“That was rude of me. I apologize.”

  She shrugged. “You didn’t hurt my feelings. I don’t have any feelings.”

  His gray eyes brightened a little. “You are an unusual young woman.”

  “True, but I’m very good at holding hands.”

  She held out her hand, palm up and open, a peace offering. But also a test. If he couldn’t even let their hands touch for longer than the span of a handshake, he wasn’t going to be on her table today. Maybe not ever.

  “It’ll be all right, Granddad,” she said. “It’s just a little old hand.” She wiggled her fingers.

  “Since you are my granddaughter, I suppose it wouldn’t be that out of the ordinary to hold your hand.”

  He reached out and took her hand like he was going to shake it, but he didn’t shake it. He held her fingers. Lucky leaned forward in the chair and held onto his hand. His hand was so much bigger than hers, but it was still a good fit, like a child’s hand in a grown-up’s. She closed her fingers around his, and he let her. A few seconds passed. She waited for him to pull away. He didn’t.

  Lucky knew she was pushing her luck, but that’s how she got her name. Luck only came to those who pushed for it. She brought her other hand over his. Now she held his right hand with both her hands. She almost joked, A hand sandwich, but she managed to keep it on the inside.

  “I know you probably can’t feel it,” she said, “but right now, I’m sending everything good that’s in me into you. I’m sending my hopes and dreams and my kindness and my caring and my humor and my prayers for your healing into you.”

  He smiled. “You can do that?”

  He was sitting back in the chair, right arm out, right hand in hers. She could tell he was tolerating it well enough, but he didn’t seem to be getting anything out of it yet.

  “I can do that. And if you let yourself feel it, you’ll like it. It feels like a warm light shining into you.”

  She sent more into him through that sacred place where their hands met, where the healer met the one who sought healing. She sent the memory of Nora’s love and concern for him, the image of him holding a baby boy in his arms and smiling. She sent him the love she had for her work, her passion for her calling. And she sent her own little love she felt for him, for this man who teased her about her blue hair and let her call him “Granddad” without being the least insulted. Rare in any man.

  He leaned forward in his chair and brought his left hand to wrap over hers. They both leaned forward as if they were saying a prayer together, both their hands in each other’s hands. And the room glowed with the light of compassion, which she knew he probably couldn’t see, but she could.

  “You want to come back and get on my table?” she asked. “I have more light to give you.”

  He exhaled. “I’m willing to try.”

  She squeezed his hands. He squeezed hers back. Without breaking the contact, she stood up and led him by the hand back to her table.

  “Three things you need to know for your own comfort and safety,” Lucky said as she brought him into the therapy room. Only when she gestured for him to take a seat did she release his hand. “First of all—I’m going to lock the front door. The back door’s also locked. I’ll set the alarm. Nobody can get in here without us knowing. I pay for private security, and they’re good. No cops are going to raid this place and arrest you for unpaid parking tickets.”

  “You must work with victims of violent crime.”

  “A lot,” she said. “Too many. Second, I don’t care if you’re naked or if you’re fully dressed. Seriously. I can work with any variation of clothed or unclothed, and you’ll have a good experience.”

  “My mother was Danish so—”

  “Inherited that Scandinavian naked gene, huh?”

  He laughed softly. “Yes.”

  “I’ll kick up the heat a little more then. Third—you’re in charge. If I’m touching your leg, and you don’t want me to touch your leg, tell me, ‘Lucky, back off my leg,’ and I’ll back off.”

  “I appreciate that.”

  “Any injuries or pain you want to tell me about?”

  “I run, which leaves my feet and ankles are always slightly tender. And a little soreness in the right shoulder from last night.”

  “Flogging? Whipping?”

  “Strap and flogger.”

  “Giving or receiving?”

  “Giving.”

  “Cool, cool.” She picked up her iPad, made her notes.

  “Are you writing ‘flogging injury’ in my file?” Søren asked her.

