by L. A. Witt
“Soothe? Decongest?” I shook my head. “You’re the expert here.”
“Trust me on this.” He glanced up, and I’ll be damned if the son of a bitch didn’t wink. “I know what I’m doing.”
Somehow I doubt you know all of what you’re doing, Dr. Whitman….
As he continued, I couldn’t decide what was more fascinating: the needles themselves or his long, nimble fingers manipulating them with expert precision. I had no doubt there was a complex technique to all of this, one he’d spent years learning. There had probably been a time when he’d been clumsy and uncertain, but now he made it look easy. Effortless.
After he’d finished putting needles in my feet, he stood. “Okay, now for a few in your shoulders.”
“What about these?” I gestured at the ones sticking out of my skin. “How long do you leave them in?”
“Oh, you know. Come back in a week or so.”
We locked eyes, keeping straight faces. Then the corner of his mouth twitched, and I laughed.
He chuckled as he turned away to pull out a drawer from the cabinet. “Just ten or fifteen minutes.” Something rustled and clattered. “Usually I’d leave you to relax and let them do their job, but I’m thinking your shoulder needs a slightly more… active approach.”
“Active? In what—”
He turned around again, and I damn near groaned aloud.
The receptionist just had to mention a car battery, didn’t he?
In one hand, Michael held a plastic box about half the size of a phone book. Several knobs stuck up from the top, and one side had about ten places to plug in peripherals. In his other hand, he had half a dozen thin red and black wires. On one end, they had plugs to connect them to the box. The other end? Miniature fucking jumper cables. Of course.
“Do I get a choice between this and waterboarding?”
Michael rolled his eyes. “Nathan loves telling people that.”
Regarding the machine warily, I said, “Yeah, but he told me minus the car batteries and waterboarding.”
“Don’t worry. All these do is put a mild electrical current through the needles. Problems like what you’re experiencing sometimes need extra stimulation to get the qi flowing properly.”
I still wasn’t so sure about this thing. “Why do I get the feeling the people who invented acupuncture didn’t have those?”
He smirked. “Well, even Eastern medicine has made advancements, you know.”
“So has the CIA.”
Michael laughed. “Relax.” He set the machine on the table beside me and laid the wires on top of it. “The worst you might feel is a dull ache.”
“I’ll take your word for it.”
“If it’s too intense, say so, and I’ll either turn it down or remove the needle. I don’t want you to be in pain.”
“Much appreciated.”
He rested the heel of his hand on my shoulder, and I took a sharp breath.
“Is that tender?” He lifted his hand away.
“No, you’re fine. I just”—shouldn’t like you touching me that way—“wasn’t expecting it.”
“Sorry.” His hand put his hand back. A second later he pressed the plastic tube against my skin.
I closed my eyes and tried to concentrate on the impending sting and ache. When he tapped the needle, it stung, and it ached, but I was only half-focused on the weird sensations. My tingling nerves were too busy following the warmth of his hand wherever he touched me.
I had never thought I’d be disappointed when a man was finished arranging needles in my flesh, but I was.
He reached for the box and its cables. “I’m attaching the leads to the needles,” he explained. “And I’m going to tape them down so they don’t yank the needles out.”
I shuddered. That was one more mental image I didn’t need.
As promised, he taped the leads down. Then he turned on the box, and as he adjusted the currents, he manually tweaked the needles. It felt as if he was… stirring them? Moving them, anyhow, but not in a way that was painful. It reminded me of a dentist doing work while I was numb—I knew he was doing something, and it seemed like it should have hurt, but it didn’t. It wasn’t even unpleasant, necessarily, just weird.
And he was right about the electric stimulation. A warm, dull ache radiated from the needles, along with an intermittent tingle that sometimes bordered on uncomfortable, but it was only unpleasant inasmuch as it was alien. But even while he manipulated the needles sticking out of my flesh, I couldn’t keep my mind off his hands. I swore his fingertips were more electric than the jumper cables.
