I used to get a massage once in a while before I started dating Scarlett. Then Scarlett and I got together, and she gave me some of the best massages I ever had. And yes, it often ended up with us all over each other, and then we both got a happy ending.
Unfortunately, after her, I could never properly enjoy a massage. Not just because it didn’t end the way it would with Scarlett, not something I would want with a stranger, but because it wasn’t her hands touching me, caressing me, stroking me. There was an emotional component when Scarlett massaged me, something that soothed not only my aches and pains but relaxed something inside me, too.
She ruined me for everyone else.
“Turn around.”
“What?” I huff on an exhale, suddenly feeling out of breath.
“You’re doing me a favor, one made even bigger now by letting me stay here, so the least I can do is get the kinks out of your back.”
I’m speechless, as well as unsure if I should accept.
A regular massage from a stranger might not be as good, but none of them would salt my emotional wounds like Scarlett will by touching me again. Especially when it doesn’t mean the same to her as it does me.
“I can practically hear your brain yapping from here. Stop overthinking,” she demands, shoving my shoulders down and shifting herself so she is straddling the backs of my thighs.
I turn my head to the side, groaning when she pulls up my loose T-shirt. Then she immediately digs into a tight knot in my right shoulder blade, clearly recalling this being my problem area. I’m in sensation overload as I not only take in our position but the fact that she is touching me again.
“You’re tight,” she murmurs, shifting her weight so she can dig in even harder.
The pain is excruciating, and I almost beg her to stop, but then she moves her hands and the relief at the tightness unfurling sinks me deeper into the couch.
“If I had you naked and some oil, this would work a lot easier,” she mumbles to herself.
I groan again at the intense wish that could be a possibility.
Hopefully, she passes off my groan as just a reaction to the release of tension in my body. I don’t want this to end, especially because I made things awkward.
Her hands are magical as she eases my constant pain, but it does nothing to stop the torment storming inside me that what I’m feeling is fleeting and unattainable. I lost out on the right to possess a part of Scarlett. This small taste is just a glimpse back to a time before I fucked everything up.
“Are you getting tenser?” she asks, sounding incredulous. “What the hell is on your mind?”
A sliver of panic slices through me, and without my permission, it’s on the tip of my tongue to tell her how badly I want her back. But I promised her I wouldn’t let staying with each other be a problem, and I don’t want her to leave and potentially put herself in danger. So, instead of blurting out how much I still care for her, I say the first thing that comes to mind. Unfortunately, the first thing that comes to mind is something idiotic.
“Socks!”
“You’re thinking about socks?” she asks disbelievingly, digging her fingers deliciously into my neck and making me whimper in pleasure.
I mumble against the couch, my face almost pressed into the soft cushion so I can give her better access. I hope my inaudible grunt is enough to end the conversation, but that isn’t the case.
“Interesting. And what is it about socks that has you thinking about them so much?”
I hear the humor in her voice, and I get the feeling she knows I’m bullshitting and is happy to call me out.
But, while I might not have shown her how good I am thinking on my feet tonight, I can show her how much better I have gotten at talking at length about anything. That’s the one skill I have honed in during my time as a P.I. Sometimes, you need to distract a person for a lengthy spill of time, which forces you to pass the benign small talk and shift into deeper conversations. I have mastered this.
I turn my head so she can hear my answer. “Yeah. Why is one always missing? Why is one sock always more worn and threadbare than the other? You walk the same amount of steps and wear them the same amount of time,” I mutter, knowing if I wasn’t in a blissful state of jellied bones, then I might worry that what I’m saying is unbelievably ridiculous. “And, why doesn’t the elastic on my knee highs stretch the same? I always have one that stays up and one falling down. Are my legs different sizes?” I ask, taking a deep breath and focusing my racing mind.
“Shit, Cyn. Are you seriously thinking about socks right now? That’s actually the reason you’re so tense?”
“There is a lot to think about,” I say on a sigh when she shifts her hands down my spine. “Like, why are they called socks?” I continue, clearly out of my mind. “And, why does the word sock have to be so close to jock. A jock is someone popular who is athletic. But then, is that why they call it a jockstrap? I mean, technically women can be jocks, too, but we don’t need a jockstrap. Why not call it what it is? A penis strap. Or a willie protector? Or a dick hugger? Ball cupper?” I throw out, wondering if I took things too far when she removes her hands from my back altogether.
“What the hell?” Scarlett says, her body vibrating against me from her laughter. “If socks are stressing you out this much, maybe try an easier, less worrying topic, like world peace or something.”
“Sorry,” I mutter, giving myself a mental kick in the ass. I took it too far and now she’s stopped touching me.
“Although …” Scarlett says quietly, squeezing her thighs around mine as she shifts her angle so she can push down harder against my lower back, which feels both amazing and horrible. “Now you’re making me wonder about what you would call a female jockstrap if we needed one. Hootie hugger? Vagina cup? Pussy cap? Get it? Instead of pussy cat!”
I laugh, despite it being a lame joke, and then I feel myself growing warmer when Scarlett giggles above me before giving into a proper, deep, hearty laugh.
