“I know. I do, I promise.”

  “Do you? Do you know how it feels that he beat me at my own game? He made me grateful that they’re together. Grateful. My ex-domme and my son and I’m grateful. Because if it wasn’t for her, he would have nothing to do with me. Why can’t he be greedy for my money like normal children? People used to be terrified of me. Now I’m terrified that a twenty-five-year-old farmer who speaks French like a, well, a farmer will decide one day he doesn’t want to talk to me anymore. And it will kill me and he knows it and—and this is what hurts—he enjoys it. I will say this to you and only you, but I have, more than once, imagined punching my own son in the face. Nothing makes you weaker than love for your children. I hate being weak. I should have gotten a vasectomy at age fifteen.”

  He tried to sigh, to laugh, but it came out a groan of real anguish.

  “Could be worse,” Søren said. “Could be Wesley.”

  Kingsley laughed so hard he almost fell out of the bed. “Bastard,” he said and elbowed Søren in the side. “Don’t make me laugh when I’m trying to be maudlin.”

  “Admit it, her taste in boy toys has definitely improved.”

  “My son is not a boy toy,” Kingsley said. Søren turned his head toward him, arched his eyebrow. “He’s a man toy. Speaking of Wesley, is he still dating your—”

  “Safe word.”

  “Fine, I won’t bring it up.” He rolled onto his side facing Søren. “Are you angry? I know it’s been hard, but she’s content for once in her life, and you and I, we have fun together when she’s out of town, no?”

  “We do,” Søren said with a grin. “If I ever was angry, I’m not anymore. I only wanted to tell you the truth. Except I didn’t want to. And you wanted to hear it.”

  “Except I didn’t.” Kingsley laughed again. “Merry fucking Christmas.”

  “My sentiments exactly.”

  Søren turned toward him and drew him against his chest. “Can you stay all night?”

  “All night. Can you?”

  “All night. I have to leave early, though.” Søren didn’t sound happy about that.

  “Church or something?” Kingsley asked.

  “I have to pick up Eleanor’s gift for me. I think. No telling with her. She gave me an address and told me to be there by eight. Really, I don’t want to know. But that’s the game, isn’t it?”

  “That’s the game,” Kingsley said with a sigh. “Stupid game. Let’s never play it again. Until next year.”

  They lay together until they were moved on to other games. And after there were no more games to play, they spent the rest of the night tangled up in each other, wrapped in black sheets.

  January 6th

  At 7:30 in the morning, Lucky arrived at work. Since her first appointment was at eight, she needed to prep the space. She turned up the heat a little, put down a new bed warmer on her table, fresh sheets and blankets, and lit a pine-scented candle on the side table. After she changed into her work uniform of black slacks and a white polo shirt—square as hell but it made the clients comfortable seeing her in the same boring uniform every time they came in. Consistency and routine were reassuring for people who didn’t have a lot of stability in their lives.

  When everything was ready, she went to the front desk and opened her book to see who was coming in that day.

  Oh yeah, now she remembered. One of her favorite clients, Nora, had bought a session as a gift. New client. She checked her notes. Lucky got out her iPad and scrolled to the name Nora had given her. One name. No last name. Søren.

  All right, what was up with Mister Søren?

  Lucky shook her head as she read the notes over. Usually, clients told her standard boring stuff like, Don’t touch my feet, sciatica, old right shoulder injury, can’t use anything scented…

  But not these notes. They were probably the weirdest notes she’d ever taken on a client’s massage needs. More warnings than notes.

  He doesn’t know about this, and he’s not going to be thrilled when he turns up. Seriously. Be prepared for a big sexy bitch on wheels.

  No, he’s never had a professional massage before, and he’ll probably hate it. If you can even get him on the table, I’ll tip you fifty bucks for every fifteen minutes.

  Lucky remembered asking Nora why she’d booked a two-hour massage when she only expected it to last fifteen minutes.

  It’ll take him a while to agree to it. No hard feelings if he backs out.

