Angel's Touch (11 page)

“What if they say they want manicures?” A hint of a smile twitched around the corners of Megan’s mouth.

Good. She didn’t look guilt-ridden anymore. Kira smiled back at her, mesmerized by the way Megan’s amusement played out on her face. A powerful, invisible force pushed at her between her shoulder blades, urging her closer.

“They won’t.”

Megan rewarded her with a bark of laughter that she quickly bit back, the tip of her tongue slipping between her lips, wet and pink and immediately gone, back under control.

God.

“Any suggestions for where I should do my survey?”

“How about Avalanche? I’m supposed to work there Friday night, subbing for a friend. Giving mini-massages,” Megan explained. “You could ask the women who show up.”

“Okay, sure. That sounds like a good idea.”

So Megan wasn’t afraid to go to a nightclub with her. A
gay
nightclub. This was…interesting. Kira sank into her wheeled office chair, suddenly dizzy. Of course, she wasn’t going
with
her. This was a work-related outing.

What else did she expect?

Piper Beach had the Sand Bar, a hole-in-the-wall women’s bar not far from the boardwalk, and it had Avalanche, built in a converted warehouse, where men outnumbered women five-to-one. That was five too many for Kira’s taste, but it had good music. She could hear the beat from halfway down the street.

At the propped-open door, Megan introduced herself to the bouncer as Dara-the-massage-therapist’s replacement for the evening, and he waved them both inside through a flurry of soap bubbles that spewed from a nearby bubble machine and into the club, where hundreds of sweaty, dancing bodies glowed under black light and a multicolored light show.

“Where to?” Kira asked.

“I’m not sure. We could stop by the bar first if you want something to drink.”

Megan led the way around the perimeter of the cavernous dance floor toward the bar, visibly flinching when they passed an amplifier.

Kira found an unoccupied spot at the bar. “Do you want anything?”

“Not right now, thanks.”

Kira ordered a beer. While they waited, a swishy shirtless college boy squeezed in next to her and thrust a few moist dollar bills at the bartender. Kira drew Megan close to keep her out of range of his flying sweat, but Megan swatted at her and she let go.

Now there was an ego boost.

But wait—there was an added bonus. A friend of hers was standing a few feet away and had witnessed the whole thing. Kira grimaced.

She’d met Shayna Denning a year ago when she was living nearby in Rehoboth, struggling to keep her failing restaurant afloat, and Shayna had immediately adopted her into her wide circle of friends.

Shayna walked over and saluted her with her beer. “You always did have a way with the ladies, Kira.” It was clear from the way she grinned back and forth at the two of them that she thought they made an adorable couple. “Who’s your friend?”

“Megan McLaren, Shayna Denning,” Kira introduced them with a vague gesture. Shayna was being way too obvious as she checked Megan out and no doubt committed the details to memory. Kira gritted her teeth, even though she suspected Shayna’s only interest in Megan was in providing a full report to their other friends. They were counting on her.

“Someone who can put up with the great Kira,” Shayna shouted over the music, moving closer and holding out her hand.

Megan accepted the handshake. Shayna held it longer than necessary. She always did shit like that, trying to push her.

“Go away, Shayna.”

Shayna nodded knowingly, refusing to acknowledge Kira’s hostility. She turned back to Megan. “You’ve got your hands full, girl. So what do you do for a living? Lion tamer?”

“Massage therapist.”

“No kidding.” Shayna immediately dropped her joking. “Can you do anything about my back?” She reached her arms behind her head and twisted around to show her. “It hurts right here when I look over my shoulder to back the car out of the driveway.”

Kira had never seen Shayna look so serious—it was like witnessing a doctor’s appointment. She had been bracing herself, expecting Shayna to say something offensive, and instead…this.

“When you look right or left?” Megan asked, immediately all concern.

“Left. Like this.” Shayna demonstrated.

Megan mimicked the movement and touched her spine like she was feeling something in her own body to help her identify the problem. She pulled Shayna farther from the bar to an area that was less crowded so she could knead her shoulders, then the back of her neck.

Shayna’s eyes were half-closed and she looked like she might groan with pleasure at any moment. Amazing how quick people were to con a massage out of Megan.

