“Interesting?” Yosh asks as he walks back in, folding the collar of his Arcadia shirt. He pauses in front of the mirror to clip his wet hair back.
“What the hell is a trigger point?”
Yosh places his hand on my shoulder. Instantly, a sharp pain shoots through my entire body. I leap to my feet, swearing colorfully in my thickest Aberdeen accent.
Yosh bursts into laughter.
“That’s a trigger point,” he says through his chuckles. “You’ve got plenty of them.”
“How do you know?” I ask, rubbing my shoulder with suspicion.
He gives me a look that says he’s enjoying this a bit too much.
“I can tell by your posture. The way you walk. The way you lift your arms. The curve of your back. The position of your shoulders, your hips, your knees, how your feet are aligned…”
I lose it from there, he keeps talking and talking with a caffeine-level intensity.
“What do you say we tackle some of those trigger points today?” His thumb points at the treatment table.
Yesyesyes.
“Only if you think it’ll benefit me.”
“Oh, I think it will.”
The playful undertone in his voice tells me he knows something I don’t. Which, of course, only fuels the urge to do something stupid enough to drive him insane.
Apparently, that’s my primal way of flirting.
Let’s see what he comes up with. I can always improvise.
“Lie down on the table and take your shirt off.” The usual softness in his therapist-voice is nowhere to be found. My eyes dart around, not really sure where to focus, but then I decide to play along.
“Yes, Doctor,” I purr, giving him the sluttiest version of that word I can manage.
Face down, staring at the floor through the hole in the table, I hear his footsteps getting closer.
The cap of a bottle snaps open, followed by the slick sound of him rubbing oil between his palms. The nutty hint of almond fills my nose.
A breath leaves me when those warm hands land on my back, sliding up in one long motion from my spine to my neck, probably taking in the mess he’s working with.
Shoulders, ribs, down along my spine to the dip of my lower back.
The pressure builds as his thumbs dig into a tight strip of muscle between my shoulder blades.
I flinch, even though I’m trying my best not to. He feels it and pauses.
“Sore?”
“A bit. Yesterday’s demolition work wasn’t exactly ergonomic.”
“I figured.” His palms glide over my back before his thumbs take over at my neck.
“That’s why you deserve this little treat. What happened to your shins, by the way? You’ve got a couple of nasty bruises there.”
“The pool stairs,” I say quickly. Too quickly. “Stupid me.”
It’s believable. Pool stairs are basically designed to take chunks out of you.
