Between These Walls (7 page)

Hunter returned his attention to the massage table. How was he supposed to ask the most obvious question without appearing insecure or flat-out ridiculous? He decided to go the laid-back route.

“So how, uh, how much do I take off? You know, for the ...” He nodded toward the table.

“Oh, that?” she said, her voice nonchalant, as though she answered that question more than any other. “Whatever you prefer. Half the clients stay in their undershorts, the other half gets fully undressed.” With another perusal of the clipboard, she said, “Lower-back pain? How far down can you feel it reach?”

“Down to my waist.” Then he clarified, “Farther below my waist.”

With a nod of understanding, she replied, “It’s up to you. It’s easier to address the pain if you’re fully undressed. It allows the therapist to make direct contact with the flesh. If you’ve ever tried to give your girlfriend a back rub, you might have noticed how the fabric, to an extent, blunts what you’re doing.”

She was right about that.

She pointed to the corner of the massage table, where a folded, pastel-green towel sat.

“You can cover up with a towel.” She took a final glance at Hunter and winked. “It’s not as awkward as you’re thinking. When you’re ready, go ahead and lie down on the table and make yourself comfortable. It’ll be just a few minutes.”

And with that, she walked out the door, closing it behind her.

Hunter took another look around the room, then closed the blinds a little more. He examined the tinted windows closer and tried to recall an instance where he
could
see in from the outside of one of these buildings, but nothing came to mind. His heart thumped. Why was he nervous? It was an appointment, that was all—albeit an appointment far outside his comfort zone.

With an exhale, he began undressing, tossing his clothes onto a chair in the corner of the room. As the layers came off, he was thankful he’d agreed to the table warmer. And the feeling of his bare feet on a carpeted floor that wasn’t his home struck him as odd.

He put his fingers to the waistline of his boxer shorts, then second-guessed whether he wanted to take the plunge. But if Ellen was right and this would relieve his discomfort, then in the end, awkwardness wouldn’t matter.

Plus he thought about the massage therapist. Despite the receptionist’s claim, he still didn’t believe she had many male clients. Would it be as awkward for
her
as it was for Hunter? In that case, the scenario gave them a level playing field. It would be no different if Kara had decided to become a massage therapist and started practicing on him.

He stepped out of his boxer shorts and tossed them on top of his other clothes. The chill of the air against his skin seemed strange. Then again, how many times had he changed clothes in a locker room? Same thing, he figured.

He climbed onto the table, face down, and managed to drape the towel over the area his boxer shorts had covered. He crossed his arms and buried his face in them, ready for a nap. He melted into the table’s heat.

A minute later, when Hunter had all but dozed off, he heard a quick, quiet knock, followed by the click of the door as it opened. The massage therapist walked in and closed the door, back turned toward Hunter.

Hunter hadn’t expected the therapist to be another guy.

Okay.
Hunter braced himself mentally. He couldn’t exactly race out the door. How stupid would that look? His mind raced in a matter of two seconds.

Hunter looked up again to take in the sight of the person as he turned around. Dressed in short-sleeved, navy-blue scrubs, the guy was a slender six feet tall. His short, blond hair carried a hint of red. Combined with his fair skin, it suggested a Scandinavian background. Hunter was a sucker for light complexions and that hair color.

“Hello, I’m Gabe Hellman.” The therapist extended his hand for a handshake.

Hunter wriggled his arm from under his chin.

“Hunter ... Carlisle.”

As they shook hands, Hunter noticed Gabe’s forearms boasted a solid bulge, the type that develops when you spend a lot of time lifting heavy materials. He attributed this toned feature to the result of applying massage pressure day in and day out.

Gabe smiled and headed to the desk. In a split second, on his way there, his eyes flicked back to Hunter a second time. Something in that glance hooked into Hunter, caught him somewhere within. In that moment, Hunter wondered why the second glance had occurred, then assumed it was because Gabe didn’t receive many male clients. Maybe the sight of a male client had taken him off guard. That made sense. After all, hadn’t Hunter felt awkward coming here in the first place? And seeing another male enter the room for the appointment had brought Hunter himself to a halt. Maybe it had had the same effect on Gabe Hellman.

