is my passion, not hair.
“I love this color,” Amanda murmurs, picking up one of my new plum-berry glosses. “Did the company send it to you?”
“Yes, but I haven’t had a chance to review it yet.” So please don’t steal it.
“Oooh! I’ll be your model. You can snap a photo before we leave. I don’t mind if you post it.”