Page 7 of Penny for Your Saints

I nod numbly, struggling with the cognitive dissonance of being in this all white, lavender and lemongrass scented palace with beautifully manicured indoor plants and the accessible beige accents of a resort while preparing to be matched with some anonymous alphas and their pack—when less than twenty-four hours ago I was sipping burnt coffee in the behavioral sciences basement with mildewy Berber carpet beneath my Aerosole pumps.

“There’s a comprehensive map of the facilities in the Diamond Center app.” She uses a plastic card with the center logo emblazoned on it to open the door to my temporary home away from home with a wave of her hand.

“Your bodywork appointment will be at the Diamond Spa on the garden level, your salon appointments will be right across the hall at our in-house salon, Morganite,” she continues on, pausing to take a breath—her eyes expectantly on the phone in my hands once more.

I drop my duffel bag on the queen bed at the center of my quarters and bring up the facility map, making sure my screen is still rotated enough for her to get a good look at it.

“Your scent specialist appointment will be in the placement wing on the third floor. Daniela will be your scent expert this evening—you’re going to love her. She’s literally the best.” The receptionist gushes, handing me my plastic room card.

“All of your daily schedules will be available in the itinerary tab on your app, and once you’ve made some scent card selections from Daniela tonight, you’ll begin to see match profiles in the ‘Pack-Up’ tab,” she adds with finality, her bright smile gleaming before she asks with that bubbly voice, “Is there anything else I can do to help you enjoy your stay right now, Miss Penny?”

“No, thanks—you’ve been so helpful, er…” I let my eyes dart to the little gold plate name tag affixed to her snowy white polo shirt; the name Daisy emblazoned in etched print. “—Daisy.” I offer her the warmest smile I can manage, considering my grim mood—hoping she’ll see herself to the door.

“Thank you for choosing Diamond Placement Centers! If there’s anything I can do to help you make the most of your stay, please don’t hesitate to ask. You can reach me or someone else at the front desk by pressing the ‘call a concierge’ button on the home screen of the Diamond Center app!” Daisy adds sunnily before making her escape.

Thank you for choosing Diamond Placement Centers.Pfft. I didn’t ‘choose’ shit, but starting this mess off with a hot stonemassage is hardly something to complain about, so I set to unpacking my things before I wander my way down to the spa.

The locker rooms shared by the center gym and spa are immaculate. Key card activated lockers, huge stacks of fluffy white towels, plush terry bathrobes, and scuffer slippers, emblazoned with gold embroidered Diamond Center logos as far as the eye can see, expensive shampoos and conditioners in the shower dispensers, and hair dryers that cost more than my first car all reflecting the level of luxury I’d expected out of the FBI’s placement center of choice, but still—it’s a bit jarring after coming from my nearly empty apartment, sparsely furnished with bargain basement items.

I swipe my card and jam my duffel bag into the locker; a fresh set of clothes and my hard drives zippered carefully inside. I shimmy out of my loungewear and into one of the snowy white bathrobes—my long, red hair tied back into a low ponytail.

The reminder notification for my one P.M. hot stone massage makes my phone vibrate, the application gently suggesting that I make my way to my appointment with ‘Hans’ in the Diamond Spa now.

I slip the phone onto the top shelf of the locker, swing the door closed, and swipe my card past the locking mechanism before I slip the plastic key card into the pocket of my robe—ready to go.

The spa is just like any I’ve been to before. A small, low lit waiting room, redolent with the scent of lavender and spearmint—the soft sound of pan pipes and brass singing bowls wafting from hidden speakers.

“Miss Penny?” A tall, well-built man with shoulder-length blond hair, a distinct large, hooked nose and a thick Scandinavian accent leans halfway into the door frame, reading from the clipboard in his hands.

Without a word, I stand from my seat.

“Hello miss! My name is Hans, and I’ll be your massage therapist today,” he greets me with a firm handshake before leading me down the hall to the treatment room.

“Is this your first massage, hm ja?” he asks sunnily as he opens the door to the dimly lit space; the massage table turned down amidst the reed diffusers and pink salt lamps.

“Not my first ever, just the first in a long time,” I admit on a sigh, leaning against the massage table as Hans makes markings on his client worksheet.

“Any problem spots you would like to focus on today?” he asks, his eyes traveling over me in the perfunctory way of professional body workers rather than the typical leering gaze of my male coworkers or men on the street.

“My neck and right shoulder are kind of a mess,” I admit, rolling my neck slightly, working the shoulder up and down.

“Hmm, ja.” He jots something down, moving down the list. “Any spots you’d like to avoid?”

I shake my head.

“Oh-kay then! Why don’t you decide on which massage oil you’d like to use for today’s session, then I’ll let you get settled before we begin.” Hans grins—placing his clipboard on the small space of counter beside the en-suite sink and gestures to the bank of large pump bottles on the far wall.

“Thanks.” I turn, barely halfway to the lineup of scented oils, when I catch the stretched silhouette of Hans’ dim shadow spring into motion on the wall above the bottles. There’s only a fraction of a second between the flickering motion of the shade before the loop of towel descends before my face—poised to pull snugly around my neck. Luckily, that’s just enough time to get one of my hands between my windpipe and the swath of terry cloth before Hans snaps it tightly closed like a noose.

I let out a muffled grunt—my own knuckles digging painfully into my voice box and windpipe, a scream dying on my lips as I struggle to make enough space to keep breathing.

My hips jut back—slamming my pelvis into his crotch with great force—a pained whoosh of breath leaves my attacker as he curves over my back instinctively from the groin strike. I use his own momentum to complete the motion of his forward flip—laying him out flat on his back. A shocked groan-gasp escapes him as the wind is knocked out of his lungs.

Newly freed from my towel choke collar, I let out a loud scream. “HELP!”

My hand is on the brushed stainless doorknob when suddenly I’m yanked off balance by my ponytail—pain screaming through my nervous system as I fumble backward—the room kicking off at an angle as my head is forced back.

I’m about to let out another pained yelp when the blade of Hans’ hand swiftly meets the side of my throat—a strangled gasp escapes me as pain blossoms hot and fast, my hands moving instinctively to the sensitive area.

---