“You lucky dog, Kira,” Shayna teased.

Kira suppressed the urge to hurt her friend.

It didn’t take long for other people to notice what Megan was doing. A woman in a Piper Beach souvenir T-shirt sidled up to her with a hopeful expression, kind of like a dog whining for a treat.

Kira was not a dog person. She glared at her.

“I’m next,” the woman announced.

“
I’m
next,” protested another woman. She locked the first woman into a deep kiss and used the distraction to angle herself into the front of the line.

“You cut in line,” complained the victim of the kiss, sliding her hands from her attacker’s face.

“You let me in.”

“I did not.”

“You’re drunk, honey.”

“I just remembered why I broke up with you.”

“Looks like my shift just started,” Megan said, continuing to massage Shayna’s neck as more supplicants materialized.

“Aren’t you supposed to officially set up shop somewhere?” Kira asked. For now, people were waiting in a semi-civilized line, but it wouldn’t take much for the situation to turn into a free-for-all.

“Dara said it’s not that organized.” Megan performed some massage maneuver with her elbow, acting completely unconcerned about the potential chaos behind her.

“They’re throwing themselves at you.”

“They’ll settle down.”

Kira wasn’t convinced, but could see she wasn’t needed. And her territorial instincts were getting out of control. She needed to calm down. This was not a date. And she had a job to do, so she might as well get started. She turned to the closest woman in line. “While you’re waiting, would you be interested in filling out a brief survey?”

“Sure.” The woman took Kira’s pen and her one-page questionnaire and commandeered the back of another woman to use as a temporary writing surface.

Kira lined up several more takers and quickly ran out of pens. While she waited for her surveys to be filled out, she chatted with the other women in line, getting their opinions on what they wanted from a spa and what they liked and didn’t like about the hotel they were staying at. She did her best to give them her undivided attention, but part of her brain kept abandoning the job, preferring to keep Megan in her peripheral vision and watch her work.

If this were a date, and not Megan’s job, Kira would have taken her by the hand and dragged her onto the dance floor to lose the fan club. But this was not a date. This was Megan feeling sorry for her and letting her tag along while she worked. This was Kira willing to do anything that involved spending time with her, and then foolishly getting her hopes up. So now she was here handing out surveys while her date—correction, pseudo-date—okay, friend, really—business acquaintance?—was ten feet away with her hands on another woman. Served her right.

***

Megan looked up from yet another set of shoulders and noticed Kira on the far side of the room, leaning against a wall, watching her. When had she taken off, anyway? The last time Megan had glanced over at her, she’d been effortlessly schmoozing her way down the line, coaxing everyone into giving her their heartfelt opinion on spas and God knew what else—their conversations had been getting pretty animated. Megan had stopped watching when she realized that the sight of Kira’s firm backside in well-worn, tight-fitting, blue denim cutoffs made her hands slow to a stop on her clients’ shoulders. Those cutoffs were shorter than anything Megan would dare to wear, and the frayed edge suggested they might inadvertently get even shorter. Kira and her toned legs could get away with it, though. Just thinking about it, Megan’s hands started to slow. She should take up running. It obviously did great things for your ass.

And she was supposed to be working—not daydreaming. Not staring, not wanting…

She pulled her wristwatch from the pocket of her comfy massage pants—she never wore her watch on her wrist when she worked, because it got in the way—and checked whether it was time for her to stop yet. Except she couldn’t remember what time she’d started. The merciless pounding of the music must have scrambled her brain and made her lose track of time. Or maybe it was the daydreaming. And the staring. And the wanting. No problem. It wouldn’t hurt to do a few more people just to be safe. Then she’d figure out a way to get out of here without starting a riot.

She put her hands on the next set of shoulders and suppressed a sigh. Could it be any louder in here? Thank God the state of Delaware didn’t allow smoking indoors in public places anymore or she’d be in serious trouble, because the smell of stale beer and sweat was about all she could handle in the odor department, especially when combined with a noise problem. She could handle it, though. She’d come a long way from the frightened five-year-old whose mother had dragged her to party after party, prying her kid’s fingers off her leg, refusing to admit defeat.

