Barefoot Bay: When You Touch Me (Kindle Worlds Novella)

by Marilyn Baxter

  “Gorgeous beach,” he said, which wasn’t really a lie. “Palm trees and little tiki hut things where you can get out of the sun. All I have to do is wave my hand and I have a fresh drink right away.”

  “Oh man, it sounds like paradise. You’re one lucky bastard, you know that?”

  Lucky? Hell no. He had been in the wrong place at the wrong time.

  “Sam.” Drew’s voice grew solemn. “I didn’t mean it was lucky you—”

  “I know what you mean. This is a great place to spend a week and a half before I return to the real world.”

  Sam wasn’t quite sure yet what that real world was.

  “Spotted any hot women yet?”

  Sam laughed. “I just got here. Even I need time to scope out the prospects. But so far a lot of them have either been attached, or they’re employees and they’re off limits.”

  “And since when has that ever stopped the Hart Throb?”

  Yeah, when?

  “Ah, little brother, you give me too much credit. And do you know how much I hate that nickname?”

  “Of course I do. Why do you think I use it?”

  The brothers chatted a little longer, and Sam promised to post some photos of the resort online. After ending the call, he put on swim trunks and a t-shirt, grabbed a granola bar from the kitchen and headed to a shaded spot on the beach with a spy thriller he had bought in the airport.

  It was really too hot to wear the shirt. But aside from the scars on his back being sensitive to sunlight, they alarmed most people. And when they learned he had been injured in Afghanistan, they gave him the pity stare. They shouldn’t pity him. They should hate him because he hadn’t been able to save everyone in that Humvee.

  * * *

  When Sam Hartman hadn’t shown up at the spa by ten o’clock, Jillian began the hunt for him. She had been very clear about their schedule. She had asked the receptionist to call his room, but there was no answer. So she wondered if the man was serious about his claim to spend his time getting drunk and getting laid.

  She found him stretched out on a lounge chair under a thatched palapa, a fruity-looking drink in one hand and a paperback book in the other. Though his eyes were hidden behind a pair of Ray Bans, she could tell he scanned the surrounding area at regular intervals. The lift of his chin. The almost imperceptible side-to-side movement of his head. Those actions indicated more than general curiosity over who might be sitting on the beach.

  Mrs. Granger had mentioned the same behavior in her son, who had an official diagnosis of PTSD. Perhaps Sam Hartman did too, but she had no concrete proof of it, and she wasn’t a psychologist. She had chosen modalities to address PTSD as well as his shoulder and scars. They couldn’t cause any harm if he didn’t have the disorder.

  She watched as he sucked the last of the drink through the straw and motioned to a server for another. Jillian shook her head ruefully. He had started drinking early. At this rate he would be sloshed by noon. Had he found a willing woman, too? Jillian really didn’t want to know. She only wanted to get him to the spa so she could prove to Jocelyn that hiring her hadn’t been a mistake. Grasping his client folder to her chest, she marched across the sand to confront him.

  “Mr. Hartman,” she said with authority. “We had a nine o’clock appointment at the spa. I’m sure there’s some compelling reason you didn’t keep it and decided to lounge on the beach instead?” Her gaze zeroed in on the drink in his hand.

  “It’s a fruit juice slushy,” he said. “You can ask the bartender if you don’t believe me. It’s a particularly tasty combination of pineapple and orange juice with some banana and grenadine. He calls it a Barefoot Blush. You really should try it sometime. It’s a great way to chill out.”

  He had placed emphasis on the last two words, and Jillian understood they were a dig at her. Taking her job seriously did not mean she needed to chill out.

  “Maybe after we’ve finished today’s sessions. And speaking of which, while we’re both here, why don’t I go over the treatment plan I’ve developed? Then we can head to the spa to get started.” Jillian wanted to accomplish something with him before noon.

  He shrugged dismissively. “If we have to.”

  “Mrs. Granger—”

  “Yeah,” he said and released a loud sigh. “She’s paying for all this.”

