Page 130 of Black Light: Cured

admit that sort of thing happens.”

“Yes,” I relent. “It does. That’s why we fight the stigma so hard.” Sighing, I lie back on the exam

table and try to figure out which hills I want to die on. It’s obvious that even with the point guard’s

marked improvement, Master Aiden still doesn’t believe in my abilities.

“I know how hard you work.” His voice is soft, soothing, like he’s trying to lull me into not being

upset with him anymore—and unfortunately, it’s working a bit.

“As for my scope,” I continue, giving him the side eye. “I only did what any trained therapist

would have done. I used stretching techniques, well within my scope. I used massaging techniques—

petrissage and effleurage, if you want me to be specific. I stripped the muscles using my thumb and

forefingers, and then I deactivated his trigger points with instrument-assisted soft tissue mobilization

tools and other various techniques. Care to hear more?”

He stares at me, his lips parted, as if I’ve somehow pulled the rug out from under him. “Whatever

you did,” he finally responds. “It worked. He came in to see me today with marked improvement. I

put him through his range of motion several times, just to be sure. I have no other way to explain it

except you did something absolutely amazing.”

For the first time since we officially met during that fateful massage, there’s something in his eyes.

Something I haven’t seen before. The closest I can come to describing it is… pride. As if he’s proud

of the work I’ve done with our client. But he shouldn’t be proud of that. It’s my job. It’s what I do.

Voice soft, I turn my head, feeling a touch bashful at tooting my own horn. “I don’t heal people for

the accolades. I don’t get them out of pain just to hear them say ‘good job.’ I don’t accept awards so I

can display them and have people ooh and ahh over me. Healing is what I was called to do. Just like

submission. It’s a part of me, an integral piece that makes me who I am.”

“Yes,” he murmurs, his touch soft as he skims my cheek. “I think I’m finally starting to

understand.”

“I’m not going to keep fighting with you on this, insisting that you respect my work. Honestly,

having you seem a touch proud of my work with our patient is more than I ever expected. I’ll take

having you proud of me even if you still think my job is worthless.”

Frowning, he pulls back, hurt shining in his eyes. “My opinion of massage therapy isn’t about you.

I thought I made it very clear that I can separate you from your work.”

“That’s what you don’t understand. When you see my job as worthless, it honestly makes me feel