Page 4 of Untouchable

The young man's smile falters for the smallest fraction of a second. Good. Maybe somebody's home up there.

* * *

“Okay,”Parker says, nodding. It’s not the most expressive answer, but that doesn’t matter. Once the client is on the table, Parker will be able to feel the issue—clients were never very good at articulating their issues, but the knots and tension in the muscle tissue never lied.

“So,” Parker says briskly. He’s feeling more confident now, his training overriding any nerves he might have. “We’ll get you on the table and do a few mobility exercises to see what your range of motion is and so I can get a feel for what’s going on. Looks like the issues are mainly in your—” He consults the intake sheet. “—right hip. For this session, I’ll focus on the main problem areas and see what I find. If you can point me to the bathroom, I’m going to step out and wash my hands. You’ll disrobe and lay face up on the table underneath the sheet.”

Parker finishes his little speech in a rush, talking much faster than he normally does. It’s a speech he’s made zillions of times, at this point, but today he finds himself working not to trip over the familiar words. The client is staring at him blankly.

* * *

"Can I—Imean I fucked up. I thought you were coming next week," Harp says. His heart beats a mile a minute. He thought there would at least be a few minutes of buffer before he had to get on the table, and now that he’s actually thinking about getting undressed, this is the worst case scenario of everything. Ever.

Parker's mouth does a goldfish thing that’s oddly endearing and Harp wonders for the first time how old he must be. He realizes that he’s making zero sense.

"I didn't really—I mean I was chopping wood?" Harp continues.

There's no way he's even 25. He's stupid gorgeous, like a fitness model. The thought of his hands on Harp's sweaty, bloated corporeal vessel makes his skin crawl. This poor goddamned kid.

"Can I take a shower?" Harp finally asks, massaging the bridge of his nose and squeezing his eyes shut.

Christ, I need a cigarette.

* * *

“No worries,”Parker says, smiling easily. He’s used to this—clients were always convinced they would somehow mortally offend Parker with the smallest amount of body hair or acne. The clients who cared about this, though, were never the clients who actually needed to worry.

It’s surprising, though, Parker realizes, to see this hint of insecurity in the other man. It softens his sharp edges a little, and for the first time since he’s gotten there, Parker actually sees his client in a non-clinical light. He’s handsome, in a very rough, fierce way—there’s a little dirt smeared across his nose from where he just touched it, but there’s something compelling about how broad-shouldered and rugged he is.

Parker shakes himself mentally, putting himself back into massage therapist mode—a mode that did not allow for checking out his clients.

Still, though, the only way to lead a client through this initial discomfort was to pretend there was nothing weird about stripping down so a stranger could touch you.

“I’ll be right back,” Parker says brightly, and he hurries down the stairs before his client can protest.

Parker means to find the bathroom, but gets distracted by the two smaller dogs, who immediately swarm him. He coos to them for a moment, giving them ear rubs and butt scratches as needed—he is, after all, a professional when it comes to this kind of thing.

Okay, Parker, focus, he thinks.He reluctantly pulls himself away from the dogs and washes up in the small bathroom by the front door. Everything here, he notices, is tidy in a very comfortable, cozy way—much different from the ostentatious, sterile suburb full of new money mansions where he grew up.

He goes back upstairs, pausing before he can see into the bedroom area.

* * *

Parker disappearslike Harp has scared the living daylights out of him. Was it just because of how clearly disgusting Harp is from working outside, or had Parker's gaydar abruptly kicked in?

In any case, Parker is gone and he hears Gunny's bright bark that indicates someone wants to play. He wonders if it's directed at one of the other dogs or their unexpected visitor.

So... what now? Is he supposed to strip?

Harp rushes to the bathroom, strips to the waist, and grabs a baby wipe to aggressively scrub everything he can reach, deciding he won’t make Parker wait around for a full shower. He hears Parker climbing the stairs after a moment and waits in the bathroom doorway, not entirely sure what happens next.

“Okay, Morton, you ready for me?” Parker calls through the bedroom door after a moment.

"Jesus Christ. It's Harp. Please don't—Morton," he says, frowning. Jesus. “Yeah, anyway. Come in.”

Parker rounds the corner and Harp feels suddenly exposed. He hugs his arms against his chest and wonders if Parker is grossed out by his torso. "I go by Harp, if you don't mind."

Parker stops in the doorway and assesses him in a way that Harp hopes is the same way a vet looks at animals—lacking in judgement, objective.

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