Page 14 of Hard Hitter
“Aw, hell yes,” Castro agreed. “And when she does my feet, I always propose. How many marriage proposals do you think she gets in a week?”
“Let’s see,” Trevi said, grabbing his duffel bag off the sidewalk. “She works six days a week during the high season, six massages a day. So probably thirty.”
“Six times six is thirty-six, moron,” Castro said, shouldering his own bag.
“No kidding?” He gave Castro a playful nudge. “I passed the third grade, too. But not everyone proposes. I wouldn’t do that to Georgia.”
“I propose twice,” Castro said. “Once for each foot.”
“Oh, shut it, will you?” O’Doul hefted his own bag and turned toward the revolving doors.
“Come back in a better mood!” Trevi called after him.
Fat chance.
Ten minutes later he knocked on the door to a hotel room, the number for which had been texted to him by the bots who ran Bruisers’ travel.
A startled-looking Ari opened the door a minute later, her own Katt Phone pressed to her ear. She held up one finger in the universal sign forthis will only take a minute.
He walked past her into the room where her massage table had been set up in the space where a bed should have been. Everything else about the room was standard-issue hotel fare—there was a shiny desk which looked unused, and your typical bathroom. He kicked off his shoes and wondered whether it would be weird if he just stripped off his clothes, or whether it would be weirder if he waited to be told to.
“That’s why I called a locksmith,” Ari said into her phone. “It’s not that complicated. Remove the lock that’s there, and install a different one.” She paused. “Well, the deed isn’t in my name. But last time I used your services I didn’t need it. Could I please speak to the manager? Yes,I’ll hold.” She looked up at him. “You can change in the bathroom if that makes you more comfortable.”
Busted. He went into the little bathroom and closed the door. But he could still hear her conversation. “Please look up my account. I’ve used you for years. The lock on the basement door is... What?Youinstalled it? Seriously?No,I didn’t authorize it!” She was almost shouting. “Helied, okay? Men do that sometimes.”
O’Doul felt like a dick for listening. But the hotel door was thin and he had no place else to go. He removed his clothes—all of them this time—wrapped a towel around his waist and waited for her to finish up.
“Justremovethe lock and give me another one. I didn’t authorize it. And he is no longer a resident at that address.”
A moment later she ended her call, and he counted to thirty and then left the bathroom. Ari had parked her backside against the edge of the massage table and buried her head in her hands. “Everything okay?” he asked stupidly. Clearly it was not.
She looked up fast. “Fine. Thanks.” She spun around and went over to the desk. From a duffel bag she hurriedly drew out a sheet and several bottles of massage oil. But her hands were shaking, and the bottles began to knock into one another and tip. One of them crashed over her wrist and dove toward the floor.
He lunged forward to catch it, and he did. But his towel fell to the floor. “Shit.”
She laughed suddenly, and the low, smoky sound of it seemed to brush across his bare skin. He grabbed the towel off the floor.Hell. Surely Ari had seen his ass before—she was in and out of the locker room on game night. But he felt like a bumbler.
“Sorry,” she breathed. “But that was excellent comedy, and I needed a laugh right now.”
He adjusted his towel. “Thank you very much, I’ll be here all week.”
Ari smiled, but she still looked a little strung out. Shestacked the last bottle onto the desk beside the others. “Just let me put a sheet down on the table.” She grabbed the linens and shook out the sheet, her slim arms extending like a dancer’s. She flung one end toward the head of the table.
Holding his towel more carefully in one hand, he caught the sheet in his other hand and helped her tuck it around the ends.
She gave him a grateful look and smiled again. “Thank you.”
“No problem.”
When she moved past him to pick up her phone off what should have been a bedside table, her long hair brushed his bare shoulder. This was exactly what he didn’t like about getting a massage. It was weirdly intimate.
“Want to pick a playlist?” she asked, wrapping her hair into a ponytail.
“I liked what you played before.” When she looked away to fiddle with a pair of wireless speakers, he got onto the table and spread the towel across his midsection.
“I’m sorry you were scratched from last night’s game. Wasn’t my idea, I promise.”
“Okay.” It hadn’t even occurred to him to blame her. “It happens.”
