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The question is, what am I supposed to do now?
I know what I want – it’s him. Us. But with everything that’s happened, is it already too late?
21
Dash
DING!
A gong rings out, somewhere inches from my head. Or maybe it’s a ceremonial bowl. Either way, the sound is like a klaxon with the hangover I’m nursing. Another late night, another bottle of too-expensive whiskey, wasted on trying to keep my mind off everything that’s happened.
“Now take a deep breath,” my masseuse announces. “Release all the stress in your chakras.”
She digs into my naked back. Hard.
“Oww!” I blurt in surprise.
“You’re carrying a lot of tension in your fifth eye,” she tells me. I sink back onto the table with an annoyed sigh, as music starts to pipe into the room. And is that…?
Enya.
Motherfucking Enya.
“You owe me, man,” I grumble to Austin, who’s face-down on the massage table beside me, getting kneaded and pummeled by another woman. When he asked me along to scope out a new hot spa, research for his own business launch, I figured what the hell. I didn’t expect wind-chimes, crystals, and a masseuse who could double as a dominatrix.
“Right.” Austin snorts. “Because getting a free massage is such a chore. I figured you could use the break,” he adds, “you’ve been wound so tight, you’re getting to be a liability. I thought you were going to start a barroom brawl the other night.”
“They were ordering a shitty import beer,” I grumble. “We’re a classy joint.”
“Yeah, like I said, you’re going to be bad for business if you keep it up.”
I stare at the ten square inches of floor visible through the table cut-out, and wish I could be anywhere but here, someplace hundreds of miles away from the mess that is my life right now. I could do it, too, just pick up, pack a bag, and be gone by tomorrow. Sure, Zelda’s wrath means my trust may be done for good, but it turns out, my canny investments have set me up just fine. I can easily afford a plane ticket, and a first class one at that. So why aren’t I going right now? Racing a yacht around the Caribbean. Rock-climbing out in Colorado. On a beach with the Russian ballet dance corps.
Again.
Except even if I was on the other side of the world, I have a sneaking suspicion my heart would feel just as stomped on.
Because Callie wouldn’t be there.
My torture-mistress digs into my calf again, and I break. I shoot up from the table, grabbing my towel. “Thanks, but I’m all done. Perfectly relaxed,” I blurt, before heading to the dressing room—only to find the spa is a big fan of ice baths.
Dammit.
She’s still screwing everything up for me, I can’t get her out of my head. She’s there when I wake up in the mornings, haunting me with the fact she’s not in my bed. She’s not at the meetings with my business guys, while they tell me about how stubborn she’s being, sticking to her plans to do some good in the world with her company. And she’s sure as hell not just hanging out with me over dinner, telling some wild story, driving me crazy with her infectious smile, and naughty laugh, and incredible, irresistible body…
Yeah, Callie has made it clear by her absence, she’s not a part of my life anymore. Which shouldn’t bother me. Fuck, it was always just an arrangement between us.
So why is this shitty pain in my chest so goddamn real?
Austin saunters in as I’m just pulling my clothes back on. “Well, on the plus side, they’ll never suspect I’m a rival, checking out the competition. No professional would be that rude.”
“I’m sorry,” I sigh. “I’ll tip her.”
“Don’t worry, I covered. Said she unlocked too much trauma in your Achilles Heel.”
“Thanks.”
Austin dresses, and we head out to the healthy juice bar they have up front. “So, what do you think?” he asks, ordering us both smoothies.