  Jillian sat on the edge of an adjacent lounge chair and spread the folder across her lap. “She said you’d had rotator cuff surgery and physical therapy. I’d like to do a combination of Swedish and deep tissue massage to relax the muscles, work out any knots and hopefully help with your range of motion. I’m not a physical therapist, so I can only do so much. But if you continue any exercises they taught you in PT, there’s no reason you can’t regain full motion in that joint.”

  The server returned with his fresh drink, and Sam took a loud slurp. Jillian knew he was deliberately annoying her, and had he not been a client, she’d have slapped the smug look right off his face. She doubted, though, it would have made any difference in his attitude.

  “I understand you have some scarring on your upper back, too,” she continued. “Massage can help with that as well. I have a special oil I’ll use to try and loosen the scar tissue and tightness. I’d also like to do some hot stone massage combined with aromatherapy for overall relaxation. And we can do aquatic massage since you’ll be basically weightless in the water and I can manipulate joints with less discomfort to you.”

  He said nothing, the silence broken only by the sound of him sucking on the straw.

  “Does that sound good to you, Mr. Hartman?”

  “Call me Sam,” he said. “Please. And you’re the boss, so whatever you decide is okay with me.”

  “Okay then, Sam.” She emphasized his name. “I can work around that. One other therapy I’d like to try is Reiki.”

  “Raking? What the fuck is that?”

  She bit her bottom lip so she could keep a straight face. “Mr. uh, Sam, could you please watch your language? We have guests and staff with children.”

  “Then what the heck is raking?”

  “It’s not raking. It’s Reiki. Like ray of sunshine and a car key. Reiki.” She enunciated carefully. “It’s an energy-based healing method where I channel energy into your body by means of touch. The energy stimulates your body’s natural healing process and can bring about both physical and emotional well-being.”

  He slid his sunglasses atop his head and cocked his head. One dark eyebrow raised slowly.

  “I don’t do voodoo, but whatever floats your boat, Jilly-Bean.”

  The nickname rankled. Was he deliberately being obnoxious? “I don’t do voodoo, either,” she replied, keeping her voice level. “Reiki is a medically recognized alternative and complementary therapy used at military hospitals to treat….” Jillian let her voice trail off. Damn. She hadn’t wanted to mention PTSD. Not yet, anyway.

  “Treat what?”

  She broke eye contact, and a sense of dread took hold and refused to let go. “Anxiety. Sleep problems. PTSD.” She lowered her voice for the last part.

  Sam’s lips flattened into a thin line. He bolted upright and flipped the sunglasses back over his eyes.

  “I don’t have PTSD. I can’t sleep because my damn shoulder hurts most of the time. I might be anxious because I can’t do what I normally do and that frustrates the hell out of me. And I’m sick to damn death of….” He reached down, grabbed a handful of sand and let it sift through his fingers. “This shit. It reminds me of…. Never mind.” He flopped back in the lounge chair with a thump.

  Jillian pretended to fumble with some pages in his folder. “Then I’ll scratch ocean massage off your treatment schedule and we’ll do fresh water pool massage instead. It’s effective as well.”

  She glanced at her wristwatch. “We still have an hour and a half left before lunch, so why don’t we head to the spa and get started?” She rose and began walking back toward Eucalyptus.

  She halted and glanced over her shou
lder at him.

  “Coming?” she asked.

  “Lead on,” he answered, rising from the chair and sliding his feet into a pair of flip-flops. “When we break at noon, will you join me for lunch?”

  Jillian stopped and turned to face him. He certainly wasted no time. “I can’t do that. It’s nothing personal. It’s just that I’m not permitted to fraternize with clients. It crosses a professional line to do so. I hope you understand.”

  “But what if I just happen to see you eating somewhere and just happen to decide to sit down at your table? You wouldn’t be fraternizing with me. I’d be fraternizing with you.”

  “I’d rather you didn’t.”

  “But what if I did?”

  “I told you—”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah. It crosses the line. But humor me Jill-O,” he began. “What if I did?”