Jesus Christ, Davis. Get a fucking grip.
It was impossible to guess how long this went on. I closed my eyes and let him do his thing while I savored every time his skin brushed mine.
“Jason?”
My eyes flew open. It was less the sound of my name that startled me, and more the gentle heat of his hand around my upper arm. “Sorry, what?”
“You all right?”
“Yeah, why?”
“Are you getting light-headed?”
“I—” I was a little dizzy, wasn’t I?
That’s what happens when you forget to breathe, dumb-fuck.
I glanced back at him and smiled. “No, I’m fine.”
He eyed me uncertainly, then released my arm—no, your hand can stay there!—and went back to work. “If you need to lie down or anything, speak up.”
“I’m fine,” I said. “Just need to remember to breathe.”
Michael laughed. “That’s usually a recommended part of the treatment, yes.”
I laughed too, which pushed some more air into motion and alleviated the dizziness. “Guess you were relaxing me a little too well.”
“That’s why I usually have people lie down for this.” He steadied my shoulder with one hand—ah, there it is—and adjusted a needle below my collarbone. “But I want to work on the front and back simultaneously.” He leaned to the side so we could make eye contact. “I can do the front, then back, if lying down would be more comfortable.”
“I’m fine. This is fine.”
“You’re sure?”
I nodded. He held my gaze for a moment, then continued.
Maybe five minutes later, he was finished, and removed the taped leads before coming around to stand in front of me.
“Let me check your pulse.” He beckoned, and when I extended my arm palm up, he clasped the back of my hand in his while he pressed his fingers to the inside of my wrist. I had no doubt my pulse was elevated now, and rising.
He didn’t comment, though, as he made a note of my pulse. “How does your shoulder feel now?”
“Better, actually.” I’ll be damned. It really does feel better. “Still a little stiff, but….”
“Good. There’s one more thing I need to do, and this might sound strange, but—”
“Is this the part where you want to see my tongue?”
He laughed. “Seth warned you, eh?”
“Yeah. I thought he was fucking with me.”
“Nope. Afraid not. So….” He made a “go on” gesture.
“Do I have to say ‘ah’?”
Michael laughed again. “Whatever floats your boat, but I still need to see your tongue.”
And I’d like you to do something besides look at it.
Good thing this was a slightly awkward examination. At least if my cheeks were as red as I thought they were, he’d probably write it off as me feeling ridiculous rather than embarrassed by the thoughts wandering through my mind. And maybe a little flustered. Just a little.
Okay, a lot.
“All right,” he said, and I closed my mouth as he jotted something on the form.
“Dare I ask what you’re looking for on my tongue?”
“You can tell a lot about someone by their tongue,” he said so matter-of-factly, I felt like an immature schoolkid for completely misinterpreting the comment.
“Can you, now?”
Michael nod
ded. “The color and the texture say a lot about what’s going on elsewhere.”
I cleared my throat. “Really?”
“Mm-hmm,” he said. “For example, looking at yours, I definitely need to focus some attention on your liver and kidneys. Probably the gallbladder too. Between your tongue and your wiry pulse—”
“Wiry pulse?”
Another nod. “It’s a sign of your liver being out of balance, as well as a secondary deficiency in your kidneys.”
“So what do I need to do about that?”
“I’d recommend coming back to see me. Between the acupuncture, some dietary changes, and maybe some herbal treatments, we can get everything back to functioning the way it’s supposed to.”
I exhaled. “How many times do you think I should come in?”
“It’ll probably take at least seven or eight visits to get you back on track. After that? It’s up to you if you want to have regular treatment.”
I scowled as I mentally calculated the cost. Michael must’ve encountered this a lot, because he went on, “If money is an issue, especially since insurance doesn’t usually cover my treatment, we can work out a plan. I can’t give away my services, but if I can help, I’ll do what I can to make the treatment accessible.”
