Tom McKenna’s treatment plan had been driving me insane. My perfectionism had been eating me alive, deleting draft after draft because I couldn’t stop overthinking every tiny detail. Not even my morning run could clear my head.
So on my way back to Arcadia, I’d stopped by Deep Diver’s place to blow off some steam.
Deep Diver, with his sun-bleached wavy hair and his Bob Ross-meets-Bob Marley way of living, is very good at not asking questions. We do this a couple of times a week, and he knowsthe drill: no small talk, no life updates, no feelings. Just his hips slamming against my ass until my brain turns to mush.
This morning I’d knocked on his door unannounced. I wasn't sure if he would appreciate my surprise visit, but he’d grabbed me by my sweat-soaked shirt and thrown me into his fuck-hammock. The thing serves as his nap nest and BDSM swing.
It was exactly what I needed to stop overthinking, and I didn’t let him stop railing me until every obsessive thought in my head was shushed.
Deep Diver was gasping like a fish on the beach by the time I’d left his apartment. Needless to say, I had a filthy little smile all the way back to the resort.
My thoughts are interrupted by Anya moving on the table.
“Sorry,” she murmurs, adjusting herself.
“No problem, sweetie. Try to stay as still as possible.”
I place the last of the fine acupuncture needles behind her knees, taking a step back, letting my eyes go over the patterns I’ve created.
Yes. This is it. Balance and perfection.
I guide Anya onto her side and work on a few more pressure points with my jade crystals.
I’m about to remove the first needle when there’s a soft knock at the door. Anya flinches, her eyes darting to mine.
“Relax,” I whisper. “I’ll be right back.”
I step out of my studio and pull the door until it’s almost closed. Erin is waiting with her tablet pressed to her chest.
“Calvin and Tom McKenna just arrived. I’m showing them around, then we’ll do the check-in at the lounge. You coming?”
I rake a hand through my hair and look back at Anya through the opening of the door.
“Give me fifteen minutes.”
I slip back inside. Removing the rest of the needles will take five minutes, tops, which gives me just enough time to makemyself presentable before heading over. First impressions are everything, right? By then, they’ll probably have finished the tour, so it’ll be the perfect moment to make my entrance and meet the man I’ll be guiding one-on-one for the next couple of weeks.
Fifteen minutes later, I step out of my office.
Papers? Check.
Introduction pitch? Check.
I fold my collar.
Shirt without creases? Check.
A few puffs of hairspray so my hair behaves during conversation? Definitely check.
Okay. Time to meet our new guest.
I walk through the meditation garden. When I reach the front desk, I see the bellboys loading a pile of instruments onto a golf cart.
This isn’t the kind of logistical operation we see often around here. I catch glimpses of guitar cases, a mixing panel? There’s also a keyboard, and something smaller. A violin, maybe? Hard to tell with everything packed so neatly and professional. These have to be Tom McKenna’s.
A small smile tugs at my lips as I wave at the bellboys. Music is a way to express emotions, so maybe I can weave it into his treatment plan. Let him play, then ask a couple of questions.
I’m still turning the idea over in my head when I enter the infinity terrace.