With her body hunched over, I can picture her arms circling her waist and can almost feel those arms grazing my back.
Hearing her laughter echoing around me, feeling her touching me with ease, I feel settled and my own laugher quiets. I wish desperately that this could be just a typical night for us.
It could have been … before I screwed things up.
When my doorbell unexpectedly sounds, I don’t want to break the bubble Scarlett and I are in. Annoyingly, however, I don’t have much say in this. Her laughter has already eased, and the closeness of her body is leaving me as I feel her shift and sit up.
“Did you order food?” she enquires.
Just the mention of food reminds me of how hungry I am. That piece of banana bread I ate for a late lunch did not fill me up.
Scarlett shifts completely off me, and I turn over, sitting up and pulling my shirt back down while ignoring the obvious grumbles from my stomach.
Scarlett narrows her eyes on me, and since her lips are pursed together in a familiar look of annoyed concern, I figure she recalls my bad eating habits.
I never eat properly or healthily. It’s just so easy to forget what time it is when you are stuck behind a computer screen or, as is the case nowadays, stuck inside a car without someone to relieve you.
Another buzz from my front door shifts both our attentions back to it.
I wonder if Sasha is dropping by. She does that sometimes. I probably should have expected it after my abrupt decision to take time off from work.
How am I going to explain Scarlett being here without it being obvious that I am lying or without making it much worse when Scarlett suddenly disappears from my life again once this case is over?
“You gonna get that?” she asks when I hesitate to stand.
I shouldn’t be afraid of one of my best friends, but I just can’t see how this scenario doesn’t end in disaster.
Nodding since my mouth has gone dry, I shuffle my feet in a slow tread toward the front door.
> The side window beside the door is frosted, showing only one shadow, and not one I immediately recognize. The hair certainly indicates that it’s not Sasha.
“It’s probably someone trying to sell me something,” I lightly announce, not that I have ever had someone knock on my door to sell me stuff. Does that even happen anymore?
I might outwardly appear unconcerned, but inwardly, I am paranoid about who could be ringing my doorbell late on a Tuesday night.
I eye the keypad at my side, my focus zeroing in on the red panic button. I have an emergency code set up that I can key in if I am under duress. It acts like the alarm is shut off when it really sets off a silent alarm for Jerry. But, if there is an unfriendly at my front door, hitting the panic button will be all I need.
I hover my hand above the keypad while I lean into the door, eyeing the person through the peephole. When I spot who is on the other side, my heart begins to thunder in my chest and I drop my hand back down to my side.
Not a threat exactly. Then again, she might be a threat to the peace Scarlett and I have found with each other.
Why is Larissa here? She may be a new friend, but not one I know well enough to be sure she won’t put Scarlett through the wringer.
I try to think back to what I wrote in my message to her today. Does she think we are getting back together?
“Who is it?” Scarlett asks, still sitting on my couch when the doorbell sounds again.
Instead of answering her, I cringe as I open the door and reveal Larissa on the other side.
“Hey, I figured you had your headphones on, working a case. I brought over dinner.” She holds a pot in her hand and smiles warmly at me.
“Um … That … I mean, I’m …” I must look as panicked as I sound, since her smile falls and her eyes drift over my shoulder.
“I’m Scarlett,” Scarlett boldly introduces herself, knocking my shoulder to reach out and hold her hand out for Larissa. “I’m a friend of Cynthia’s.”
I hate that description. It feels wrong. She is meant to be more than my friend. More than anyone in my life.
“Oh, I’ve heard lots about you. The one who got away!” Larissa blurts out, taking Scarlett’s hand while awkwardly balancing the pot in her other hand.
“I hardly think I got away. I’m right here.”
I try to decipher what that means, but they are apparently done with my silent treatment, since they both stare at me.
I am at a loss for words.
“So you are. I have enough for all of us, if you don’t mind me intruding?” Larissa offers.
I have no idea what I’m supposed to do. I don’t want to turn my back on a new friend, especially when she was nice enough to cook dinner, but I also don’t want to place us all in an awkward position, which is hard since I’m not sure any answer will leave us in anything but awkward territory.
“Sure. But first, who the hell are you?” Scarlett demands.
“Larissa. I am also a friend of Cynthia’s.”
I glance at Scarlett to see her eyes narrowed at this description. I’m not sure if she’s jealous or just miffed that she thought she had me pegged and has now realized I might have some hidden facets of my life she didn’t realize, like new friends.
“Well, a friend of hers is a friend of mine,” Scarlett announces, waving Larissa inside while I still dumbly stand by the doorway. It’s only when Scarlett pulls on my arm that I move out of Larissa’s way.
I have only had Larissa around once for dinner, since we usually go out for lunches, but she has clearly been paying more attention than I realized since she moves around my kitchen like she knows it perfectly. It’s somewhat unnerving to see an almost stranger acting so comfortable and knowledgeable in your house.
Scarlett sits at my kitchen counter, taking her previously forgotten wine glass while watching Larissa carefully as she unveils homecooked lasagna. My favorite.
What the hell? Is that a weird coincidence, or should I assume Sasha has something to do with this?