  When Lucky asked why she’d be massaging a man who didn’t want a massage, Nora had given her a sad sort of smile.

  He doesn’t like being touched. But he doesn’t like that he doesn’t like being touched. I thought you could work your magic.

  And one last warning:

  Don’t take any shit from him.

  That wouldn’t be a problem. Lucky didn’t take shit from anyone.

  Her office was in a quiet street in the Irish Quarter, a small blue and white shotgun house converted into a massage and “healing touch” practice. She didn’t get a lot of motorcycles roaring in this neighborhood before eight in the morning, but suddenly there was one. Through the front window, she spotted a big black motorcycle. She didn’t know anything about motorcycles, except this one was pretty and sort of European-looking. A male-shaped person on the back of it. It rolled up to a stop near the front door. He turned off the engine and dismounted. (Is that what motorcycle dudes called it? Dismounting?)

  “Fuck,” Lucky said out loud. This was Nora’s friend? She’d expected your average good-looking white dude. This was not your average good-looking white dude. This was not your average anything. This was a human tree. Tall dude. Big dude. Not big like beefy but big like, well, just a big dude. Like someone crossed a soccer player with an Olympic swimmer, added twenty pounds of muscle, and put him on the back of a motorcycle. Good thing she’d bought the longer massage table.

  She watched, curious and a little nervous, as the man paused outside her door. He took off his black motorcycle helmet, and she caught her first look at his face.

  Oh, so not just a big, tall dude but a big, tall hot dude. He wasn’t Lucky’s type. Men, in general, weren’t her type, but she knew a pretty boy when she saw one. Silver-blond hair, straight nose, serious eyes, seriously handsome. It looked like he wasn’t going to come through the door when he saw the sign on the front of the building. But after a pause, he opened the door and walked inside.

  “Good morning,” Lucky said. She usually tried to sound professional with new clients—before she let her true self come out. “Are you Søren?”

  “Unfortunately, yes,” he said. The man’s glare could melt the glue on the wallpaper.

  Big sexy bitch, for real.

  “Did I pronounce that right?”

  “Not even remotely, but rest assured, I’m used to it.”

  She believed that but didn’t care. “How do you pronounce it?”

  “It doesn’t matter.” Good voice. Unhappy voice but a good voice.

  “It does to me.” She tilted her head to the side, waiting for his response.

  He looked at her, and she got a weird feeling his estimation of her went up a notch. A very, very small notch, but still, it was progress.

  “I’ll answer to Surr-n, Serr’n, or Sore’n, so say whichever you’ll be less likely to mangle.”

  “All three of those sounded like literally the same word to me.”

  Was that a smile she almost saw on his lips? Maybe?

  “In certain circles, I’m called Mr. S, if that makes it easier on you.”

  “I like Mr. S. That’s cute. Nice to meet you, Mr. S and/or Sore-en.”

  “I assume I’m expected.”

  “You’re expected. I’m Lucky, the therapist here.” She held out her hand to shake. He paused before shaking it. Big hands. Very big hands. But nice. Sculpted. No callouses. He didn’t do construction for a living, that was for sure.

  “You’re an infant,” he said, releasing her hand.

  “I’m twenty-two. How old are you, Mr. S?” Rude question. She was curious if he’d even answer it.

  “Fifty,” he said without hesitation though if he’d said “forty,” she would have believed him immediately. “I could be your grandfather.”

  “Maybe, I guess.” She gave it some thought, did the math out loud. “Fifty minus twenty-two divided by two…Factor in some early puberty and bad parenting… It could work. Nice to meet you, Granddad. Want to come on back?”

  “No.”

  “Are you going to come back anyway?”

  “What happens in the back?”

  “We talk for a few minutes.”

  “About what?”

  “About what we’re going to do? I know you’ve never had a massage before, but have you ever, like…heard of them?” She couldn’t keep all the sarcasm out of her voice. Just most of it. He didn’t seem to mind.

