Page 12 of Tower
I gesture back toward the bed, my face heating up. “Sex.”
He makes an odd, breathy sound. His shoulders shake a couple of times before he leans over to take off his shoes and socks. “You know I’m not your age, right? And I’ve been on the road nine hours today. How much energy do you imagine I’ve got right now for fuckin’?”
“Is it already that late? Is it time for dinner?”
He rubs his bare feet against the old carpet. “Got another hour or so.”
I’m understanding now. He’s up here to rest until dinner.
Perfectly reasonable. “Oh, okay. I won’t bother you then. Should I go down to help with the food?”
“No. You already worked more than enough for the day.”
“What do you mean?”
“Your idea was a good one. Don’t know how long it’ll last, but the guys are actin’ like I stormed a castle single-handed. Think it’d be better if you’re seen as special. You won’t get no regular work duties. You can just do stuff for me—like you did at breakfast. You can help out extra sometimes if you want, but you’re basically queen now, so they need to treat you like that.”
I’m flushing hotter than ever. I swallow over a tension in my throat. “Oh. Okay. I don’t feel special.”
He snorts. “Tell me about it.”
I’m not positive, but I think he’s referring to himself and not to me with that last comment. He doesn’t feel special any more than I do.
But these are our roles now, so we have to live them out.
He’s still rubbing his feet against the carpet, and I realize it’s because his feet must be sore. “Do you want me to give you a foot rub?”
His eyes pop open all the way. “What?”
“A foot rub. It looks like your feet are sore or something. You just told me my only responsibility is to do stuff for you. I can give you a foot rub.” I gulp, already regretting the spontaneous suggestion. “If you want.”
“Can’t promise they’re gonna smell too good. Been a long day.”
“I’ll hold my breath.” I keep my tone dry so he knows I’m not serious. I get up to grab some lotion I brought with me since that will make it easier to rub his feet and potentially help with any smell. While I’m back at the old sink counter, I also wet down a thin hand towel with the pitcher of water someone brought up this morning.
I’m ridiculously nervous and wishing I hadn’t volunteered when I walk over and kneel on the floor near his feet. He watches me through half-closed lids as I use the wet towel on both his feet to clean them. They do, in fact, smell like feet, but they’re not that bad. His toenails are clean and trimmed, and he obviously takes care of basic hygiene.
When I’ve cleaned them, I squirt lotion on my hands and start with his left foot.
I’m not any sort of expert at massage, but the basic strategy is simple. I move from the ball of his foot to the arch and then the heel and ankle, kneading and pulling and searching for knots.
After the first minute, he closes his eyes and relaxes his head back again. His breathing slows down. His body relaxes. I’vemoved back up the foot to the toes, paying attention to each one, when he breathes out, “Shit, that’s good.”
I really don’t know what’s wrong with me. What’s happened to me? I’m hit with another one of those surges of embarrassing pride. Pleasure.
By the time I’ve worked halfway down his second foot, he’s asleep. I continue until I’ve massaged the whole foot, and then I gently set it back down, collecting the lotion and hand towel and his dirty socks.
I find clean socks in a drawer and set them next to his shoes. Then I go to the old vanity area of the motel room—where the useless sink is still positioned—and stare at myself in the mirror.
I look generally pretty with rumpled hair, pink cheeks, and wide blue eyes. But there’s something about my appearance or my expression that I hardly recognize. Like I’m looking at a stranger.
Who just massaged the king’s feet.
5
I wakeLevi up an hour later after hesitating for fifteen minutes because I’m torn between worry about waking him up unnecessarily and worry about letting him sleep through dinner.
To my relief, he wakes up easily and isn’t angry or even unusually grumpy. He shakes himself off, saying he’s surprised he slept so long and that we better get down to dinner.
