Barefoot Bay: When You Touch Me (Kindle Worlds Novella) (3 page)

Sam pulled up a contact on his cell phone, pressed the dial icon and waited for the call to connect. He paced back and forth in the bedroom, unconcerned he was buck naked. The villa was secluded and private, and none of the staff would enter without knocking first. He hoped. Since his discharge from the Army he had returned to his old habit of sleeping in the raw.

Sliding naked between the expensive cotton sheets on the villa’s bed was damn close to orgasmic, and he harbored high hopes of sliding between them with a woman by his side. He wasn’t going to change for the sake of some fancy-ass resort. As he neared the French doors leading to the pool deck, he briefly considered putting on a pair of shorts, then nixed the idea. If someone hadn’t seen a naked man before, he would gladly introduce them to the male form.

After four rings the answering machine picked up and his mother’s voice began the familiar greeting.

You’ve reached the Hartman residence. Your call is important to us. Leave a message and we’ll call you back.

“Drew.” Sam spoke loudly into the phone after the beep. “If you’re there, pick up.”

Then he waited, knowing Drew was probably still asleep after a late night of partying. Just as he was ready to hang up, Sam heard a click and then his brother’s groggy voice.

“Hey Sam. What’s up? And why are you calling from some place called Casa Blanca?”

“It’s a long story that would bore the shit out of you.” His family knew about the bombing and his injuries. He had called them from the military hospital in Landstuhl, Germany, as soon as he was able. Once he and Trip had been stabilized in Kandahar, they had both been evacuated to Germany for specialized treatment. His family knew about his concussion, the shoulder injury, the burns on his back and the shrapnel that had struck perilously close to his left eye.

What he hadn’t told them was that only he and Trip Granger had survived. His parents had worried enough when he had been deployed to the Middle East. No use adding to the worry. He would heal. He’d be good as new after a while.

Now his little brother was being sent to the same sandy hellhole, and Stanley and Jean Hartman’s trip down Worry Lane would begin all over again.

Sam and his brother had chosen the Army as a path to a college education without smothering themselves or their parents in student loans. Secretaries and landscape contractors didn’t make six-figure incomes. Sam and Drew had never lacked for the essentials or even some of the non-essentials, but neither had wanted to burden their parents with college expenses.

Army and then college. That had been Sam’s plan. He would learn a skill, come back home, go to college to expand on that knowledge and get a job that paid well. But Sam’s plan careened off course somewhere, and he made the decision to become a career Army man. The bombing had derailed that plan, and he had been medically retired against his will. Twelve years of planning had swirled down the drain. Now he was trying to figure out Plan B. College was still an option for him, but it added another level of frustration to his already frustration-filled life.

“When do you ship out?” he asked Drew.

“Three weeks,” Drew replied. “Mom’s not real excited about it, especially after what happened to you. But she’s holding it together pretty good.”

Drew had twelve months to go until he mustered out, and every day Sam prayed his brother stayed out of harm’s way. As injuries went, Sam had been lucky. His limbs were all intact and his vision and hearing were still good. The shrapnel wound by his left eyebrow had healed leaving only a faint scar thanks to some skilled suturing by one of the field doctors. He had endured months of painful physical therapy for a badly torn left rotator cuff, but he still had somewhat limited range of motion. Further therapy should remedy that, and maybe this massage stuff would help, too.

The injury that bothered him most was the scarring from deep second degree burns across his upper back. The area was sensitive to the sun – another reason he wasn’t happy about being at the beach – and the skin was still tight, which added to movement issues with his right shoulder. Maybe this massage therapist could relieve some of the tightness there, too. He would just grit his teeth and bear the discomfort. Hadn’t he done his share of that already? The tattoo he had been so proud of – a small eagle on his left upper back with the inscription
Don’t Give Up Until You’ve Truly Tried
stretching across to the other side – had been partially obliterated by the scars. The ink, which had once been a symbol of his strength was now a reminder of his weakness.

