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He rolls his eyes. “I wasn’t finished. I was leading up to my question. If you’re uncomfortable with men and touch, why choose massage therapy? It’s based entirely on physical contact.”
My jaw drops. How have I never once seen the irony in spending my days with my hands all over male clients, while simultaneously being terrified for a man to touch me?
That’s certainly something to discuss with Linda.
I pause, thinking. “I have a positive association with massage. When Lila and I started seeing Linda, she recommended following our sessions with a massage to help release tension from dealing with trauma. We got them at the massage school. Students have to perform massages for a certain number of hours to get their license, so they offer them inexpensively. And it did help,” I add. “I carry my tension in my neck and shoulders, and when I’d skip the massage, I had neck pain and headaches. Lila and I saw what a difference it made when we were trying to recover, and we knew we could help other struggling veterans.”
“Is it difficult for you to work with male clients?” From his controlled expression, I can tell he’s referring to their nudity.
“Not usually, because I feel like I’m the one in control. Our clients are referred to us by the VA or their family physician, so most of them treat us as medical professionals. Plus, our ‘welcome to the practice’ paperwork states that inappropriate behavior won’t be tolerated. We’ve only had a couple of men push the boundaries.”
Mark moves his attention to the bony base of my thumb, his long fingers gently probing and working out the soreness in the joint, and I sigh. “That feels wonderful.”
He smiles. “I've been taking notes.”
He works in silence for several minutes before reaching for my other hand and carefully kneading the base of each finger. “So how are things with Blake?” His tone is casual, but I know he’s asking because of my bad mood after my date Friday night.
I take a deep breath. “We’re having dinner again Saturday.”
He beams. “A second date? You actually had a Winner? I’m proud of you.”
I laugh. “Well, we’re having takeout and watching a movie with his nieces, so we’ll be fully chaperoned. I’m not sure that’s cause for celebration.”
He shakes his head. “Progress is always worth celebrating.”
“I’m not sure I’m making progress, but I’m trying.”
“That right there,” he tips his head instead of pointing because his hands are massaging mine, “that’s the progress I’m talking about. A few weeks ago, you weren’t even sure it was worth it to try dating. Now you’re giving it a chance. That’s progress, Charlie. Even if things don’t go anywhere with him, you –” he emphasizes, “are making progress.”
I smile shyly. “I guess.”
When I return after brushing my teeth, Mark is already in bed with his tablet. He’s got the covers turned down for me, and my handgun sits on his bedside table. I crawl in beside him, looking up at his face. “Are you sure you don’t mind staying awake every night?”
“I’m positive,” he says firmly. “I sleep perfectly fine in the daytime, and I wouldn’t sleep at all knowing you were on that bench. Besides, I like having you close in case I need you.”
I study his stubborn expression. “If you get tired of it, promise you’ll tell me.”
He nods. “I promise.”
I watch him another moment, then roll to my side facing the door, wriggling closer until my back nestles into his side. “Love you, Big Guy,” I say, closing my eyes.
“Love you too, Baby Girl.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
MARK
It’s not long before Charlie’s breathing becomes even. When I’m sure she’s asleep, I stuff another pillow under my head and tuck an earbud into one ear, then start a movie on my tablet.
The movie’s nearly finished when Charlie starts twitching erratically. I glance over. She’s tensing her arms, pulling them to her chest defensively and snapping her head from side to side.
I sit up quickly and toss my tablet aside. I look at the clock, worried I’ve missed her wake-up time, but it’s not even two.
“No,” she mutters. Her words quickly become more forceful. “No. No!”
Charlie begins struggling in earnest, kicking the comforter off the bed. Her eyes are open but unfocused, and she’s not registering her surroundings. I roll toward her. “Charlie,” I say in a loud but gentle voice. “You’re safe, Charlie. No one’s going to hurt you. You’re safe.” I repeat myself close to her ear, but she’s still not with me. I touch her shoulder as I say her name again.
In a flash, she throws her elbow back, catching me in the face as she growls curses. My head jerks back, and I rub my cheek. I’d forgotten how much elbows hurt. I avoid her elbow and wrap her in a secure bear hug so I can safely wake her, but restraining her only increases her agitation. With her arms immobilized, she arches her head backwards, aiming for my face. I tuck my head between her shoulder blades to protect my nose. I continue repeating her name, telling her she’s safe, but it isn’t helping.
