Free Slices of Life by Georgia Beers Page B

Lindsay’s credit, she hung in there. She explained over and over again that Cara was completely off-base. Yes, sometimes Lindsay’s writing was a turn-on, but it was only the catalyst for wanting to be with Cara. She said it a hundred different ways and Cara finally forced herself to let go of any suspicions and to simply trust her girlfriend.
    It wasn’t easy, but she did it.
    Thank god, because Lindsay was amazing, they made a fantastic couple, and the sex was spine-melting.
    An impish grin on her face, Cara doctored her coffee with more sugar than she should and enough cream to sustain a starving cat and took a sip just as her coworker, Michael, came into the break room.
    “Hey, why don’t you have some coffee with your cream?” he asked her.
    “Ha! That just never gets old, no matter how many times you use it,” she replied wryly.
    “How was your night?” He pulled a bottle of water out of the refrigerator.
    “Awesome. Yours? Did you meet up with Mr. Six-Pack Abs?”
    “I met up, down, and sideways with him. I swear to god, the man’s a contortionist.” He took a slug of his water, then said, “Speaking of hot monkey sex, didn’t you spend the night with your little smut writer?”
    “I did. And it’s erotica, thank you very much.”
    “Smut. Erotica. Same thing.” Michael reached down and poked one of Cara’s thighs with a finger. “Sore?”
    She laughed and slapped his hand away. “Yes, if you must know.”
    “Good.” He waved a hand in a circle, encompassing her face. “You have dark circles under your eyes, but you’re smiling. A good combination. I like it. Looks good on you.”
    Cara just smiled at him. She and Michael had been friends for nearly a decade, having started work the same week. While she worked more on clients with chronic pain, he leaned toward the terminally ill. There were days when talking and joking about their sex lives was the only way they could keep from dissolving into tears. That they ended up trusted friends was simply a bonus.
    “Who’s up next?” he asked, running a hand over his very short blonde hair.
    Cara grimaced. “The Republican.”
    Michael made a face. “Ugh. Give him a Charlie horse.”
    “Don’t tempt me.”
    Cara divided her clients into three general categories: the confessors, the conversationalists, and the stony silent types. Her mood determined how she felt about each category on any given day. The conversationalists were the most bearable. They were clients who would make a little small talk, but just enough to fill the room if silence felt at all uncomfortable. If Cara was tired like today, the stony silent clients could make an hour feel like five. Having time to be lost in her own thoughts wasn’t a bad thing…unless she was in danger of falling asleep, mid-rub. If she was feeling prickly or irritated for any reason, the confessors could drive her up the wall. People had no idea that being a massage therapist was shockingly similar to being a bartender in that the confessors felt it necessary to spill their guts, to share with Cara their hopes, fears, dreams, beliefs. Maybe it was being face-down the majority of the time, not having to look her in the eye, that made them feel like they could unload. Cara knew infinitely more about most of her clients than she ever wanted to.
    Judd Pierce had arthritis, so he had a standing weekly appointment with Cara. He was also a confessor. Cara and Michael dubbed him “The Republican” for obvious reasons. Inexplicably, Pierce felt that being on Cara’s table was a green light to spout off on every government policy, every local politician, the president, and how “those idiot Democrats are running our country right into the shitter.” Oftentimes, she’d tune him out and fantasize about telling him he was being massaged by a real live homosexual. Then she’d daydream about telling him all the homosexual places her hands have been, all the homosexual things they’ve done. More than once,