Where Nerves End

by L. A. Witt

  The waiting area wasn’t all that different from a doctor’s office, though it lacked the sparse, sterile appearance. Framed prints of tranquil landscapes lined the dark green wall between two mahogany bookcases. A plastic milk crate tucked beneath the table held brightly colored plastic toys, and a few well-worn magazines leaned on each other inside a metal magazine rack. Between a Buddha statue and several books on Chinese medicine was a trickling fountain in a clay bowl. Water ran over pebbles and fake jade, and on top stood a tree that resembled a bonsai tree.

  “You must be Mr. Davis.”

  I immediately recognized the singsong voice of the receptionist and turned my head. He was a cute kid, probably a college student. Square-rimmed hipster glasses, stylishly messed-up hair with highlighted tips, and just a little flamboyant. I wondered if he was part of the reason Seth came here on a regular basis. This kid was 100 percent his type, right down to the tan that did not happen naturally in Colorado this time of year.

  “Yes,” I said. “I’m Jason Davis.”

  He smiled. “Right on time. Dr. Whitman needs you to fill this out as best you can.” He gave me a pen and clipboard. “And be totally honest, because….” He waved a hand and sighed dramatically. “He’ll get the answer out of you one way or another, so don’t try to hide anything.”

  I laughed. “Is that right?”

  “Trust me.” The kid had a mischievous sparkle in his eye. “He’s one of those people; you might as well tell him what he wants to know. He’s kind of like the CIA, minus the car batteries and waterboarding.”

  “Good to know.”

  I took the paperwork to the waiting area and sat beside the table with the books and fountain.

  The form was about what I’d expect from any medical professional. The usual crap about injuries and ailments. And of course, Are you currently taking any medications, including over-the-counter?

  I chewed the inside of my cheek, tapping the pen on the form. I’d heard holistic practitioners frowned on modern medicine. Poisonous chemicals and evil pharmaceutical companies or some crap like that. Whatever. The last thing I needed was a lecture on why I shouldn’t be taking the pills that often meant the difference between one hour of sleep and three.

  But if he was going to get the answer out of me anyway….

  I sighed and wrote OTC anti-inflammatories + doctor-prescribed Percocet for pain. The man would probably have heart failure when he found out I was sucking down pain pills instead of meditating or drinking purified water blessed by a unicorn. Oh well.

  After I’d filled everything out, I handed the form to the receptionist, then returned to my seat. While I waited to be called back, I fixed my gaze on the trickling fountain. There was a heavy sense of hopelessness in the realization that it had come down to this. That I was desperate enough to try anything that had the slightest promise—mythical or otherwise—of relieving my pain.

  What if it didn’t help? What if nothing did? I was at my wit’s end after five years. What would happen in ten, twenty, fifty years if I couldn’t find some sort of long-term—even short-term—relief?

  “Jason?” The receptionist’s voice brought me out of my thoughts. He raised his chin so he could see over the high desk. “Dr. Whitman’s still with another patient, but he should be out in a few minutes.”

  I forced a smile. “No problem.”

  My stomach fluttered with nerves. As if I didn’t have enough to think about, it occurred to me that I hadn’t asked Seth about this guy. They’d been good friends for a long time, which said a lot, since Seth didn’t trust most people any farther than he could throw them. I could only imagine the banter between these two. Seth the hard-core prove-it-or-it-didn’t-happen atheist versus “Dr.” Whitman the acupuncturist.

  What kind of person went into acupuncture, anyway? What was I dealing with here? A guy who could sell used cars and bullshit? Or a New Age hippie type who bought into this as much as his clients did?

  Give him a chance, Jason.

  I closed my eyes and released a breath. I would give him a chance. But the proof had damn well better be in the pudding, or I wasn’t buying.

  Down the hall, a door opened. As footsteps and a male voice approached, I turned my head. An elderly woman appeared first, and when the source of the male voice came into view, I almost choked on my breath.

  Apparently that was the kind of guy who went into acupuncture. Holy fuck.