  She opened her mouth to a perfect pink O, but said nothing before turning around to resume her march toward the spa. Or was this the march to misery?

  Chapter Four

  Sam watched her walk ahead of him. The loose sand caused her hips to sway, and the woman definitely had some damn fine hips. When she had asked if he was coming, his mind had detoured to naughty land. If he could get her under him, they would both be coming. Repeatedly.

  She didn’t wear a ring of any sort, but neither had the lifeguard’s fiancée. And when he had rendered her speechless with his lunch invitation, he gave himself a mental pat on the back. He had thrown her off balance. If he persisted, maybe he could get her horizontal.

  “Disrobe to your level of comfort,” Jillian instructed once they were in the treatment room. “You’ll start face down with your head in the cradle. I’ll give you several minutes to get situated and I’ll knock before I come in. Any questions?”

  Sam shook his head, then watched as the door closed behind her. Level of comfort, huh? He pulled the t-shirt over his head and tossed it on a chair in the corner. His swim trunks and flip flops joined it.

  He slid between the cool white sheets, naked as the day he was born, and wriggled until his face was comfortable in the cradle, which was covered in the same white cotton. He had spent some time at Landstuhl in much this same position to keep pressure off his burns. Within seconds he could see the flash. Feel the heat of the flames and smell the fire. Hear the screams of his squad mates.

  He raised his head and propped on his forearms, taking in huge gulps of air. Beads of sweat dotted his forehead, and he used the sheet to wipe them away.

  Breathe. Think of home. The mountains on a snowy morning.

  Sam ran through the suggestions he had overheard some of the other guys discussing until the overwhelming sense of peril diminished. He hadn’t had a spell like this in months. He had figured out things that were triggers and avoided them, but who knew a massage table would send him into a tailspin?

  Perhaps if he had gone to therapy as suggested…. But that would be admitting he had issues. And he did not have issues. What he experienced was more like the bad dreams he’d had after he and Drew sneaked away to see a Freddy Krueger movie. The dreams scared the shit out of him, but he eventually stopped having them.

  Problem solved. The rocket propelled grenade had been like a horror film. And eventually he would stop reacting to it.

  He repeated the deep breathing until his heart stopped pounding inside his chest. He couldn’t let her see him like this. Not after he had denied having…it.

  If he got pity stares when people saw his scars, what reaction would people have if they thought he suffered from PTSD? He didn’t want pity. He didn’t want people to be afraid of him. He just wanted life to go back to before—

  Three knocks sounded on the door and he heard the latch click.

  “Ready?” Jillian called out.

  “Mmm hmm,” he said and lowered his head back into the cradle.

  The door closed with a snick, and she spoke again.

  “I’m going to talk you through this. I know your skin is tender where the burning occurred, so let me know if I need to stop. This first session will only be some light massage for relaxation and easy movement of your shoulder. I’m going to touch you through the sheet now.”

  Her hands pressed against him between his shoulder blades, then down to his waist, pushing him against the table with gentle pressure. When her hands moved upward and she reached his hairline, he flinched.

  “Okay?”

  “Mmm,” he mumbled. “Yeah.”

  The pressure let up and air feathered across skin as she pulled the sheet down to his waist and tucked it around him. Her sharp intake of breath let him know she had seen the scarring.

  If she thought his back was bad, she should have seen some of the others in the burn unit. One fellow was so unrecognizable that his wife turned around and walked out. Three weeks later he received divorce papers from the heartless bitch.

  “I’m going to use lavender oil and gently massage your upper back,” Jillian began. The sweet smell of the oil filled his nostrils. “Being touched during your recovery most likely hurt.”

  “No shit.” Hurt was an understatement.

  “And you may be apt to associate all touch with pain,” she continued. “The lavender will help you to relax, and the composition of the oil itself works to reduce the appearance of existing scars. Concentrate on your breathing. Inhale through your nose. Nice, deep breaths. And exhale through your mouth.”

  Sam did as her calm voice instructed and he soon felt tension flowing from his body as she rubbed small circles across his back. Maybe this massage deal and the smelly stuff wasn’t so bad after all.