  He narrowed his eyes at her. “I’ve heard rumors.”

  She laughed. “Nora warned me about you.”

  “What did she tell you?”

  “Come on back, and I’ll answer that question.”

  He took a long breath, almost exaggerated. Well, nice to see he had a little bit of a sense of humor about the whole thing.

  “Don’t be afraid,” Lucky said. “I know I’m super scary-looking, but I’m not dangerous, I promise.”

  “You look like a Smurf.”

  Was this rude? Well, she did have blue hair, and she wasn’t very tall. The man had a point.

  “You think that’s an insult, but I love the Smurfs.” She waved her hand, beckoning him to follow her to the back. Fifty-fifty odds on whether he’d come back or not.

  He stood stock-still in front of the desk. Her heart clenched in sympathy. This really wasn’t easy for him.

  “Hey,” she said, “Nora told me she loves you. She wouldn’t send you to me if she didn’t think I could help you. And I promise you, Søren, nothing’s going to happen that you don’t want to happen. Nothing.”

  He sighed another exaggerated sigh. She grinned.

  He said, “Lead the way.”

  Usually, she’d take a client straight into the therapy room for a quick convo before the massage started. But with him…she decided to take it easy. She led him into the recovery room, which was just a nice spa-like sitting room. Two brown leather chairs, low light, soft music, a waterfall fountain, pale green walls, cushy rugs, and filled with the soothing scent of sandalwood incense. She took one chair and beckoned for him to sit in the other.

  “So,” she began, slapping her hands on her knees. “Søren—”

  “How does someone only twenty-two have their own massage practice?”

  “Deflection. Nice,” she said. “But Nora booked me for two hours, so if you want to hear my entire life story—”

  “I wouldn’t mind.”

  “Fine. Short version. Maybe it’ll make you more comfortable with me.”

  He didn’t look comfortable. He looked stern, closed-off, ready to bolt.

  “I grew up in the middle-of-nowhere backwater hellhole Louisiana, with a roughneck dad and a half-Indian mom, which made me very popular in the swamp, as you can guess. That’s sarcasm, by the way. Oh, and then it turned out I was queer. So, guess who got bullied all the time?” She smiled broadly and pointed at her face with both thumbs. “But I’m smart, believe it or not. At sixteen, I dropped out of high school, took the G.E.D., passed with flying colors, moved here, and got a job working the front desk at a massage clinic. Fell in love with the whole thing. I’d found my calling. So I saved my money, went to massage school, got a bank loan, and here I am. This is a massage and healing touch practice.”

  “Healing touch?”

  “I use touch to help heal the body and the spirit. Also, you should know this is a queer-only practice and safe space. My clients are all gay, lesbian, bi-, non-binary, trans, kinky. If Nora sent you here, I assume you fall into one of those groups.”

  “Yes, I’m a lesbian.”

  She held out her hand for a high-five. “Right on, Granddad. Samesies.”

  He looked at her hand. She waited, waved it. Finally, he slapped it gently. “I can see why Eleanor likes you. She’s obnoxious, too.”

  “Thanks,” she said. “Nora’s cool. She came to me for flogging elbow. It’s like tennis elbow, but you know, because of flogging. I don’t think she plays tennis.”

  “She does not.” He didn’t say anything for a moment. Then he said, “Kinky.”

  “You’re part of Queen Nora’s crew. No shock there.”

  “And, ah…bisexual.”

  She nodded, smiled. “That was hard for you to say.”

  He looked away, his eyes resting on the little waterfall fountain trickling quietly in the corner. “I don’t really think of myself in those terms.”

  “Big gorgeous white dude, manly as fuck on your big fuck-off motor-bicycle out there. Probably hard to see yourself as queer, yeah?”

  “Queer people are vulnerable.”

  “And you’re not.”

  He met her eyes. “No.”

  “You’re scared of getting a massage. I think there’s some vulnerability there.”

  “I’m not scared. I’m uncomfortable with the idea. Very different.”