  I couldn’t say if I’d been expecting dreadlocks and hemp or glasses and a lab coat, but what I hadn’t been expecting was six-foot-plus of oh my God with a heaping dose of please tell me you’re single. He looked like he’d stepped out of a laid-back business meeting: pressed slacks, a plain white shirt with the first button casually left open and the sleeves rolled to his elbows. His hair was almost black, short enough to be neat, and long enough it just started to curl. Long enough for a man to get a grip on if—

  Jesus, Jason. You get a grip.

  A thin string of twisted brown leather hung around his neck and disappeared down the V of his shirt, and he had a beaded hemp bracelet on his left wrist, so he wasn’t entirely without the signs of a hippie lifestyle. While the acupuncturist and his patient exchanged a few words, I stared. Goddamn, he was hot. He’d taken that old cliché “tall, dark, and handsome” and made it his bitch. Dark-haired, dark-eyed, tall enough I’d have to look up at him, and his perma-smirk hinted at something devious hiding inside that mind of his. And handsome? Good God, yes. The perfect amount of ruggedness roughened his edges, tempering his borderline-pretty-boy look like an invisible leather jacket and sunglasses. If the receptionist was Seth’s type, this guy was undeniably mine.

  And then he looked right at me. “Mr. Davis?”

  I cleared my throat and stood. “Jason.”

  He extended his hand. “I’m Dr. Whitman, but most people call me Michael.”

  “All right. I guess I’ll call you Michael.”

  He smiled, which crinkled the corners of his eyes just right to draw my attention, and suddenly nothing was on my brain except And I thought I was a sucker for blue eyes. Apparently brown eyes did it for me too.

  “Follow me.”

  Don’t mind if I do….

  Chapter 3

  MICHAEL LED me down a hall with four doors on either side and gestured for me to go into the third one on the left. In the center of the room was a table. Not an exam table, though. Closer to a massage table. Black leather, cushioned, complete with the doughnut-shaped cushion on one end so someone could lie facedown.

  “Just have a seat for now. We’ll go over your history, primary complaints, and all of that before I treat you.”

  I sat on the table, and Michael took a seat on a small wheeled stool. He scanned the form, stopping abruptly when something apparently caught his eye. “You own Lights Out?”

  I nodded. “You’re familiar with it?”

  “I’ve heard of it, but I’ve never been.” He smiled, glancing up through his lashes, almost shyly. “Can’t imagine I’m exactly part of your target demographic.”

  I laughed. “Not many people in this town are.”

  We went through the usual rigmarole, as if I was going to a new doctor. Did I drink? Did I smoke? Pain’s a four on a good day, eleven on a bad night, seven right now. Blah, blah, blah.

  Then he scowled at the page, and I didn’t have to ask which part he’d read.

  “So you’re taking Percocet?” He looked up at me. “How often?”

  “Whenever I need it.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “And how often do you need it?”

  I shifted uncomfortably. “A few times a week. Usually when I can’t sleep.” I paused before quickly adding, “When the pain keeps me up at night, I mean.”

  “I see.” He glanced at my form, then blew out a breath. “And you’ve been doing this for how long?”

  “I’m not addicted to them,” I said through my teeth.

  Michael patted the air, and his voice was gentle. “I wasn’t
making any accusations. I’m more concerned about the burden long-term use of a narcotic puts on your liver.”

  “On… my liver?” I cocked my head.

  He nodded, scribbling a few notes on the form. “Kidneys too.”

  “You’re not going to tell me to stop taking them, are you?”

  Michael narrowed his eyes slightly, and I suddenly understood the receptionist’s comment about car batteries and waterboarding. Michael hadn’t said a word, but I was certain he saw right through me, right to the “fuck you” that was ready to light up in red neon letters the second he told me I shouldn’t take anything.

  He folded his hands on top of the form. “I’m not going to tell you that you can’t or shouldn’t take them. What I’m hoping to do is remove your reason for having them at all.”

  Oh God, please.

  I swallowed. “And if you can’t do that?”

  “Then I’m not doing my job.” He held my gaze for an uncomfortable moment. “Tell me, how exactly did you injure your shoulder?”