No, on second thought, Hunter was positive he’d seen something else in Gabe’s glance. But he also knew how these situations went, how mixed signals occurred. It always turned out that way, as far as he could tell. So, in line with how he approached this type of scenario, he resigned himself to not read anything into what he thought he’d seen.

Reading between the lines left him disappointed every time, as it had with Jake Geyer a few days ago. And it reminded him of how alone he felt.

Immediately Hunter felt guilty for thinking such a thought about another man in the first place. He shook the notion from his mind. Hunter willed himself to appear indifferent, to hide any clues about what had tiptoed through his thoughts.

“So, Ellen referred you?” Gabe dragged a stool toward the massage table and sat down. “I love her. Any friend of Ellen’s is a friend of mine.” Gabe struck him as a guy-next-door type, but of a creative variety. He appeared confident, comfortable in his own skin. His voice carried a lilt, a subtle one, not overbearing. His enunciation contained precision beyond the norm, each word a dainty morsel.

“Yeah, she’s ... This was her idea. This massage.”

Gabe gestured toward the clipboard with his thumb. “You’re having back discomfort?”

“It comes and goes. Intensity changes by the day.”

“And you mentioned on the intake form that it occurs in your lower back?”

“It starts a few inches above my waist and stretches south from there.”

“Many people make appointments for that type of issue. For the vast majority who come here, massages help relieve the pain. Oftentimes, it’s nothing medical, just stress-related.”

“I figured the same thing.” Hunter relaxed. He realized Gabe’s conversation had eased him into comfort, though Hunter hadn’t noticed it happening step by step. “I was an athlete back in my teens. Lots of pulled muscles, never a medical emergency.”

If ice caught fire, it would take on the color of Gabe’s blue eyes. A trace of bashfulness ignited inside Hunter. It melted the courage to look directly into Gabe’s eyes, which left Hunter frustrated as he slipped further into the attraction zone.

But those eyes also communicated compassion, like Gabe understood—or, at least,
wanted
to understand—what Hunter told him. That alone caused Hunter to relax further. Hunter didn’t experience that comfort often, especially among friends. Men didn’t seem wired that way. Although Hunter didn’t consider himself to need it often, he had wished for that connection every once in a while. And that subtle yearning had grown in the four years since he’d graduated college.

More than that, Gabe struck Hunter as familiar. Had Hunter met him before?

“What’s your idea of heaven on earth?”

“Huh?”

“Heaven on earth,” Gabe said. “If you could escape today, leave your life behind and go anywhere, where would that place be? What would it sound like?”

Was this his attempt at conversation? Nonetheless, Hunter contemplated his answer. He drew his arms tighter together beneath his chin, and his biceps flexed before returning to their mode of rest. “I’d drink a Red Stripe on the beaches of Jamaica. Or any island down there. Hot sun, hot sand, ocean.”

Gabe shut the blinds completely, then dimmed the lights to a snug glow. He walked to a bookshelf and thumbed through a row of compact discs. “And the ladies, right?”

“The ladies?”

Gabe inserted the disc into the boom box and hit Play. The sound of steel drums coasted through the speakers at low volume. His hand lingered midair for a moment as he turned. “Sure. There’s always a beautiful woman that ends up sitting beside you at the little grass-hut bar in the tropics, right?”

“Oh, right,” Hunter said, humming to the drums before he could stop himself. He gave a halfhearted nod toward the boom box. “I like the music.”

Gabe rubbed his hands together. To warm them up, Hunter assumed.

“I’ll start at the top near the shoulders and work my way down,” said Gabe. “When I reach your back, I’ll focus more time there. Does that work for you?”

“Sure.” Might as well. Hunter wouldn’t know what to suggest as an alternate plan. He removed his arms from beneath his chin and settled them flat upon the table, one arm parallel to each side of his body. Then he shut his eyes, focused on the music, and anticipated the relief he hoped would come.

