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Anton’s hands strayed to her breasts, the lightest touch causing her nipples to harden.
“I’ve seen enough. You can get dressed now. Lindsay will call you in a few days if we are interested in you.”
“Yes, Sir.”
He opened the door and disappeared into the depths of the spa.
What had just happened? She wanted to run after him and ask if she’d done something wrong. But she knew the problem. Anton was repulsed by the scars.
She hurriedly dressed, grabbed her bag, and slipped out of the building. It had already started to get dark, and she was grateful not to have the garish bright sun shining down on her to illuminate her shame.
Mina sat behind the wheel of her car in stunned silence until the cold air seeped in through the edges of the windows.
She felt used. Of course they weren’t going to call her. Anton had probably taken one look at the wreck that was her back and decided that her face couldn’t make up for it, that there was nothing she could do to impress or please enough to erase it.
When she reached her apartment, she poured a glass of wine and went straight to her room and stripped. She held the glass in one hand and a cigarette in the other as she craned to study her reflection in the full-length mirror. She’d tried to pretend it wasn’t that bad. But itwasthat bad—even in the low lighting she kept in her room to minimize it. What had it been like in the bright light she’d been subjected to with Anton?
Even without the dreams and panic attacks, it wouldn’t have worked with Tony because eventually he would have seen them. And how could she explain? Only a sadist could love those scars, and a sadist would only add to them.
Mina brushed away a tear. She hadn’t realized she’d started crying again. Maybe she should lay off the wine. It made her more self-pitying.
It felt as if the Russian’s hand lingered between her legs, those brief caresses that made her believe for the smallest second that something good could happen to her… a gentle dominance that wouldn’t turn to violence. She’d expected something more would happen. She’d found herself oddly hoping for it, praying she could handle it and finally find what she’d been searching for. But they didn’t want her.
She’d gone for the interview, and now it was over. She’d find another therapist and move on.
* * *
Mina nearly broke her neck getting out of the shower to answer the phone. Dr. Smith’s number flashed on her screen.
“You missed your appointment, Monday. Are you sick?”
“No, I’m fine,” she said.
“Why weren’t you here?”
The way he said it made her feel as if she’d done something horrifically wrong, something that called for punishment. The latter thought made her cringe.
“I just thought that under the circumstances, maybe I should find another doctor.”
There was a long silence on the other end of the phone. “What circumstances would those be? I’m confused.” He didn’t sound confused.
Now it was her turn to be silent because she couldn’t give voice to the rejection.
“By the way,” he said, “Anton and I finally had a chance to speak. I was going to tell you yesterday, but you decided not to show up. I considered not contacting you at all, but I’ve had time to calm down. Meet me at the office.”
“Now?” she squeaked.
“No, next year. Of course, now. Right now. I expect you sitting across from me in thirty minutes or I will be extremely disappointed.”
“B-but it’s eleven at night.” She’d been about ready to put on her pajamas and eat some cookie dough ice cream. These were big plans for a Thursday night.
“Thirty minutes.”
The line went dead. She stared at the phone wondering what would happen if she didn’t show up. He had her address in his files. Would he send goons to her apartment? Would he come himself? Was he feeling antsy that she might talk to the cops about him?
She still wasn’t sure what she could say even if she wanted to report him. What was she reporting him for, exactly? He’d been just vague enough that anything she said was going to sound stupid. They’d probably laugh her out of the station or charge her with something for wasting their time. She could report Anton, but for what? She hadn’t paid him. Weren’t massage therapists allowed to have consensual sexual interactions with people who weren’t paying them? Like everybody else? Besides, nothing of note had happened.
What if they’d rejected her but now the doctor felt skittish about what little non-information she had about his vague but possibly illegal activities?
