“Excuse me, is this seat taken?” The woman’s voice takes me by surprise, rerouting my not-so-pleasant thoughts.
“Nope. Help yourself.” I quickly look around, noticing more than one vacant seat at the nearly empty bar, but think nothing of it, checking the score of the game.
I glance over at her and realize why the bartender’s suddenly lingering at our end of the bar. My bar stool neighbor is mighty fine. With long, straight, black hair that grazes the low-rise waistline of her jeans and a rack that would make any single (okay—or married) man drool.
I’m a moment too late in looking away and she catches me staring at her voluptuous set. Such a fucking pig! I know!
“Here for business or pleasure?” The way the word pleasure escapes her glossy lips...God, it’s been way too long since I last got laid.
Clearing my throat, and scolding my dick, I take a sip of my beer and politely engage the stranger. “Business. You?”
“Same. I’m Samantha, by the way.”
I grasp her extended palm, taking notice of her leopard print nails. “Declan. What do you do?”
“I’m a masseuse.”
Is she fucking kidding? Is this some sick test of my willpower?
“Is that so? Well, is there some Learn to Knead and Pressure Points 101 seminar going on here this week?”
She laughs, slapping her knee and revealing a tongue ring inside her open mouth. Oh, God. Willpower, where are you? “You’re clever, Declan. Thanks for making me laugh.”
I could leave it at that and end the conversation now, but inquiring minds want to know. “Rough day?”
She sips her martini, rolling her remarkable blue eyes. They match the sapphire glow of the light illuminating the bar. “You could say that. These retreats usually cater to the people on the receiving end of our services. Each masseuse-in-training is assigned to one lucky, randomly-selected sweepstakes-like winner. They enter through an online survey form and you never know what you’re gonna get. My guy was a seventy year old retired, refrigerator repairman with psoriasis and liver spots.”
“Lucky you.”
“Not so much. My partner, Courtney, was the lucky one.” She looks down at the fraying hole at the knee of her jeans. “Her guy looked a lot like you.”
Oh, Samantha, you’re not playing fair. “Sorry, but it sucks to be you. Sounds like Courtney got a hunk.” I make a point of flexing my pecks underneath my half unbuttoned dress shirt. Is this what Mia meant by oblivious flirting?
“You’re funny, Declan. Easy to talk to.”
“You too, Samantha.” I hope I’m not bordering on forbidden territory, but just sitting and talking and not worrying about anything is so relaxing. After this week, I need this no-brainer. Dinner with a stranger and some light-hearted conversation. I’m not doing anything wrong.
“Oh. My. God. You play guitar? You just got even hotter.”
“How ‘bout I up the ante...I sing too.”
“No shit? Sing something. Anything.”
“Here? No, gotta draw the line somewhere.” I haven’t sung for anyone but my wife in years.
With that thought my face must make a nose dive of a drop because suddenly Samantha is eyeing my wedding ring like it’s a four foot tarantula. I decide to call her on it, “You’re just noticing it now? Come on.”
She takes a second to answer, fixing her hair and adjusting her posture. “I’m not usually the home wrecking type, but I’ve been ignoring it for the past thirty minutes.”
What am I doing? This isn’t me. I don’t know how to handle women like Samantha—a sexy, forward, masseuse with a tongue ring.
“It’s getting late, Declan. Rub and Tug for Dummies starts at seven am tomorrow. I’m in room 401, here’s a room key. I have a break for lunch tomorrow at noon. Come hang out.”
Samantha the masseuse doesn’t give me a chance for a rebuttal, a rejection or to roll my wagging tongue back up into my mouth. She slips her room key underneath my napkin and saunters off into the great hotel-lobby unknown.
I took the fucking room key. I took it and I’ve been holding onto it like it’s the fucking Holy Grail since last night. I’m too weak to make the right decision, but smart enough to call and make alternate, believable plans.
“Hey, baby. Cutting the trip short to get home for a romantic night with your wife?” Mia sounds so different from the last few times we’ve spoken. The sultry way she answers the phone almost makes me forget about Samantha’s room key.
Get to the point, worry about the rest later. “Hi, Mia. You’re awfully chipper this morning. And you won’t believe it, but I have to stay another night. Something’s come up…the client wasn’t happy with the presentation and Robert wants another shot to impress them. I pulled an all nighter and we have another meeting in an hour.” A total lie, but a believable one no less.