The Mobster’s Masseuse

But Walker is not here now. He’s off somewhere dealing with “activity” and I’m wondering what the hell I’ve gotten myself into.

I think I might have formed some kind of entanglement with the most notorious crime boss in Boston. Yeah…I think that’s what happened? I mean, I was offered enough money to pay off my student loans, buy myself a sick ride and pay rent for a year. I took the offer, because it was too good to pass up, plus there are worse ways to make a hundred grand. A lot worse.

There are probably a lot of women out there who would pay a man who looks like Walker to go down on them. Yet somehow I walked away with my first male-provided orgasm and the cash.

Not to mention, Walker wants seconds.

A tingle works its way through my belly and turns my nipples hard. The sensitive flesh between my thighs heats and turns pliant at the memory of his tongue licking me with such relish. And that finger. How full, how possessed it had made me feel.

I thought the goal was to be no one’s possession, though. I’d been present for the forming and destruction of my mother’s relationships. Seen how they made her crumble. I’d vowed never to let my path be dictated by others. That’s why I’d clawed my way to where I am now. With my own place, a respectable job. One that I loved. How could I let my resolve vanish in the blink of an eye?

Even with my shiny check for a hundred grand, I still won’t stop working. I love it too much. I love being useful. Being productive. With my new nest egg, I’ll work even harder to make up for the advantage I’ve been given.

A familiar man strides down the sidewalk, only to be halted by my bodyguard. Oh crap. My skeevy boss was now being interrogated by Walker’s employee. That was not good. The man who employed me had a whopping case of little man syndrome and wouldn’t take kindly to being questioned by the much bigger dude. We would all be victims to his inevitable bad mood. Let’s just hope he doesn’t find out the man outside the SUV is posted there because of me.

Randall blows through the front door of the spa a minute later, his loud entrance shattering the tranquility. There are two massage therapists in back with clients, but he doesn’t seem to care.

Even with his pale face pinched and sneering, he still gives me the usual lecherous once over, his gaze lingering on my breasts, before launching into his tirade. “Who the fuck is that goon outside?” He drops his coffee onto the Carla’s desk and we share a discreet eye roll. “He had the nerve to ask for identification. Outside of my spa!”

“So…” I cough a little. “Did he mention why he’s there?”

“No. He told me to mind my own goddamn business. After interrogating me about mine!” Randall paces. “I should call the cops.”

“Maybe he is the cops?” Carla suggests. “Undercover or something?”

I send Carla a grateful look. She’s good people.

Randall snorts. “Cops don’t usually have neck tattoos.” He rubs at his jaw, reining himself in with a dramatic sigh. “How is business today?”

“Great.” Carla flips through the book. “I’ve made several bookings.”

“I’m just waiting for my last client,” I add, with a bright smile, rising from my chair and heading for the back hallway. “I’m going to go set up.”

Randall leans a little too close as I pass, his tongue snaking out to wet his fleshy lower lip. “Need some help?”

Voluntarily put myself in a dark room with this dickhead? Not a chance. “No, thank you. I’m fine on my own.”

After his encounter with my bodyguard, Randall must feel the need to recapture the upper hand, because he doesn’t take the hint. Instead he follows me down the hallway, far too closely for comfort. I speed up, intending to slam the door of my massage room in his face and lock it, but before I reach the entrance, his hand slides into my right back pocket and squeezes my butt cheek.

Indignation crowding in my throat, I turn on a dime, fists balled at my sides. “What are you doing, Randall?”

To my horror, he’s holding my check from Walker. It’s pinched between his thumb and forefinger, confusion blanketing his features. “What’s this?” Before I can grab the check, he unfolds it, eyes gaping. “Holy shit. A hundred thousand dollars? Where the hell…who the hell?”

Again, I reach for the check, but he evades my grasp. “Give it back.”

Disgust slowly replaces his confusion. “Walker McManus?” He waves the piece of paper between us. “Have you been using my spa to whore yourself out to the fucking mob?”

“What?” I laugh at the ludicrousness of that question. “Of course I haven’t.”