Page 14 of Untouchable

“We’ll, um, start face up, this time,” Parker says, smile firmly back in place. “I’ll… step out and you can get on the table.”

* * *

Harp knowshe's fucked something up by the way the kid stares at him when he steps out. For a heartbeat, he can see Parker's smile become something other than professional, and he thinks that Parker is actually going to laugh out loud at him.

But instead, he steps out. Harp isn’t sure what he’s done wrong, but he gets under the sheet. Parker knocks twice before coming back in. Harp chooses a spot to stare at on the ceiling and takes a deep breath.

It's somehow worse being on his back, being able to seeParker.

“I’m gonna be very gentle,” he says. “But just tell me if anything feels uncomfortable. I’ll check in with you about pressure, too.”

With that, Parker begins to work, starting with Harp’s neck and shoulders. Harp braces himself for Parker to pick out the most tender spots on his neck and dig in, but it doesn't happen. Smooth, hot palms slide in unison on either side of his throat.

Harp's spine is abruptly missing. It takes ten or fifteen more seconds, but by the time Parker works lower, all of his bones have followed.

Harp wants to enjoy the sensation. He really does. But it's impossible for him to get past the klutzy reality of occupying a body that's being touched by a stranger—even if it does feel... really good.

Harp closes his eyes and pictures one of those deep sea fish or cephalopods, so regal in their suspended world but flattened, squashed, and strange on the decks of boats, out of their element, cruelly reshaped by the lack of the ocean’s pressure, and abruptly disgusting. Even a little frightening. Yup. That's me.

The image makes him smile and he doesn't hold back. It’s not the deep sea creature’s fault that it’s been plucked up out of the murky depths. It didn’t ask to be so disgusting.

Harp is a big, boneless ugly thing lying on the deck of a research yacht and Parker is the proud marine biology intern, happily poking and prodding him. Framing it this way almost makes the situation tolerable.

I'm just a whatever... a blobfish... The perfect catch for the Playgirl Jacques Cousteau. He's been searching for such a disgusting specimen for years, and finally, after long last, he's landed the elusive Harptopus.

He snorts and abruptly opens his eyes to check if Parker noticed.

Parker moves from Harp’s shoulders and to his right arm. If Parker notices Harp's daydreaming, he doesn't let on. Parker has really settled into his work, hands moving synchronized, controlled, precise. He's a grandmother kneading dough. A potter shaping clay.

A marine biologist proudly massaging the Harptopus.

The images help Harp step back without dissociating. He is not his body—but he is not beyond his body this time. He is dough, he is clay, he is random flesh. He is falling asleep.

Parker places his hand on Harp’s shoulder, strong but gentle, and bends down.

“I’m going to have you turn over now. I’ll hold the sheet in place for you.”

The words bring Harp out of a half-dream he’d begun and he jolts awake, going stiff under Parker’s hand.

"Holy shit. I fell asleep. Fuck, I'm sorry." The words tumble unfiltered out of Harp. How the hell had he fallen asleep? How rude and disgusting could you be? Had he snored—or even worse, had he eaten in his sleep like a dog?

“No worries,” Parker says, his voice still low and gentle. He holds the sheet and after a moment Harp realizes it’s so that he can turn over easily beneath. “Go ahead and flip, and place your face in the cradle right here.” He gestures to the small cushioned face rest at the end of the table.

Harp gets halfway between positions before something occurs to him and he stops, elbowing up so that he can look Parker in the face. "Are you going to touch my hip?"

* * *

“I was goingto go over it very lightly, but I can stay away from that area if you’re concerned,” Parker says. At this point, he’d be willing to sit across the room and play bird-chime spa music if it meant that Harp might actually trust him. He can see a wild sort of look in Harp’s eyes, something that could be mistaken for anger, but Parker thinks it might be something else.

He’s not sure what, though.

Trust me, trust me, trust me,he thinks, as if he can somehow telepathically convey his good intent to his client.

He smiles softly and hopes it’s enough.

* * *

Harp takes a deep breath.He doesn't want anyone or anything to touch his hip ever again after last week.

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