Page 8 of Untouchable

Harp needs a minute alone with no eyes on him. He steps around Parker, trying not to hobble, and closes the bathroom door behind himself.

* * *

Parker is left standing alonein the man’s bedroom, utterly horrified. He stares down at his hands as though they’re covered with blood instead of coconut oil. He’s never had anything like this happen before—hell, he’s known around Rocky Mountain Bodywork Center as the person who can get along with any client.

Serves you right for being so cocky, the nasty little voice says, for thinking you were actually good at something.

He takes a deep, shaky inhale, bracing himself for when the client re-emerges.

* * *

For Harp,"just take a few deep breaths and get dressed" turns quickly into "just wet a washcloth and clean yourself off," which turns into "just take a fast shower."

He doesn't think about anything else—not the kid on the other side of the door, not whatever stupid thing he's just said, not the bracing pain radiating from his hip.

Once the water is hot, time flows too fast, and Harp is only vaguely aware of how long he's been in there. Parker has probably already left by now.

Good. That solves that.

* * *

After a moment,he hears the water in the shower turn on.

Hm. Well.

He’s not quite sure what to do, but he knows he can’t just disappear, not without apologizing and figuring out what just happened. He can’t exactly show up back at Rocky Mountain and say he’d gotten five minutes into a massage, had the client jump off the table, and then gone home. He’d lose his job.

Fuck.Fear spikes through him. He’d lose his job. The only, only thing he’s ever really cared about. What would he do then? What could he do then? He knows he’s useless at everything else, and he only has a high school degree. Would he move back in with his parents? Prove them right about all the times they thought he couldn’t manage to live on his own?

He clenches his fists hard and forces himself to breath deeply. Now is not the time for a panic attack. He looks up at the ceiling and tries not to cry, hoping that perhaps this is the most vivid and most distinctly uncomfortable dream he’s ever had. He’s ashamed, confused, and upset, and if he had a tail, it’d be tucked between his legs right now.

The water in the shower is still going, and there’s nothing he can do. So, Parker stands miserably in the middle of the room and waits as though he’s counting down the final hours on death row.

* * *

Harp staysin the shower until the hot water runs out, a luxury he rarely indulges in on the mountain. Water is a precious resource—but resources are there to be consumed, and Harp knows that the privacy, the sound of running water, and the heat on his muscles are the only things that will bring him down from the feeling that had come over him in the other room.

It had been panic and illogical fear—all of his anxieties about having a stranger in his house coalescing with the pain of the massage.

It put him right back into the hours after his car accident, when his privacy had been stripped away and the pain had been sharp and new.

Through sheer force of will, he refuses now to let his mind spend any more time there. The shower helps.

When he steps out, he eyes the dirty clothes he'd brought with him into the bathroom. If he'd known he was going to shower, he would've picked up something fresh.

Harp almost strides out of the bathroom naked—force of habit—and the only thing that stops him is the sight of the massage therapist's sheet on the floor of his bathroom. It’s odd to think about what he has to change about his routine to accommodate a visitor in his house, even for just a few minutes.

He wraps a towel low on his hips even though he's sure the kid is halfway down the mountain by now.

“Er—” Parker says, his voice coming out as little more than a squeak. “So how would you like to proceed?”

Holy shit. The kid stuck around.

Harp is torn between feeling awful that he just made someone wait for him to get done dissociating in the shower and feeling suspicious.

"You just... Stood here?"

* * *

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