  “You want to talk about that discomfort? Unpack it a little?” She leaned back in her chair to give him breathing room.

  “What’s to unpack? I had a difficult childhood like so many others. It leaves scars.”

  “Abuse?”

  “Yes.”

  She waited, gave him time.

  “Sexual,” he said. “And physical. And psychological.”

  “So the works, huh?” She’d learned through long practice to put people at ease by not overreacting to painful and traumatic revelations. They needed to be able to tell her anything without worrying they were upsetting her. Sometimes her clients’ stories made her sick, made her want to cry, and she did, but only after they were gone. She owed them that much. She owed them the chance to speak freely, without concern for anyone’s comfort but their own.

  He nodded.

  “And you don’t like being touched as a result?” she asked.

  “I associate touch with either sex or suffering. Even a hug from a friend feels like something I have to quietly tolerate.”

  “I could refer you to an excellent Reiki practitioner if you really don’t want to be touched. They do energy work more than touching. It would be a good place to start.”

  “As tempting as that is, I do want to overcome my aversion. And if Eleanor trusts you…I suppose I can try.” He fell silent a moment, then said, “I don’t want to be like this. I don’t want to let my past win this battle.”

  Lucky wished he liked being touched. She would have hugged him for his trust and his courage.

  “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry that happened to you, Søren. I can’t change the past, but I can help with some of the after-effects if you’re interested. But I need a little more information. When does your aversion to touch usually flare up? No offense, you give up strong ‘fuck off’ vibes. I can’t imagine many randos are coming up to you on Bourbon Street and pinching your ass.”

  “Only Eleanor,” he said.

  “I can believe that. Where does it get bad for you?”

  “At church mostly,” he said. “Are you Catholic?”

  “Come on. Look at me. Smurfs aren’t Catholic.”

  He laughed, almost. Not a real laugh, but she could tell he was warming up to her.

  “During Mass, there’s a moment called ‘Passing the Peace.’ That’s when we’re supposed to shake hands and kiss and hug each other.”

  “Sweet.”

  “It’s intolerable.”

  “That bad?” she asked, trying not to smile at his disgust at the very mention of hugging and kissing strangers.

  “Handshakes are fine. Anything else seems….” He exhaled. “Excessive. To say the least. Unfortunately, it’s unavoidable.”

  “A whole lot of people don’t like being touched by strangers, or even by friends. And a lot of them weren’t even abused. They just have strong boundaries around their bodies. There’s nothing wrong with that, and I don’t believe in trying to fix what isn’t broken.” She’d never touch anyone who didn’t really want to be touched. It went against everything she believed in as a therapist.

  “I know. However,” he surprised her then by smiling, “I have a son.”

  “You do? What’s his name?”

  “Fionn.” Then he said it again, slowly and sarcastically so she could hear how to pronounce it. “Fionn.” F’yawn.

  She smirked at him. “Thanks, Mr. S. Tell me about your Fionn.”

  “He lives in another country with his mother and her husband, but there’s a chance I may see him someday soon. I told Eleanor that it worries me that I may not feel comfortable holding him. If it weren’t for that, I’d happily go on tolerating the hugs. But—”

  “You don’t want to just tolerate being hugged by your son?”

  He was quiet, then said, “Yes. That’s it exactly.”

  She took a deep breath, slapped her knees. “All right. We can work on that. We’ll start small. On a scale of one to ten, how much would you hate it if I held your hand right now?”

  “We’re going to hold hands?” He looked like he was on the verge of laughing at her. Good. Better than tears.

  “Why not? I hold hands with a lot of my friends. It’s not romantic, not sexual. Just keeps us from getting separated in crowds.”

  “We’re not in a crowd.”

  “Yeah, but I don’t want you getting separated from me anyway.”

  His eyes met hers. “It wouldn’t be terrible,” he said. “Maybe a four out of ten.”

  “Four’s not bad. Most people would feel pretty uncomfortable holding hands with a Smurf.”