Tempting. Very tempting. “Thanks. I appreciate it.”
He gave me a few of the usual pointers—ice, not heat, dumbass—and then removed the needles from my shoulder and my feet.
I put on my shirt and shoes, and Michael led me out into the hall. On the way back to the waiting area, I had to squint as my eyes readjusted to the fluorescents overhead and the sun coming in through the tinted glass. Why was it so surreal to be out here again? Even my own car, the shopping center, the view of the mountains, seemed… strange. As if I’d been on an altogether different plane for a little while.
We shook hands. Then I turned to finish with the receptionist and Michael took another patient back. As he disappeared down the hall, I debated taking him up on his offer to work out some kind of financial plan.
I just couldn’t decide if I wanted to come back for the acupuncture or the acupuncturist.
Chapter 4
FIVE YEARS ago my business partner, Rico, and I had gotten our hands on a deserted factory on the eastern edge of the Light District. After pouring an unholy amount of borrowed money into renovating the place, not to mention getting liquor and the permits to pour it, we’d hung up a sign, lit up the dance floor, and Lights Out was born.
The night we opened, Rico had beamed from behind the bar as our DJ played to a packed house. “Like a phoenix from the ashes.”
With the cash flow these days, I was more inclined to compare it to a zombie no one had the heart to shoot in the face.
Tonight the club didn’t open until nine, so the lights were on and the chairs were up. Instead of pulsing techno, the room echoed with clinking bottles, running water, chattering voices, and the muted, tinny music coming from the smaller stereo behind the bar.
With the regular lights on, the walls were plain blue, black, and white. Once we turned the black lights on later, dozens of brightly colored designs would appear. Not that people paid any attention to them, considering everyone would be either drunk, flirting, or both, but it made for a cool atmosphere.
As I walked across the club to the staircase, Brenda, one of the bartenders, spoke to me from behind.
“Wow, Davis.” When I turned around, her eyes widened. “You get some new drugs or something?”
“Uh, no. Why?”
She shrugged. “I don’t know; you just look… different.”
“Really?”
Brenda glanced over her shoulder. “Hey, Tony. Come here a second.”
Tony sauntered out from behind the bar. “Yes, dearest?”
She nodded sharply toward me. “Does he look different today?”
Tony scrutinized me. “Well, you do look more awake.”
“Seriously?” I raised my eyebrows. “Am I usually that bad?”
They both laughed.
“Davis, darling.” Tony clicked his tongue and shook his head. “No offense, but you usually look like ass when you show up.”
Brenda nodded. “He’s got a point.”
“Gee, thanks,” I said. “You’re both quite the flatterers today.”
“Hey, I call it like I see it,” Brenda said matter-of-factly. “You usually either seem like you’re in terrible pain, or you’re high as a kite. And today you’re….” She gave me a down-up glance and then shrugged again. “I don’t know, you just look… better.”
I smiled. “Well, let’s hope it lasts ’til the end of shift, right?”
“Yeah, no doubt,” Tony said. “Don’t need you scaring off all the hot boys.”
I laughed as I started up the stairs. “If I wanted to scare off all the hot boys, I’d have you get on the bar and dance.”
“Hey! I could outdance you, skinny boy!”
I chuckled and kept walking. Upstairs, the dance floor was deserted and quiet, the Tiffany-style lamps over the pool tables dark, and the barstools empty. I didn’t see any of my bartenders, but chatter from the back room told me they were here. I trusted them to take care of the prep work before the club opened—if that shit didn’t get done now, then they got to slice limes and fill ice bins while ten people waited for drinks. Their funeral.
I left them to it and continued to my office, which was tucked into a converted storage room between the bar and another storage room.
I still hadn’t moved Rico’s desk out of here. Lately I’d been piling papers on it as an excuse to avoid filing them. Or moving the desk. I didn’t have time for the former or the heart for the latter. Maybe someday.
