Hotel Indigo by Aubrey Parker Page B

me further. Colleen is a pretty woman, but seeing her after Lucy only lowers my flag.  
    “You’re sprightly this morning,” she says, no doubt referring to my hard-on.  
    “Good morning, Ms. Blackwood.”  
    “You should really call me Colleen. After all, you have seen me naked.” She says this like an obvious joke, but it isn’t. The dance Colleen and I have done in the two times I’ve seen her should embarrass us both. She came here to be fondled by me while pretending she wanted therapy, and I pretended to dispense pure therapy and not notice her arousal. But I know what she wants, and she knows I know. The fact that she keeps booking and I don’t refuse her appointments tells her everything.  
    “Anything in particular bothering you today … Colleen?” I ask, even though I just saw her yesterday. I should remember. She’s got a pectoral sprain, meaning I need to work her chest. She has sciatica, meaning I need to work her ass. And I’ll bet she’s still got that sprained muscle right near her pussy. So many of my clients have that.  
    “Let’s just start and we’ll see what lights up,” she says.  
    “Sure.”  
    “Just relax me. I’m so tense.”  
    “You must be.”  
    “Why?”  
    I shouldn’t have said that. It was a loaded remark, and it comes from the frustration I’m feeling so intensely now. Some of that frustration is in my brain, manifesting as resentment over anything I’ll do in the hour and a half I’ll need to endure before noon, but most of it is in the region of my dick. I don’t know if Lucy will show, but if she does, I’ve got all the permission I need. The thought is trouble, but I’m savoring it anyway.  
    “You just seem wound up.” I want to say, Because of the hard life you have lying around on your ass in your piles of money, but I keep that truth behind my lips.
    “I sure am. So much going on.”  
    I sort of want to hurt her again. I’ve seen Colleen around during the past few days and the woman has absolutely nothing happening. And although this is the first visit in which she’s booked one of my massages, I happen to know she’s at Hotel Indigo at least once a quarter. She stays in one of the high-end suites and is always a little (or a lot) tipsy. She has a reputation for partying in town as well — sufficient that if she died today, her epitaph would read, Local socialite. Always drunk.
    She’s on her back, but instead of closing her eyes and sinking into the sensations, Colleen has her eyes open so she can stare at my arms and chest. She also keeps trying to shift so the sheet exposes her chest, but so far I’ve succeeded in wrestling it back into place without being too obvious.  
    “I’ve got this pain right here.” She raises a hand to indicate her tit.  
    I pretend I don’t hear. I’m on her shoulder, moving down her arm. I get to her hand, work my fingers into the heel of her palm, and tug gently on her fingers. I pause at her wedding ring.  
    “What does your husband do?”
    Colleen looks at me. I don’t normally initiate conversation, usually only replying when required.  
    “Something in an office,” she answers. I can tell this takes visible effort, like I’m forcing her mind to a place it would rather not go. As if she was meditating and I started speaking of war.  
    “What kind of office?”  
    “The kind where he goes in at seven and comes back at eight.”  
    “So a high-demand job.”  
    “Or he’s fucking secretaries.”  
    I don’t respond.  
    After an awkward beat, Colleen says, “Oh, who am I kidding? He’s too ugly for the secretaries to want him.”
    Eventually I say, “But he must make good money. Must be a high-powered kind of guy.”  
    “That’s what he tells me.”  
    “You don’t know?”  
    She sighs. “Oh, I don’t care. Let’s not talk about him.”  
    “Okay. Sure.”  
    “Let’s talk about you.”  
    Ugh. I don’t want to talk about me. We did that yesterday.