  My face burned. Hell if I knew why. Wasn’t as if I hadn’t told this story to a million people before, usually with embellishments to make sure everyone laughed uproariously at my stupidity, so why did it make me self-conscious now?

  I cleared my throat. “I suppose ‘showing off like an idiot’ isn’t a conclusive enough answer?”

  Michael laughed. “Not really, but it’s certainly an intriguing one.” He inclined his head. “Go on.”

  “I was mountain biking, took a single-track trail way faster than I should have, lost control, and face-planted.” I gestured at my shoulder. “Landed on my face and my shoulder.”

  Michael grimaced. “How is your neck?”

  “My neck was fine, thank God. Scraped the shit out of my face, but the helmet protected my head. My shoulder took the brunt of it.”

  “Better that than a head or neck injury.”

  “No kidding. Or swallowing my teeth.”

  He shuddered. “Indeed. Fortunately, I think we can manage the injury you do have.” His eyes narrowed again as if he were reading me somehow.

  “Something wrong?” I asked.

  “You’re carrying a lot of stress.”

  I laughed dryly. “Am I getting that gray already?”

  “No.” A grin flickered across his lips. “But the tension isn’t just in the area where you’re experiencing pain. You get headaches when you’re tense, don’t you?”

  “Doesn’t everyone?”

  “Some more than others.” He gestured between his eyebrows. “But I’m guessing yours radiate from here?”

  This guy was good.

  “Sometimes, yeah,” I said. “But you know how it is. Stress about money, that kind of shit.”

  He groaned. “Oh, believe me, I know that feeling very well.”

  “Really? I figured you’d be raking it in here.”

  Michael shrugged. “I’m not a cardiologist.”

  “So you’re a peasant like the rest of us?”

  “Basically. Anyway, you get that heavy ache in your forehead that makes your eyes hurt, right?”

  Shit. He was really good.

  “Yeah, I do.”

  “I figured. Next time that happens? Press the sides of your thumbs right here.” He demonstrated, putting his thumbs together above the bridge of his nose. “Press in, and then pull them across like so.” He pulled his thumbs apart, slowly drawing them along the arches of his eyebrows, and lowered his hands. “Do it three or four times and it should diffuse some of the tension.”

  “Good to know.”

  He scanned my paperwork again. “You said you hurt your shoulder five years ago. Aside from the initial healing period, has the pain gotten better or worse since then?”

  “It’s mostly stayed the same, but….”

  His eyebrows rose. “Hmm?”

  I shifted, the table creaking quietly under me. “It started getting worse when my relationship went south. And ever since he moved out, I’ve been struggling financially, so….”

  “That’ll do it,” he said softly. “Stress almost always increases chronic pain.”

  “Yeah.” I laughed bitterly. “And actually, the pain was part of what made my relationship go south.”

  Michael cocked his head but didn’t speak.

  I cleared my throat. “My ex, he, uh…. We had some issues, and I think my shoulder turned into an excuse to fight. If I was in too much pain or too drugged out of my head to do much around the house, or I had to cancel some plans, he lost his mind. The way he saw it, I was only in pain when he wanted me to do something.”

  Michael scowled. “And you said the pain got worse when he left? After living under that kind of pressure, I’m surprised it didn’t improve.”

  “He left me with both halves of a mortgage I can’t afford.” I rolled my shoulders gingerly. “It’s nice to not have to justify taking it easy anymore, but….”

  “Yeah, I can understand that.”

  He continued through my history, asking questions about everything from my health to my family to my job. I gave him vague answers about financial issues and the loss of the club’s co-owner, neither of which I ever liked talking about, and he didn’t press for details. Strangely, his line of questioning didn’t prompt a “none of your goddamned business” reaction the way it probably would have if I was talking to my doctor or dentist. It helped that he didn’t make any snarky comments about “damn, if it weren’t for bad luck, you wouldn’t have any luck at all.” I’d give anyone a free pass to ask away as long as they didn’t jump on the “which god did you piss off?” bandwagon. I couldn’t figure out how some the information he requested was relevant to fixing my damned shoulder, but I answered without hesitation.