“I’ll be back home before you leave, so I’ll help you deal with Mom. You’ll be fine over there. Just be careful. And pay attention,” he advised his brother. “Always pay attention.” His hand clenched and unclenched at his side.

“I will,” Drew assured him. “But enough of the pep talk. Tell me about this Casa Blanca place you’re at. Is it nice?”

Nice? After twelve years of Army barracks?

“Man, it’s way, way beyond nice. It’s downright fancy-ass. It’s decorated like some exotic country, and the villa I’m in—”

“Villa? You’re staying in a villa? Like that movie mom loves so much where the lady buys a house in Italy?”

“Even fancier. Way fancier. You wouldn’t believe the money people throw around here. I saw two Rolls Royces in the parking lot today. I have my own private pool, two bedrooms and a living room. And the tub is big enough to snorkel in. The food I’ve had so far has been better than anything I have ever eaten.” Sam took a breath. “But don’t tell Mom I said that. You know how we’re always bragging about her cooking.”

“Best cook in Madison County, North Carolina. Cross my heart, Sam. I won’t say a word. How is the beach?”

Sam shook his head. Damned sandy, that’s how it was. But why let his sour opinion make him sound ungrateful? As Julia had pointed out…. No…Jillian. That was her name. She had reminded him that someone was laying out a lot of money for him to be here.

“Gorgeous beach,” he said, which wasn’t really a lie. “Palm trees and little tiki hut things where you can get out of the sun. All I have to do is wave my hand and I have a fresh drink right away.”

“Oh man, it sounds like paradise. You’re one lucky bastard, you know that?”

Lucky? Hell no. He had been in the wrong place at the wrong time.

“Sam.” Drew’s voice grew solemn. “I didn’t mean it was lucky you—”

“I know what you mean. This is a great place to spend a week and a half before I return to the real world.”

Sam wasn’t quite sure yet what that real world was.

“Spotted any hot women yet?”

Sam laughed. “I just got here. Even I need time to scope out the prospects. But so far a lot of them have either been attached, or they’re employees and they’re off limits.”

“And since when has that ever stopped the Hart Throb?”

Yeah, when?

“Ah, little brother, you give me too much credit. And do you know how much I hate that nickname?”

“Of course I do. Why do you think I use it?”

The brothers chatted a little longer, and Sam promised to post some photos of the resort online. After ending the call, he put on swim trunks and a t-shirt, grabbed a granola bar from the kitchen and headed to a shaded spot on the beach with a spy thriller he had bought in the airport.

It was really too hot to wear the shirt. But aside from the scars on his back being sensitive to sunlight, they alarmed most people. And when they learned he had been injured in Afghanistan, they gave him the pity stare. They shouldn’t pity him. They should hate him because he hadn’t been able to save everyone in that Humvee.

* * *

When Sam Hartman hadn’t shown up at the spa by ten o’clock, Jillian began the hunt for him. She had been very clear about their schedule. She had asked the receptionist to call his room, but there was no answer. So she wondered if the man was serious about his claim to spend his time getting drunk and getting laid.

She found him stretched out on a lounge chair under a thatched palapa, a fruity-looking drink in one hand and a paperback book in the other. Though his eyes were hidden behind a pair of Ray Bans, she could tell he scanned the surrounding area at regular intervals. The lift of his chin. The almost imperceptible side-to-side movement of his head. Those actions indicated more than general curiosity over who might be sitting on the beach.

Mrs. Granger had mentioned the same behavior in her son, who had an official diagnosis of PTSD. Perhaps Sam Hartman did too, but she had no concrete proof of it, and she wasn’t a psychologist. She had chosen modalities to address PTSD as well as his shoulder and scars. They couldn’t cause any harm if he didn’t have the disorder.

She watched as he sucked the last of the drink through the straw and motioned to a server for another. Jillian shook her head ruefully. He had started drinking early. At this rate he would be sloshed by noon. Had he found a willing woman, too? Jillian really didn’t want to know. She only wanted to get him to the spa so she could prove to Jocelyn that hiring her hadn’t been a mistake. Grasping his client folder to her chest, she marched across the sand to confront him.