Gabe began at the lower edge of Hunter’s neck, rubbing in concentric circles. His slender figure belied the strength in his fingers, which felt determined and firm. As Gabe progressed, he incorporated his fingers, forearms and elbows along surfaces and crevices in creative ways. Hunter picked up the faint aroma of unlit candles from the nearby shelf. Though he couldn’t identify the scent, it contained a pointed, woodsy tone that kindled vibrancy in his senses.

As Gabe’s arms brushed past Hunter’s face, once again Hunter picked up traces of his masculine, invigorating scent. The hair on Gabe’s arms possessed a wintry color tone, so fair that it glowed in the room’s dim light.

Hunter sensed his physical tension heading for unseen exits. Muscles shuddered and settled inside him. He hadn’t realized how much tension he’d stored until now, as his body melted into relaxation.

Though he kept his eyes shut, Hunter analyzed this massage scenario in the recesses of his mind. He probed the sensations and his responses to them.

He’d never had another man’s hands or fingers on him like this. Well, that wasn’t accurate. Back in school, he’d experienced it from team staff members after extreme muscle pulls. But today marked the first time a man his own age had touched him for an extended period of time.

This also marked the first time a man he’d found
attractive
had touched him like this. His belly quivered in a combination of sweet and sour. Hunter stifled it. What would Gabe Hellman think if he knew Hunter had enjoyed this moment for a reason that didn’t involve tension or discomfort? Though he’d admit it to no one, Hunter found himself searching for an innocent way to savor the moment. He had a rare occasion to dip his toe into this experience, a simulation of physical affection from another man, without anyone knowing it. Just one more secret to hide within the walls of his heart.

After lying still and enjoying the contact for a few minutes, nervousness crept in—the sense he had treaded into territory he shouldn’t have entered. With a mental sword, he attempted to slice away the attraction he felt. He constructed a wall to guard his heart from further exposure.

The salesman in Hunter couldn’t help but break the silence in the room. It would also distract his own attention and help prevent his mind from wandering again.

“How did you get into this line of work?” Hunter asked.

“Not what you’d expected, huh?” Gabe’s tone indicated he knew what Hunter had
really
wanted to ask—why a guy would become a massage therapist—and could appreciate the humor in it.

“I guess you could say it goes against the stereotype I had.”

Gabe chuckled. “Stereotypes aren’t always accurate, but they sure are convenient, aren’t they?”

Hunter shrugged his shoulders but said nothing. His conscience reminded him of how much protection he’d found in the masculine, athletic stereotype over the years. It made for the perfect hiding place. Yet his greatest fear was that, one day, he would make a small—yet critical—error, and his house of refuge would come crumbling down on him.

Once, in a college psychology class, the teacher had remarked that, according to statistics, those dealing with homosexuality are more likely to be individuals we would
least
suspect. For men, we build an image of limp wrists, curves around a voice, and flamboyant or feminine qualities. But oftentimes, the instructor claimed, a homosexual is a man’s man. Your favorite coach or star player. To this day, Hunter could remember his posture growing rigid in his chair at that remark. It had struck the fear of God into him. In that moment, the class of forty students felt much, much smaller. And in Hunter’s mind, all eyes had turned toward him, waiting for him to blink first and thereby shoot his whole masquerade to hell. Hunter didn’t know if the teacher’s claim was true, but it had affected him more than he wanted to admit.

“Believe it or not,” Gabe continued, “my career started with a summer job. The summer after my junior year in college, a friend of mine got me a job working in a hotel in Akron—you know, to earn cash. She worked as a massage therapist at the hotel and made decent money with it. They had me doing laundry at the hotel, so I delivered towels and sheets to her office. One day, as we talked, I took a look around her office, and she convinced me to let her give me a demonstration. It felt amazing.” Gabe shrugged, working his way farther down Hunter’s back. “It seemed like I could get the hang of it if I tried, so she started showing me techniques. After graduating college, I needed an actual job. So she convinced the hotel to hire me as an assistant while I earned a certificate in massage therapy.”

“So what’s your college degree in?”

“Fine arts. My emphasis was on performance art—acting, stage production.” With a smirk, he added, “Not a lot of demand for actors in this area, and I needed to pay the bills. So years later, here I am, relieving the Hunter Carlisles of the greater Cleveland-Akron area.”