  Car batteries and waterboarding indeed….

  “Usually I’d have you lie down,” he said, “but I’m going to have you sit up so I can access points on the front and back of your shoulder. I’ll need you to take off your shirt. Shoes and socks too.”

  I did as he asked while he reached into a small chest of drawers and pulled out a handful of plastic packets. When I looked closer, I realized each packet contained an individually wrapped needle, each resembling a two-inch-long antenna. A little less than half of the needle was thicker than the other with a small loop on the end. They were so fine, I couldn’t imagine them breaking through anything—never mind skin—without bending.

  As he laid out the needles, he glanced at my upper arm and did a double take. “Wow, that’s quite a tattoo. Seth’s work?” I almost expected him to run his fingers over it the way some guys did. Kind of hoped he would. Really hoped he would.

  I also hoped he was oblivious to the phantom tingling where he, being a professional, hadn’t run his fingers across my inked skin. “Yeah. Seth did it. He did an amazing job.”

  “I don’t think I’ve ever seen him do a tattoo that wasn’t amazing.” He met my eyes and laughed softly. “So this means you don’t have a problem with needles, then?”

  “Yeah, something like that.” I didn’t, but admittedly, my stomach knotted up a little as he tore open one of the packets. “So, um, tell me how this works?”

  “The body has energy flowing through it. Qi, as the Chinese call it. Sometimes the channels get blocked, or interrupted, and the needles”—he gestured with the one he’d freed from the package—“help with those blockages. If you’ll pardon the pun, the point of acupuncture is to get the qi flowing properly.”

  In my mind’s eye, I saw him digging beneath my skin with the sharp instrument until he’d bent the channel o’ qi to his will. I was pretty sure that wasn’t how it worked, but the mental image didn’t do much to relax me.

  Evidently seeing the apprehension written across my face, he said, “Trust me on this.” When our eyes met, his half smile—combined with what the low, warm light did to his already-dark-brown eyes—certainly stimulated my heart. Among other things.

  But then he took a seat and focused his attention on
my foot, and I remembered the needles he hadn’t yet put in. He slid the needle into a thin plastic tube, and the hairs on the back of my neck stood on end. As he pressed the tube against my foot just below my ankle, I held my breath.

  Then he tapped the end of it and, a second later, slid the tube off, leaving the needle sticking out of my skin at a sharp angle.

  It didn’t hurt. Well, that wasn’t entirely true. It hurt, but not like I’d expected it to. There was the briefest sting, there and gone so quickly I barely noticed it, but the ache that followed was… strange. It was a dull feeling, but almost electric.

  I flexed my ankle.

  “Doing all right?” Michael asked.

  “Yeah. It just feels weird.”

  “It’s different, especially the first time.” He leaned down and positioned another needle. He tapped it into place so it was almost perpendicular to my skin, and the same warm, achy sensation with tingling edges bloomed around its point. “What you’re feeling is deqi.”

  I raised an eyebrow. “The what now?”

  “Deqi.” He looked up from freeing a third needle from the packaging. “The sensation of the qi arriving.”

  “I see.” I watched him slide the needle into the plastic tube. “So is this the kind of thing where I have to be a believer for it to work?”

  “It’s acupuncture, Jason.” He tapped the needle into place. “Not Santa Claus. It’ll still work even if you don’t believe.”

  “Good to know.”

  He switched to my other foot, and curiosity got the best of me.

  “Okay, I have to know. My foot? When I’m here for my shoulder?”

  He nodded without looking up. “I’m concerned about your liver and kidneys and how they’ve been affected by the medications you’ve been taking. So this will stimulate them and help them flush out some of the toxins.” He positioned the needle about an inch below the base of my first and second toes, right between the bones.

  “Uh….” I studied him. “Isn’t… isn’t the liver… not in my foot?”

  “The liver channel begins in the feet. Stimulate and unblock that channel—” He paused to tap the needle into place. “—and it helps to soothe and decongest the liver.”