“Mr. Hartman,” she said with authority. “We had a nine o’clock appointment at the spa. I’m sure there’s some compelling reason you didn’t keep it and decided to lounge on the beach instead?” Her gaze zeroed in on the drink in his hand.

“It’s a fruit juice slushy,” he said. “You can ask the bartender if you don’t believe me. It’s a particularly tasty combination of pineapple and orange juice with some banana and grenadine. He calls it a Barefoot Blush. You really should try it sometime. It’s a great way to chill out.”

He had placed emphasis on the last two words, and Jillian understood they were a dig at her. Taking her job seriously did not mean she needed to chill out.

“Maybe after we’ve finished today’s sessions. And speaking of which, while we’re both here, why don’t I go over the treatment plan I’ve developed? Then we can head to the spa to get started.” Jillian wanted to accomplish something with him before noon.

He shrugged dismissively. “If we have to.”

“Mrs. Granger—”

“Yeah,” he said and released a loud sigh. “She’s paying for all this.”

Jillian sat on the edge of an adjacent lounge chair and spread the folder across her lap. “She said you’d had rotator cuff surgery and physical therapy. I’d like to do a combination of Swedish and deep tissue massage to relax the muscles, work out any knots and hopefully help with your range of motion. I’m not a physical therapist, so I can only do so much. But if you continue any exercises they taught you in PT, there’s no reason you can’t regain full motion in that joint.”

The server returned with his fresh drink, and Sam took a loud slurp. Jillian knew he was deliberately annoying her, and had he not been a client, she’d have slapped the smug look right off his face. She doubted, though, it would have made any difference in his attitude.

“I understand you have some scarring on your upper back, too,” she continued. “Massage can help with that as well. I have a special oil I’ll use to try and loosen the scar tissue and tightness. I’d also like to do some hot stone massage combined with aromatherapy for overall relaxation. And we can do aquatic massage since you’ll be basically weightless in the water and I can manipulate joints with less discomfort to you.”

He said nothing, the silence broken only by the sound of him sucking on the straw.

“Does that sound good to you, Mr. Hartman?”

“Call me Sam,” he said. “Please. And you’re the boss, so whatever you decide is okay with me.”

“Okay then, Sam.” She emphasized his name. “I can work around that. One other therapy I’d like to try is Reiki.”

“Raking? What the fuck is that?”

She bit her bottom lip so she could keep a straight face. “Mr. uh, Sam, could you please watch your language? We have guests and staff with children.”

“Then what the
heck
is raking?”

“It’s not raking. It’s Reiki. Like
ray
of sunshine and a car
key
. Reiki.” She enunciated carefully. “It’s an energy-based healing method where I channel energy into your body by means of touch. The energy stimulates your body’s natural healing process and can bring about both physical and emotional well-being.”

He slid his sunglasses atop his head and cocked his head. One dark eyebrow raised slowly.

“I don’t do voodoo, but whatever floats your boat, Jilly-Bean.”

The nickname rankled. Was he deliberately being obnoxious? “I don’t do voodoo, either,” she replied, keeping her voice level. “Reiki is a medically recognized alternative and complementary therapy used at military hospitals to treat….” Jillian let her voice trail off. Damn. She hadn’t wanted to mention PTSD. Not yet, anyway.

“Treat what?”

She broke eye contact, and a sense of dread took hold and refused to let go. “Anxiety. Sleep problems. PTSD.” She lowered her voice for the last part.

Sam’s lips flattened into a thin line. He bolted upright and flipped the sunglasses back over his eyes.

“I don’t have PTSD. I can’t sleep because my damn shoulder hurts most of the time. I might be anxious because I can’t do what I normally do and that frustrates the hell out of me. And I’m sick to damn death of….” He reached down, grabbed a handful of sand and let it sift through his fingers. “This shit. It reminds me of…. Never mind.” He flopped back in the lounge chair with a thump.