  “I’m a professional, Mister. I called it ‘repetitive-stress myalgia in the right shoulder.’”

  “The gentleman on the receiving end would find that amusing. He just called it a ‘good night.’”

  She smiled. This was good. He was getting more and more comfortable with her. Maybe they’d make some progress today.

  “How do you feel about George Winston?” she asked.

  “I’m not averse,” he said.

  She queued up George Winston’s album “December” on her iPhone and adjusted the volume. She asked Søren a few more housekeeping questions, gave him the usual spiel about stopping for bathroom breaks, water breaks, and then it was time. Only one question remained.

  “You want to start face up or face down?”

  He stared up at the ceiling as if it could give him the answer.

  “Both sound equally appalling.”

  “I work with a lot of dudes. If you get a boner from a foot rub, I don’t care. It happens. The body has a mind of its own. Just don’t point it in my direction, please.”

  He exhaled. “I suppose face up.”

  “All right. I’m going to step out for five minutes, let you undress, get on the table under the sheets and blankets, and I’ll be back to get started.”

  At that, she dimmed the lights to low and stepped out of the room. First, she locked the front doors. Second, she set the alarm. She turned up the heat another notch, and then it was time. She knocked softly on the door and then went inside.

  Søren lay on his back on her table under the blankets.

  “Comfortable?” she asked in a soft and careful voice. She was always gentle with her new clients.

  “I’m not completely miserable.”

  Probably as good as it was going to get from him. Lucky made sure to tell him everything she was doing as she did it. I’m going to put a bolster under your knees now. I’m going to straighten the blankets. I’m going to adjust the table height. Surprises were never good for nervous clients.

  One thing she noticed, without meaning to notice, was that he had a good body. A very good and very naked body. And definitely Scandinavian—the carpet matched the drapes.

  “You should know, Nora said she’d pay me fifty bucks extra for every fifteen minutes I keep you on the table. Don’t let that influence you. Just wanted you to know my ulterior motives.”

  Søren seemed to think about that for a moment. Then said, “Bleed her dry.”

  Lucky laughed and put her hand on his hand. They’d established that much of a comfort level with each other. He squeezed her fingers and then let his hand go lax in hers.

  “So you said hugging made you uncomfortable, but handshakes don’t, and handholding isn’t that bad either. So it sounds like your area of issue is your chest and stomach. What I’ll do is start on the outside—hands, feet, head, neck—and spiral my way in before I go near your chest, hips, and core.”

  His only response was a slight nod. She went to work thinking, Magic hands, don’t fail me now.

  Lucky got out her best massage lotion, scented like the sea, and squeezed it into her palm. As promised, she started on his hands. A lot of people told her the hand massage was their favorite part anyway. So much typing, so much wear and tear on the fingers in everyday life that everyone should get their hands massaged every now and then. And his were nice to massage, not only because he had beautiful hands, but they emanated a gently vibrating aura, vibrating almost audibly, like music.

  “You a musician?” she asked.

  “Pianist. Did Eleanor tell you?”

  “No. But sometimes I can feel music in people.”

  “You can feel music in my hands?”

  “I can sometimes sense stuff about people through touch. Don’t let that freak you out.”

  “I’m skeptical, but I am not ‘freaked out.’”

  She worked on both hands, felt the vibration grow louder and lovelier the more his hands relaxed into hers. She was almost sad to let them go when it was time to move on. The next stop was his feet. He’d warned her he was a runner. His feet showed it.

  “You beat the hell out of your feet,” she said as she worked her fingers up and down the top of his right foot, to the ankle, and back to the toes. “How much do you run a day? A thousand miles?”

  “Seven miles three to five days a week.”

  “Damn. Please tell me you eat an entire sleeve of Oreos sometimes.”

  “Never.”

  “Shit.”

  He was silent for a moment and then said, “However—”

  “Yeah?”

  “Thin Mints,” he said. Lucky laughed. “Don’t tell Eleanor.”

