The Masseuse by Sierra Kincade Read Free Book Online Page A

the door and across the street. Maybe I let my hips sway a little more than normal, but I didn’t giggle until I was sure Javaz was out of sight.
    *
    Rave was sandwiched between an Irish pub and a tattoo parlor, neither of which were that busy at ten o’clock in the morning. Still strutting, I breezed through the glass doors, passing the salon’s manager, Derrick, at the front desk with a little wave, and making my way past the decadently framed mirrors and hair-washing stations to the styling chairs. There were only a couple of people in this morning—Rave did most of its business in the early afternoon and evening hours.
    A rail-thin girl in a black velvet tuxedo jacket, shorts, and torn fishnets replaced a broom against the wall and stalked toward me. With white-blonde hair, cut asymmetrically, and purple eye shadow, Amy was the definition of edgy. Here at Rave, she fit right in.
    “You . . .” she snarled as I plopped myself into her chair. I held the tea out before me like a shield to avoid the full extent of her wrath.
    She growled like a puppy and lifted the cup to her mouth. “You got laid. Good, it’s about time.”
    “What?” I hid my smile in my vanilla latte, taking a long, scalding sip. I didn’t mind the hot coffee in hot weather. The hotter, the better.
    “Oh, don’t even pretend you didn’t. I can see it all over your face, you smug little floozy.”
    “I didn’t.” I laughed.
    She rolled her eyes, set down her tea on the tray with her blow-dryer and other tools, and spun me around to face the mirror. Without discussion, she began piecing my hair, clipping it up, and making her mental preparations of just how she would dress up her favorite doll today.
    “It was the doctor, wasn’t it?” Her mouth fell open. “Dr. Randall!”
    “Dr. Boy Band? Yeah,
no
.” I made a face. “And honestly, what were you thinking giving him that haircut?”
    She stifled a laugh. “He asked for it.”
    “He asked to look like the only thirty-year-old cast member of the Mickey Mouse Club? Please.”
    “He brought in a picture.”
    I closed my eyes. Amy hated it when people brought in pictures of the hairstyles they wanted. According to her, they never were a good fit for the person’s face or personality.
    “Oh, come on,” she said. “You liked him after the first date.”
    When I was reasonably buzzed, and the bar where we’d met was too loud to hear him talk about himself.
    “He was an ass,” I raised my voice to talk over the dryer as Amy began to straighten my hair. “He ate dinner before I even showed up, and then, when I told him I wasn’t going home with him, he made a pathetic masseuse joke.”
    “I make masseuse jokes,” Amy said. “Dr. Randall was supposed to be a fling.”
    “Speaking of masseuse jokes . . .” Derrick strode up from the front desk, tablet in hand. With dark, flawless skin and a body perfected by hours at the gym, Derrick was two parts business, one part glam. Today he was showcasing the new smoky eyeliner we’d gotten in last week. If I was being honest, it looked a lot better on him than it had on me.
    I raised my cup. “Here we go . . .”
    “Mr. Herman is your eleven o’clock.”
    I groaned and slumped in the chair. Melvin Herman was a lonely accountant who scheduled a little too regularly and had to be reminded more than once about the sexual-harassment policy. He was harmless, but exhausting.
    Amy began to chuckle.
    “Hasn’t he been banned yet?” she asked.
    “He signed a client-conduct form,” said Derrick with a grimace. “He agreed to stop asking you out on dates and knows that he can only see you for scheduled appointments during regular business hours. You’ll tell me if he gets sassy?”
    I could hardly imagine Melvin “getting sassy.” The guy was forty-five, six feet tall, and a hundred and thirty pounds soaking wet. I doubted he even really knew what I looked like—every time he got a massage, he took off his telescope-lens