Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 91635 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 458(@200wpm)___ 367(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91635 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 458(@200wpm)___ 367(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
“You play?”
“I used to play cello.”
“Really?” Even lying still under Amani’s touch, Newcomb perked, a touch of breathless interest in his voice. “I’ve been taking cello lessons since I was a sproglet.” He paused. “Wait. Used to?”
Amani hesitated. Even if Newcomb was relaxing under his palms, it was as though his tension was soaking into Amani, heavy and dark. “Injury,” he finally said. “I’ve been playing since I was six. I had early onset carpal tunnel by the time I was fourteen. Then I was out from fourteen to sixteen with surgery and recovery.”
Newcomb remained silent for several moments, then said softly. “I’m sorry. I’m a stranger and a customer, and I shouldn’t be prying if this topic upsets you.”
The odd thing was…he actually sounded like he meant it.
“It’s all right,” Amani murmured, working his way down Newcomb’s chest. “I promise. I’m not upset. I just…don’t play anymore. But I can still compose.”
Anything else he might have been about to say stilled when Newcomb suddenly caught his wrist, long fingers wrapping around it, encircling fully and stopping him; Newcomb pulled the towel down from his face, scattering damp hair across his brow and against the padding of the table, darkened eyes searching Amani.
“Is this hurting you?” he asked. “What you’re doing right now?”
Carefully, Amani pried his wrist free and stepped back, out of reach. Mr. Newcomb’s concern was kind, but all the masseuses had rules about letting clients lay hands, and Amani wasn’t about to break those rules for a confused straight boy who had good intentions, devastating eyes, and no clue what he was blundering into.
He deflected by plucking the towel Newcomb had discarded from the edge of the table and tossing it into the linen bin, then fetching a fresh one from the steamer. Honestly, it would help if Newcomb knew how to hold still. “No,” he said as he worked, ignoring the feeling of Newcomb’s gaze trailing him, intent and focused. “It’s actually good for my hands. It keeps them strong and limber without putting the wrong kind of repetitive strain on the tendons and joints, and the surgery corrected the majority of the damage.”
“So your hands are better?” Newcomb asked. “You could play again, if you wanted to?”
Amani stilled, staring down at his hands, the towel clasped between them. They seemed such unassuming things, long and slender and brown and work-worn, but one way or another they were everything to him. They’d been everything when he used to play. They were everything now, as he worked his way through college one massage at a time, eking out money for tuition and textbooks and anything else he had to in order to get his degree. They’d be everything in the future, when he used these hands to guide musicians with more of a future than he could ever have in making beautiful things, in coming together in harmony, some great confluence of lyrical gestalt energy that was so much more than they could ever be alone.
“If I wanted to,” he said numbly.
“Then teach me.”
He jerked his head up, staring at Newcomb. “Excuse me?”
The man had pulled himself up again, sitting up, leaning forward, almost straining toward Amani as if some invisible tether held him back. “I’m out of practice. I remember playing used to relax me like nothing else. I’m under doctor’s orders to get my stress down, so maybe if I take lessons with you…” He offered that disarming smile, self-deprecating. “I’ll pay you, of course. You need tuition money, eh? That’s why you’re working here?”
“Yes…”
“And it’s not enough? You said you were behind on your tuition.”
“…yes.”
Newcomb’s smile brightened as if that was that, easy and simple. “So teach me. I’ll pay you the difference. Or all of it.”
Amani only stared at him. Of all the egotistical, oblivious, privileged—and he just sat there smiling like he thought he’d done something good, like he was going to stroke an ego even bigger than that erect cock by swooping into Amani’s life and airily fixing all his problems when he knew nothing about Amani or who he was, what he needed, what mattered to him. This—this—rich asshole, this stranger who thought he even had the right—
Taking a slow, deep breath, Amani forced his voice to even calm, keeping his tone firm. “I’d like you to leave.”
Newcomb blinked. “I…why?”
“Because you’re an arrogant, self-centered asshole,” Amani snapped, flinging the towel down on his service cart, “and I am not a charity case.”
“I…I don’t understand what I did…”
“Of course you don’t.” Amani dragged the door open. He had to get out of here, or he would lose his temper—and he never lost his temper. He prided himself on his control, but with one presumptuous demand—not even a question—this man had him simmering and swirling inside like a firestorm. “People like you never do,” he flung back, already turning away. “I’ll leave you to dress yourself. And then I want you gone. I’ll tell the receptionist to refund the service cost to Mr. Harrington.”