“What do you say, Megan?” her mother would prompt, urging her forward. The sparkly rhinestones on her mother’s skirt dug into Megan’s palms, but she hung on hard, too scared to remember what she was supposed to say to the lady who leaned forward, cooing, bringing the malevolent force of her perfume closer, trapping her in an unwanted hug.

“Say hello. Say ‘Hello, Mrs. Winaker.’”

“Hello, Miss Win,” Megan mumbled, keeping her head down.

The lady released her and beamed. “Aren’t you adorable? And what a very pretty dress you’re wearing.”

“What do you say, Megan?”

Thank you.
Megan knew what she was supposed to say, but no words came out. Except then they did—the wrong words—because curiosity got the best of her. “Why is your baby hiding in there?”

Mrs. Winaker blanched.

“What are you talking about, Megan?” said her mother. “Mrs. Winaker doesn’t have a baby.”

“He’s hiding,” Megan explained, pointing at the lady’s belly. Couldn’t they tell he was in there? She had felt him when the lady hugged her. Definitely a baby. But getting an adult to understand what she meant was never easy.

“I apologize, Ellen. My daughter has an overactive imagination.”

Megan burst into tears at her mother’s disapproval.

“But she’s right, Nancy, I am pregnant,” said Mrs. Winaker. “I…I haven’t told anyone yet. I didn’t think I was showing. How could she possibly know such a thing?”

Good question. How could she touch Mrs. Winaker’s flat stomach and know she was pregnant? How could she sense her ten o’clock appointment had cancer? How could she feel sex and drunkenness bombarding her from all over the crowded club? Megan shut her eyes against the incessant flash of colored lights and dug her thumbs into her client’s levator scapulae. Not much had changed since she was little enough to hide behind her mother’s legs.

Her gaze darted across the room and instinctively found Kira. There was no way Kira could tell, from that far away, how she was feeling, but she immediately straightened up at the eye contact and, beer bottle in hand, strode purposefully toward her through the throng of convulsing bodies. Somehow she knew it was time to rescue her.

Kira arrived by her side and leaned close so she wouldn’t have to shout. “Didn’t you say you only had to work an hour?”

“Give or take.” Megan patted her client on the shoulder and sent her on her way.

“It’s been an hour and twenty minutes.”

Megan fingered her wristwatch and pulled it out of her pocket again. “I wasn’t sure. I thought I’d do one more before I quit.”

Kira gave her an assessing look. “You’re tired. You could call it a night right now.”

She
was
tired. Some of these women were in a lot of pain, and the pain had crept into her own body as she touched them. The patchouli somebody reeked of had given her a headache. Too much more of the noise and the smells and the emotional backwash and she might collapse from overload. She was surprised Kira knew her well enough to tell.

Kira draped a protective arm around her shoulders, apparently forgetting that when she’d tried this at the bar an hour ago, Megan had pushed her away. Megan sagged into the support of Kira’s body.

“You did your hour,” Kira said. “Want me to help you clear them out?”

“Thanks, but I can do it myself.”

“I’d be happy to do it for you.”

“I’m fine.” Megan stepped out of the comfort of Kira’s arm.

Kira shifted her stance and slid her hands into her back pockets, her hands moving slowly from hip to rear. That hand on the hip thing looked sexy on her, especially in those cutoffs. So did the hands in the back pockets thing. Megan bit her lip. She must be tired if she was thinking this way.

Kira raised her voice to address the women who were still waiting in line. “Thanks a lot, ladies. We appreciate your business and hope you’ll be back tomorrow night, because we’ll have another fabulous massage therapist here giving free back rubs at—”

Kira looked questioningly at Megan out of the corner of her eye and surreptitiously held up nine fingers. Megan nodded. She shouldn’t let Kira do this, but she didn’t have the energy to stop her, and besides, Kira was doing a great job.

“Nine o’clock to ten. I know you’re going to love her. Her name is—”

“Svetlana Tretyakova Durbridge,” Megan prompted.

“Svetlana Tretya-what?” Kira broke off and muttered at Megan. “Did she have to tack on her husband’s name to that mouthful?”

“Svetlana Tretyakova Durbridge,” Megan announced loudly to the group.