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He shrugged his shoulders around and groaned. “Just take care of all of this, and I’ll be a happy guy.”
Constance smiled. “I can do that. Get undressed to your comfort level. We’ll start faceup so I can release your pecs before we check your back, and we’ll go from there.”
More often than not, Constance started her massages facedown, simply because it sent a relaxing, silent message that it was time to turn everything off and put all their cares, worries and pains in her hands, at least for the next hour. Other than checking in with her client about table temperature and pressure level, Constance kept quiet unless the client spoke first. Most clients were happy to be quiet and melt into the experience, even if they were receiving deep tissue work, but once in a while she got a chatty one.
Women tended to talk more than men during massage, and tough guys like Callahan were more silent than most, as a rule. They didn’t like small talk and tried to hide their pain, even if Constance could clearly see them bracing or controlling their breathing.
Constance’s hands hovered over Sean Callahan before she touched him. As before, he was warm, fizzy and edgy, but something had changed significantly. Perhaps his finally saying no to his ex had done the trick. Whatever it was had not changed who he was, but had softened him, making him more malleable—possibly more vulnerable.
“By the way, thanks for helping Santos,” Sean said, almost immediately upon Constance’s first pass over his left pectoral.
Constance hesitated. She hadn’t expected Sean to be a chatty one. “I was happy to.”
“I think he needs you again. Just when he was starting to seem more centered, he’s looking more ragged every week.” Sean breathed a deep sigh as his tight pectorals released, one after the other, with Constance’s pressure.
“I haven’t seen him much,” Constance said. “I think he’s busy with work and...Katrina?” Her tone went bitter over the name, which always reminded her of the devastating Category 5 hurricane from 2005.
“Oh.” Sean made a groaning sound. “Her.”
“You don’t like her?” Constance felt guilty at her wave of amusement. She settled on her stool and slipped her hands around Sean’s side, to work out his boxer’s muscles.
“I don’t like her for Rhett,” Sean said, then went quiet. Just as she rolled her stool over to his other side, his voice came softly through the dark. “Closest I can figure, he dates her exactly because she’s a stuck-up, self-centered bitch. Which means she can’t get close to him. She’s safe.”
Constance applied a little oil to her hands and rubbed them together. She considered Rhett’s energy, which was large and open and susceptible, and Katrina’s, which had a greedy, selfish pull. If Rhett let her inside, she’d drain him. The thing was, Katrina did not seem the type to want to get too deep. She’d happily feed on the crumbs that came easiest. Like a bottom-feeder.
“I’ve known Rhett a long time,” Sean said, his voice low and careful. “Since Seven November in 2004—when we started ground operations in Fallujah.”
Constance’s hands slowed their work. She got a mixed feeling that was equal parts sinking and rising. “I didn’t realize Rhett was in the service that long.”
“Right out of college. He’s done at least four tours. Maybe five. I got out after Fallujah.” Sean was quiet awhile longer. Constance was just about to tell him to flip over when he added, “That was bloody. Really bloody. And ugly. We’re talking IEDs. Booby traps. Spider holes. That’s where Santos got shot. You seen it?”
Spider holes.
“Yeah, I’ve seen it.” Constance remembered the scars on Rhett’s left side, particularly the round one that resembled a bullet wound.
“His last tour was no picnic, either,” Sean said. “There’s a guy I work with who was in Makhmur with Santos. That’s where he hurt his leg.”
“He mentioned that. He got hit in the leg but a couple of his men got hit worse and didn’t make it.”
“Ah,” Sean said, the word more of a grunt than an agreement. “Way I heard it, Santos got hit in the leg because he went back out to drag one of his men into cover.”
“He didn’t tell me that.”
“He wouldn’t.”
Constance let some silence pass. It wasn’t lost on her that Sean’s willingness to talk about one of his closest buddies—a brother no less—was significant. Detective Callahan trusted her.
“Roll over, Sean. And once your face is in the cradle, I want you to be quiet and relax. This is your time to let go. Can you do that for me?” Constance considered herself a strong person, but she was no magician. She needed Sean to be quiet now and accept her help.
He sighed and settled into the face cradle with a satisfied grunt. “Yes, ma’am.”
Sean kept his word and didn’t speak after that. The music filled the room and gave Constance a mood to anchor to as she concentrated on Sean’s wrecked back and hips. He had a lot of ink, a few scars and one hip well higher than the other. Constance commented on none. She worked the muscles, fixed the hip and stretched and smoothed everything out as his words sunk into the back of her mind. Here she’d been judging Rhett for choosing to be with a woman like Katrina when, really, she was no one to judge. Katrina, when you put the pieces of the puzzle together, made a whole hell of a lot of sense.
By the time she was done, Sean was asleep. She found her stool and moved up toward his head. Constance sank her fingers in his hair and gave him a scalp massage for about ten minutes, which didn’t rouse him in the slightest. She rested her hands on his shoulders and did her box breathing until she felt him stir. Only then did she rise and remove the bolster from beneath Sean’s ankles.
He groaned and lifted his head. “Did I nod off?”
“Just a little.” Constance rarely told clients if they fell asleep. Even though her job was to get them into “rest and digest,” most were embarrassed over the prospect of sleeping while being massaged. To Constance, it was the seal of approval that she’d done her job. “I’ll step out while you dress. Take your time.”