I went to my own desk and sank into the plush leather swivel chair I’d bought myself for my birthday a couple of years ago. Then I stared at my inbox, especially the black binder that had materialized there since yesterday. Apparently the bookkeeper had dropped it off. It took no small amount of mental arm-twisting to convince me to finally reach for it.
Perusing the numbers, I couldn’t ignore the sinking feeling in my chest. We weren’t just in the red, we were almost to the bone. Tapped out, wrung dry, and overdrawn on favors and loans alike.
If not for my shoulder, I might have laid off a couple of bartenders and handled their shifts myself. It wasn’t as if I didn’t know their job inside and out, but the aftermath was a guarantee of an excruciating night of hot showers and pill-popping.
The DJs were already stretched thin and underpaid. If I lost any servers or bouncers, the remaining staff would have to work overtime, which I couldn’t pay right now. Or I’d have to close one of the two levels of the club, which would piss off my clientele. The college kids liked to get wild on the louder, brighter first floor, while the thirty-and-up crowd preferred the lounge atmosphere of the second. The younger patrons drank gallons of cheap liquor and beer, but plenty of money flowed upstairs, where the bartenders poured wine, microbrews, and top-shelf Scotch. Raising prices might work in the short term, but only if I wanted to lose some clientele, especially those who good-naturedly—for now—ribbed my bartenders about the overpriced booze.
“We’ll figure it out,” I heard Rico saying a year and a half ago when things weren’t nearly this bad. “Don’t worry, man. We’ll find a way.”
I let my gaze slide toward his vacant, paper-stacked desk.
Sure we will, Rico. Sure we will.
And I would. I just needed something to give. A cushion of a few hundred dollars a month, and maybe I could get my head above water. A bill that went down instead of up. Maybe Uncle Sam could back the fuck off instead of swooping in for his piece of the action whenever I almost got ahead.
I rubbed my forehead. Of course, Wes had to leave me saddled with this damned mortgage when I was already barely keeping the business going on my own. His credit was already fucked all to hell—what did he care if the bank foreclosed? So when he left me, he stopped contributing to the mortga
ge. And with the value tanking thanks to the shit real estate market, I couldn’t sell without losing my shirt.
My boyfriend was gone. My business partner was gone. My quality of life was shit more often than not. It was only a matter of time before something else fell the fuck apart.
Maybe it was just stupid pride, but I was bound and determined not to close the club, declare bankruptcy, or let go of the house. I sure as hell wasn’t doing all three. Fuck admitting defeat.
And now my damned head was throbbing. From right between my eyes, a deep, relentless ache radiated up to my hairline and out to my temples. Resting my elbows on my desk, I dug my thumbs into either side of the bridge of my nose, hoping some counterpressure might alleviate the pain. Or make my head explode, which would solve a few problems.
“Next time that happens?” Michael had said. “Press the sides of your thumbs right here. Press in, and then pull them across like so. Do it three or four times, and it should diffuse some of the tension.”
I glanced at the closed door. There was no one around to see me, but I still felt like an idiot.
I pressed my thumbs between my eyebrows and moved them apart the way Michael had demonstrated. It didn’t kill the headache, but it did relieve a little bit of the pressure, so I closed my eyes and did it again. A third time.
After the fourth time, I lowered my hands and looked at the bills in front of me.
And my head didn’t hurt.
I blinked a few times. What the hell?
The ache in and behind my forehead had faded. Significantly. A vague heaviness remained, reminding me that there’d been pain there a moment ago, but the worst was definitely gone.
For that matter, my shoulder still didn’t hurt, which was unusual when I was stressed. Cautiously, I rolled my shoulders. The muscles were tight, a bit stiff and achy, but most of the pain was MIA. Stretching carefully, I closed my eyes and smiled to myself as I exhaled.
I was drowning in problems, but if only for a little while, I wasn’t in pain. I wasn’t. In fucking. Pain.
And if only for a little while, I couldn’t ask for anything more.