  “What happens on the table stays on the table.” Sometimes she talked the whole time during a session. Sometimes she said nothing at all. The talking seemed to distract him from what was happening, but that might not be a good thing if they were trying for comfort. Comfortable and distracted weren’t the same thing. She shut her mouth and went to work on the soles of his feet. She concentrated on imparting white healing light through her fingers and into his well-used feet. Feet were important. They carried the body on its journeys. She sensed that he was at the beginning of a journey. A journey to a crossroads and that choice of paths would be the most difficult choice of his life. She didn’t say anything to him about that. There was no stopping it, no warning him off of whatever the universe was bringing to him. But she could help him be stronger for his quest, steadier on his feet. She pictured a white ball of pure healing light in her hand, and she pushed it through the tender arch of his right foot.

  Søren flinched. It was so sudden she almost gasped. Only years of training kept her from reacting. She never ever let herself react. Only a client was allowed to react.

  “Did I hit a sore spot?” she asked, keeping her voice calm.

  “No, it…It felt good.”

  “Good,” she said brightly as if she had been expecting that reaction all along. She kept working at the sole of his right foot and then moved to the ankle. She gave the tendon extra attention. He released a little breath.

  “Bad or good?”

  “Good,” he said.

  She smiled to herself.

  “I saw that,” Søren said.

  “I’m allowed to be happy that you’re enjoying this.”

  “I’m enjoying….parts of this. Not all of it.”

  “Would you like a warm compress for your eyes?”

  “Are you trying to get me to stop watching what you’re doing and commenting?”

  “Maybe.”

  “I wouldn’t say no.”

  Not quite “enthusiastic consent,” but that was probably as enthusiastic as he was going to get today. She took a compress out of the towel warmer and laid it over his forehead and eyes.

  “Isn’t that nice?”

  “It’s…tolerable.”

  “Such a flatterer. I’m imagining the Yelp review right now—‘Not the worst thing I’ve ever experienced. I would rather have been shot in the eye, but since that wasn’t an option, this was an acceptable substitute. Five stars.’”

  “Four stars,” Søren said. “You called me Granddad.”

  “Relax, Granddad. You might actually like this part.” She grabbed one ankle at a time and pulled gently, shaking the leg, which was her go-to technique for stubborn clients. It felt impossibly good, at least to her. She had no idea what sort of magic that worked, but on runners especially, it was almost—

  “God,” Søren said.

  “Better than sex, right?”

  “Close.”

  “All my drag queens love that one. Those insane high heels they wear fuck their lumbar spine up.”

  “Always delighted to be in the company of drag queens.”

  Feeling ludicrously triumphant after that victory with Søren, Lucky went all-in on him, giving him everything she had to offer. All her best techniques, all her concentration, all her strength, and all her compassion. She worked on his shoulder, giving more attention to the right than the left as that was the one experiencing pain. It was her favorite part of the job, feeling a knot of tension dissipating under her fingers.

  Slowly she worked her way in from the outskirts of his body to the center of his being. To his chest where he kept his lungs and his heart. To his pelvic area where he kept his power, his sexuality, and the suffering he carried from whatever happened to him as a kid. His thighs were like steel—from the tension, not the running. She was in dangerous territory here, and she tread lightly, carefully. Every time she moved closer to his hips, she let him know.

  “Since you’re a runner, I want to work on your hip flexors. You okay with that?”

  “I’m fine with it.”

  He sounded tense, and she felt the tightness in his body, but he’d agreed to it, probably because he knew he needed it, even if he didn’t want it. She went in carefully, uncovering first his right hip and massaging the tendons before going to his left. It had a bruise on it.

  “Don’t ask,” he said.

  “I’ve seen bite marks in stranger places.”

  She worked around the bruise, massaging until the tightness in his hip turned supple and soft.

  And that was it.

  “Ready to turn over?” Lucky asked softly. This was a big moment.

