Page 17

Scrolling through my songlist I hit the one that always gets me going, “Edge of Seventeen”. It’s an absolute banger, as I’ve heard Kit’s friends say. The chugging of the guitar starts up and my eyes close as my body sways to the beat. My skirts swish around my legs and whatever bad juju I was carrying around starts to pump its way out of my body. I don't know what it is about this song, but it’s like I’m seventeen year old Willa again. The one that had her whole life ahead of her, freedom and dreams before Diesel rolled into town and promised her freedom but gave her prison instead.

“You always did love this shit.” Diesel's voice cuts through the music, scaring the crap outta me but I try not to show it. He’s like a damn shark. If he smells weakness he’ll go for the throat.

“What the hell do you want?” I growl, mashing my finger on my phone, cutting the music off mid-Stevie wail.

“Is that any way to treat a paying customer?”

My eyes narrow until he’s nothing but a big, black blur in my vision. “Simon Norton?” His lips tip up, not in a smile, but something more menacing. “Course you fucking are,” I mumble to myself before turning one of my two oil warmers up high.

“Not gonna kick me out?” He taunts. I know he’s expecting me to cower, or try to force him out.

Either way it’ll end with him trying to overpower me. I need to be clever. Use whatever I have to my advantage. Just like I learned in all those damn classes at the Y. Everything can be a weapon, if you use it right.

“Top off and on the table.” I bark, flicking out a clean, fluffy white towel and laying it on the table. “Face down.”

I stand at the head of the table, hands clasped, eyes on his. There ain't no way I’m giving him my back. I want this bastard where I can see him at all times.

He stares at me before slipping off his cut and hanging it on a coat hook. That small movement used to get me weak in the knees when I was young. Shit, it still did when Mad Dog did it. But I’m older and a helluva lot wiser now. It may still be a bit of a kink for me, but I’m not falling for it again.

“You know, your customer service could be a little better.”

I give him a bored look. I can wait all damn hour until my next client arrives. In fact, the longer he takes, the better it’ll be for me. I check my oil, warming it a little more in my hands, the light lavender scent helping to calm my nerves as Diesel lowers his large body onto the table. He’s gotten bigger since he went to prison, his shoulders almost too wide for the table. If I thought he was dangerous before I helped put him away, he’s a hell of a lot more so now.

That’s why I have to be careful. Steady. Clever. It’s also why I have a gun in my thigh holster, a knife strapped to the other thigh, and one tucked into my wide leather belt that I love to throw on with my crocheted tops and flowy skirts. People look at me, hell, people smell me and think “oh yeah, there's that peace and love hippy woman.” On one level they’re right. On another level it's because it makes it a helluva lot easier to hide an arsenal under all this fabric.

As soon as Diesel’s face nestles into the cushioned hole in the table I lay my hands on him. I run them over his bacne ridden torso, it’s like freaking Braille back here. He moans something unintelligible and I roll my eyes. Whatever dude. Just take your massage and leave me the hell alone.

“Fuck, you always did have magic hands,” Diesel says and I lean more of my weight on him, pressing a large knot, making him hiss.

“This is a silent massage,” I grit out.

I don’t want to talk to Diesel. I don’t want to relive our old days together. Hell, most days I want to forget he was even part of my life. Nothing more than a black mark for 18 years I’d rather forget.

“Don’t be like that, Will, I know you used to love my fat cock- ow!” he grunts as I go to town on that knot.

This time my hands are balled into fists, the knuckle of my pointer finger putting as much pressure on it as I can, the knot slipping and bobbing under the pressure.

“Shhh, no talking, remember?” I perkily reply, taking a little too much glee at causing him to squirm on my table.

And squirm he does. His toes are all curled up, legs writhing on the table and his huge biceps are tense as he grips the table. If I could get away with cackling I damn well would. But I’m a professional. So I press harder.

“Fuck, youre still a bitch,” Diesel spits, making me snort.

“Hey, you booked in for the sports massage. If you knew you were this much of a pussy you should have booked in for a gentler massage.”

One hand balls into a fist and I angle away from it. Ain't no way he’s hitting me in here. Not in my place. My sanctuary. Instead I ease off a little, not wanting to piss him off too much. I just want him to hurt a little and then crawl back to whatever hole he crawled out of. I don’t want to know why or how he's even here.

“Ah, fuck,” he breathes, his body relaxing into the table. Not for long though.

I take some more oil, slicking it between my palms to heat just a little more. Placing my hands back on him, I ignore the spot where I was, instead letting my thumbs travel along the hard muscle of his shoulder blade until I find the knot I’m looking for. Bingo. This little shit has been Diesel’s weakness since we first met. Pressing down his body tenses, and I know I’ve got him.

“Tender?”

“No,” he grunts out, his legs twisting up again.

“Liar.”

“You’re the bitch who lied and said you’d wait for me!” he spits.