Page 22 of Falling

“We should head to our massages,” I suggest. We climb from the pool quickly. It’s colder than when we dived in. She pulls her robe around her; I towel dry. We both hurry inside to the spa.

The attendant trades us for new robes. Geneva disappears into the women’s locker room. I spin-dry my suit and then shower off the chlorine. Placing the suit inside a locker, I tighten the robe around my naked body and walk into the relaxation room.

“Close your eyes,” Geneva says when she joins me. She places cucumbers on my eyes. I feel her sit on the lounger next to me. “I’m looking forward to this,” she whispers. Me too, but it’s going to be awkward. All they had available was a couple’s massage room. I guess the nudity rule is about to go out the window.

“Mr. and Mrs. Winsloe, we’re ready for you,” an attendant announces from the doorway. Geneva cuts her eyes at me. I shake my head in apology. I’m sure I’ll hear about this later. We follow the woman to the treatment room. “I’ll leave you to get comfortable on the tables.” The door closes, and I turn to Geneva.

“I think I would remember getting married last night,” she says.

“Sorry, this is all they had. I just booked it under my name. They must have assumed we were married. I’ll turn my back so you can get on the table first.”

“Why bother if we’re already married?”

She slides the robe off her shoulders, and my mouth goes dry. Perfection stands in front of me in all her glory. Best friend’s sister, best friend’s sister, I chant in my head.

Oh, fuck it. I slide my robe off and raise my arms partway in an aggressive gesture. She takes her time perusing my body. I’ve got to get on this table before I have a full-blown kickstand to fight with.

We’re both lying under the sheets when the therapists enter the room. It’s a man-and-woman team. The woman moves to Geneva. I’m good with that. I might have to rip the man’s arms off if he touched her. I know he’s a professional, but just no. They go over the rules and whip the sheets down to our waists. A moan escapes Geneva when the therapist presses up her back. This was a horrible idea.

“Oh my god, this was a brilliant idea, Peter,” she moans.

“Maybe you should stay super silent to get the best experience,” I suggest. The moans are going to kill me.

“Problem?” I hear her laugh.

“When you’re involved, always.” Geneva releases a drawn-out moan worthy of an Academy Award. “Funny.”

“Are you okay?” the therapist asks.

“She’s just torturing me,” I say. “She obviously needs to be committed.”

“Don’t make me come bite those glutes,” Geneva says.

“You’re likely to break your teeth on these things,” my therapist points out. “What have you been doing?” His knuckles press deeply into the muscles.

“Owww,” I whine. The next time he presses against them, I manage just a wince. It’s the one area I wouldn’t let Geneva use her magical muscle balm on me. Now I regret that decision. “Jesus,” I huff the next time. Who knew your ass could take such a beating climbing down a mountain trail?

At last, the torture ends. Pulling our robes back on, we leave the spa for our rooms. We get curious looks in the elevator. Geneva doesn’t comment on her obsession with biting me this time at least.

“You want to throw on pajamas and come watch a movie in my room?” I ask when we reach my door. “I’ll order in.”

“Sure. Give me ten minutes.”

I prop the door open with the safety bar so she can let herself in. I’ll put off taking a shower for a little while so the oil can soak in. My butt muscles are finally starting to loosen. I guess that’s good news. Pulling on a pair of flannel sleep pants and a T-shirt, I return to the living area just in time to see Geneva step through the door.

“What do you want to eat?” I ask, picking up the phone.

“Salad.”

“Yes, I’ll take a Cobb with the dressing on the side. I’ll also order the filet cooked medium rare, fries, and two Negra Modelos.” I raise an eyebrow in question at her. She nods her consent. This isn’t our first rodeo. I know exactly what salad is her favorite, that she’s going to steal half my fries, and that she likes dark beer.

I don’t remember exactly when Geneva and I started hanging out together as friends. It crept up on us slowly. I do know that since Rand moved, she’s been a fixture in my apartment most nights. Often, she swung by after martial arts practice. She’d shower while I cooked. We’d eat and find a movie we could both tolerate.

“Any movie requests”” she asks. She flops down on one end of the couch, and I join her.

“Surprise me.”

“You know I’ll make you sit through cheesy B-rated rom-com if you say that just to be mean.”

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