  “No.”

  “We can stop now if you want. I know prone isn’t really the most comfortable position for a lot of people.”

  He took a long breath. “We can try.”

  She held the blankets as he turned over and laid his arms down the length of his body. She pulled the sheets back to his hips. He had the most beautiful sculpted, muscular, sinewy, strong back of any man, woman, or non-binary person she’d ever seen on her table. Angels blew their trumpets when he took his shirt off. She’d heard of marble statutes that looked like human flesh, but his human flesh looked like a marble statue. She was almost surprised it was so warm and supple under her hands. But she didn’t let his physical beauty intimidate her. Everyone was equal on her table, young and old, ugly and beautiful, sinners and saints.

  Slowly she worked her way from his shoulders to his mid-back to his lower back where she felt so much tension she was shocked he wasn’t in active pain. It was like his midsection was wrapped in a band of black iron. This was where he carried the weight of his secrets and his suffering, right here in the very core of him. She gathered all her empathy, all her strength again, so much she knew she would be drained for the rest of the day…gathered it into a golden ball and worked it into the small of his back with the heels of her hands. The pain was darkness. She shone the light onto it. The darkness feared the light and fled from it.

  A soft sound came out of Søren’s throat, and she knew the pain was gone.

  At least for now. The pain never stayed away for long. But that’s what she was here for. She’d fight it as long as it needed fighting because everyone who knew what chronic pain was like knew that even one day without it was a gift.

  When the massage was over, she lifted her hands off his body like a pianist lifting their hands off the keys after a final note.

  “We’re done,” she said quietly.

  He turned over onto his back, stared up at the ceiling, exhaled. “Thank God.”

  “I’m almost hurt.” Not almost. That did hurt. But she smiled anyway, for his sake.

  “No,” he said. “That’s not what I meant. I meant, thank God it was…not unpleasant.”

  Her heart danced. “You liked that?”

  “Parts of it. Parts were difficult, but some of it was pleasant. And a few moments were…sublime.”

  “The leg-pull thing?”

  “That should not feel as good as it does. Thank you for that new experience.”

  She smiled, put her hand on his. He immediately squeezed her fingers. She felt the joy of a parent feeding their child waking from a coma, clutching the hand like a signal, a message that said, I’m alive, I’m alive, I’m still alive…

  She squeezed his hand back, said, “I’ll let you get dressed. Sit up slowly. You might feel dizzy. When you’re ready, you can meet me in the recovery room. Would you like water, hot tea, or coffee? I make a mean masala chai.”

  “Masala chai would be very nice.”

  As she started to leave the room, he sat up and ran his hand through his hair. Knees up, head down, and breathing…he looked drained, like he’d just run a marathon or endured a powerful test.

  “I’m proud of you, Søren,” Lucky said. “I know that was hard for you.”

  He turned his head, smiled at her. She could tell he was trying not to laugh. He probably didn’t have Smurfs telling him, “I’m proud of you,” very often.

  And he was very handsome when he smiled. In fact, he looked nothing like a granddad, especially not hers.

  “Thank you, Lucky.”

  Ten minutes later, she had his masala chai ready. One for him and one for her. He came into the room, took the cup from her hand, and took a long sip.

  “Very good.” He took another sip, then another, then set the cup down. “I should be going.”

  “Let me get the door for you.” The after-party was always a little awkward with a new client. She smiled and led him to the front door, unlocked it for him.

  “It was nice to meet you. I hope I see you on my table again someday.”

  “My life doesn’t allow me these sorts of luxuries. Please don’t be offended if you don’t see me again. It’s nothing personal.”

  She was touched by his concern for her feelings.

  “What do you do for a living? Or should I not ask?”

  “I wouldn’t ask. But suffice it to say, it doesn’t pay well. Don’t let my ‘motor-bicycle,’ as you called it, fool you. It was a gift.” He pulled on his black leather motorcycle jacket and zipped it.