Taking a long moment to stare at the food, Scarlett is slow to bring her attention back to Larissa. “So, how did you guys meet?”
“We were set up by her friend Sasha,” Larissa quickly answers, grabbing an extra plate from an already set table.
I had thought to order pizza, but my stomach’s growling is completely on board with the smells of delicious pasta drifting my way.
When I see she has hidden a loaf of cheesy garlic bread in an insulated bag in her purse, I about moan out loud.
“Sasha set you guys up? You’re dating?” Scarlett demands, looking at me to answer this time.
“She set us up, but we’re not dating,” I finally find my voice.
Scarlett looks relieved, though I’m not sure why. It shouldn’t make a difference to her. Then again, I wouldn’t be happy to discover Scarlett was dating someone. And, while I haven’t outright asked, snooping and confirming she is still single was probably part of my job … right?
“Instead of the date that Sasha, and to be honest, even I envisioned,” Larissa coyly begins with a smirk, “Cynthia and I instead bonded over unrequited love.”
I flush from her words. I might have been willing to spill my heart out to an almost stranger, but that doesn’t mean I want her to spill it back out to Scarlett.
“Unrequited love? You loved me?” Scarlett gasps, freezing in the act of sitting down at the table.
“She unrequitedly loves you,” Larissa unhelpfully points out.
“Larissa, I might like you, and your food smells freaking amazing, but if you don’t shut up, I’m going to find whoever the hell broke your heart and embarrass the crap out of you in front of them. You might not remember admitting to me about your karaoke spiral after your breakup, but I do,” I threaten, not that I keep my angered gaze on her for long before Scarlett has my attention again.
“You never told me that!” Scarlett snaps, shifting her body from halfway sitting until she’s back on her feet and facing me.
I deliver one last pointed glare at Larissa, who looks smug, before giving my attention back to Scarlett. “I never realized how deep my feelings for you ran until it was too late. You told me to lose your number that day.” I give her a one shoulder shrug, although the pain I felt that day is still present now. “I figured that meant you didn’t want to hear from me, and especially not my newfound feelings for you.”
“So, that was it? You didn’t try to fight?” she demands, sounding frustrated.
I shake my head, partly to try to clear it. “Are you saying you would have listened or believed a word I said? That you wouldn’t have thought I was saying that just to manipulate you into forgiving me?”
She opens and closes her mouth a few times. It’s clear she can’t deny the truth. “I still deserved to know.”
“It doesn’t matter now. And I did call you several times with the hopes of explaining my side of things. You have made it quite clear that you can’t forgive me.”
She places her hands on her hips. “And so, that’s that? You’re not even going to try?”
“Try what?” I snap back, not sure what the hell to make of this conversation.
We stare at each other, at a standstill. Since I don’t understand what she means, and Scarlett doesn’t appear interested in enlightening me, it takes Larissa to break the tension bubbling in the room.
“Guys, I spent a good thirty minutes reheating this store-bought lasagna, and then another few minutes making it look homemade. Think we can shelve this until after we’ve all eaten?”
I don’t move until Scarlett looks away. Then, together, we sit opposite of each other, not that she seems to be able to even look at me right now.
Since I apparently have zero hosting skills, Larissa grabs the bottle of red and pours herself a glass before topping off mine and Scarlett’s without asking.
I’m still not entirely sure why she’s here, but when she begins to blabber on and on about her crazy family—including a grandma who
wrongly believes she lives in a nudist nursing home; a father who currently has three wives, although he is technically legally only married to Larissa’s mother; and eight half-brothers and five half-sisters who drive each other nuts—the strange mood shifts until Scarlett and I are both enamored by Larissa’s stories. We forget the tension from before as the food and wine is consumed, leaving the dishes behind as we move to the couch to continue hearing about Larissa’s crazy life.
Scarlett even offers up some stories of herself and Wally from when they were kids, and I have some unsurprising language misunderstanding stories from when my parents first arrived from South Korea and throughout my childhood. Nowadays, they have become a favorite reminiscing pastime for us at family gatherings. It’s a complete surprise when I discover it’s close to midnight.
At first, I might have wished Larissa never turned up, but I can’t help feeling a little lighter now that she left. There might be nothing romantic between us; however, I appreciate having another friend.
Once Larissa is gone and everything is cleaned up, there is an awkward moment between Scarlett and me as we stand in the hallway.
It’s on the tip of my tongue to beg her to stay in my room, though I know that’s not only inappropriate but also never going to happen. But the want inside me is almost unbearable.
“I never knew you loved me,” she admits no louder than a whisper, staring down at her feet.
“I did, and I still do,” I confess. I still love her and maybe I always will. “I’m sorry I screwed things up between us.”
“I know you are. I’m sorry, too.”
It isn’t the forgiveness I crave, but it does feel better to have admitted it to her out loud.
We stand in the hall for a while longer until I can’t take it much more. I force myself to take a step back from her, wishing her goodnight then closing my bedroom door.
When my head hits my pillow, I think back to just hours earlier when she had her hands over my back, straddling me, and I recall the ease between us that felt safe and comfortable.
I Blackmailed Her Brother Page 9