  She worked up into his hairline, then down the length of his spine to the place where the sheet barely covered his ass. Her oiled fingertips were a whisper against his flesh and he flinched again.

  Or was that his cock twitching? He was definitely aroused.

  “Sorry,” she said. Her fingers moved to the middle of his back, and he sensed her move toward the head of the table. “I’m going to move your shoulder gently now. Tell me if I hurt you.”

  She eased his arm from his side, then moved it into several positions before eliciting a groan from him.

  “Okay, that’s enough for today,” she told him as she placed his arm back on the table. “You did great, Sam. And your range of motion is actually better than I expected. You should make good progress before you leave here.”

  Jillian spent the remainder of the morning moving joints and evaluating muscle, all the while reminding Sam to continue inhaling and exhaling.

  “Time’s up, Sam,” she said as she pulled the sheet over his back and lightly smoothed it across him.

  Sam could hear her moving around the room, but he remained still. Bottles rattled. Water rushed from the faucet, then shut off. He didn’t move.

  “Sam?” She tapped his shoulder. “Wake up, Sam.”

  He raised his head, turned to the right and realized the room was nearly pitch dark. He looked to the other side and saw her beside the table.

  “Did you have a good nap?” she asked, then switched on a nearby floor lamp to cast low light around the room.

  He rolled onto his back and stretched his arms above his head. “Yeah,” he lied. He had been awake the whole time. “Do you always work in the dark?”

  “Mmm hmm. That way the massage is driven by touch instead of sight. Sometimes I even close my eyes to really sense the muscle and how it feels beneath my fingers.”

  “Interesting. Ever feel anything you shouldn’t?”

  “Never,” she replied emphatically.

  We’ll see about that.

  Sam snaked out his arm and wrapped his fingers around her calf. She remained motionless. Then he swiped his index finger around her pants leg.

  “Don’t do that,” she said brusquely, stepping away from the table.

  He raised up and sent her a questioning look.

  “Why? Is that the professional line you mentioned?”

  Jillian spun on her heel
and immediately and left the room.

  From her reaction, Sam could only suppose the answer to his question was a resounding yes.

  * * *

  Two days later, Sam arrived late again. He had overslept after tossing and turning much of the night. He had grabbed Jillian’s leg as a joke. Drawn an imaginary line around it – as a joke. And she had bolted like a wild animal that had picked up the scent of a hunter. Her dark eyes, always bright and sparkling, had showed fear. He hadn’t wanted to scare her. The line was meant to be playful, but she sure hadn’t laughed. Her worried and fearful expression was burned into his memory.

  And that expression had haunted him ever since, especially when he closed his eyes at night and his body betrayed him. Jillian wasn’t fashion-model beautiful like so many of the guests at Casa Blanca. No sharp angles and rail-thin limbs. She was a natural beauty who needed no heavy make-up or designer clothes to turn a man’s head. She was gorgeous even in the simple white uniform worn by all the spa employees.

  She always wore her thick, dark hair in a braid, and how he longed to undo the elastic band at the bottom and untangle the strands. Run his fingers through their thickness. No doubt her chestnut colored eyes would react. But how? With fear like before?

  What made her so skittish? His intel had revealed she wasn’t married. The redheaded server, with whom he had made amends, let it slip that Jillian had only been at Casa Blanca for six weeks. Was she really worried his touching her would jeopardize her job? If necessary, he would go to the powers that be, confess his misbehavior and exonerate her from any wrongdoing.

  Sam had only received a few massages in his life, but even he could tell Jillian was skilled at her profession. After only a few days, he had already felt improvement. His shoulder moved with more ease. The scars on his back didn’t seem to pull as much. So much for his skepticism. But she hadn’t tried any voodoo on him yet.

  He had slept soundly until last night. He woke drenched in sweat and sporting a raging hard-on. Both had been relieved by an icy shower. But after the shower, he was wide awake. He’d poured himself a double scotch and then another, and then he slept through the alarm.