Sweet Release (A Bad Boy Mafia Romance) Read online

  My client book was full up for the day. Four in the morning, an hour lunch, four the in afternoon. I stretched my hands, warmed myself up on a heavy bag—both to get my blood moving and my energy clear, as well in case any of my male clients happened to be watching. This woman? Small she may be, but dangerous. Watch yourselves, boys. I smiled to myself as I pumped myself up. It had taken a long, long time to rebuild my self-esteem after my divorce.

  Nine o’clock ticked around, and I took my first client. I’d seen him the first day, and thought he might be gay, but obviously it wasn’t my place to ask.

  Ten o’clock was Neema, easily my favorite so far. She was Nigerian and spoke with the most beautiful accent, and had no end of stories to tell about where she was from and what she’d seen. Some of it was rough, but mostly her stories were about the insane things her and her family had done living in the African bush when she was a girl just surviving day to day and being happy. Eventually her brother had gone to medical school and brought her to America with him to get an education herself. She was wicked smart, and hardcore, and I loved her from the first time I met her.

  And then, at eleven o’clock, I had Rex.

  It was my first time seeing him—most of my clients were first-timers, though Logan, my nine o’clock, and Neema had both rebooked for Monday when I finished with them the first time.

  I knew Rex’s type the minute I saw him. It wasn’t so much that he looked a particular way, physically; it was the way he walked, the way he looked at me, or at parts of me anyway, and the way he answered my preliminary questions about his health and needs with short, one word answers loaded with suggestive subtext. Unsurprisingly, he needed a lot of thigh and groin work. I politely informed him that I was fully capable of that, and then left him to undress and get under the sheet.

  “I got nothing you ain’t seen, doll,” he said. But I excused myself anyway.

  I waited outside the door, watched the clock, and gave him the three minutes that was enough for most people.

  When I came back inside the room, Rex’s ass was bare, the sheet gathered at his ankles where he’d left it. The furry mound of his balls was showing between his thighs. Guys, we can tell when you stuff it down there to ‘show it off’.

  I didn’t comment, though. In my book, everyone got one chance to learn the rules. I pulled the sheet up from his ankles and to his back. “In here,” I told him, in a flat, professional tone, “you stay covered up. Them’s the rules. Got it?”

  Rex grunted. “Sure. It’s just hot is all.”

  “I’ll turn on the AC,” I told him, and did that—I cranked it down to about sixty. I could always put on a hoodie. Maybe a little cold air would shrivel him up and make him embarrassed to ‘show off’ again, assuming plain human decency wasn’t enough.

  I started the work. Deep tissue—real deep tissue. The work I did here for Jarome’s trainees wasn’t some namby-pamby feel-good massage. These were athletes who were sometimes racing deadlines to push themselves for the next match, or to pack on muscle, or meet some other critical goal. Rex’s massage was all elbows and knuckles.

  To his credit, he did grunt, groan, and struggle to control his breath. I worked over his back and shoulders, his neck, and arms, and while I didn’t think he’d actually realized he needed it his glutes and hammys were, in fact, knotted and tense.

  Once I finished his legs, and carefully tented the sheet for him to roll over. “Flip.” I said curtly.

  Rex did, and I made sure he was nice and tucked under the sheet. “You got some serious muscle in that little body, girlie,” he said, eyes closed, face red and decorated with the ‘toilet seat’ impression everyone tended to get from the face-rest at the head of the table.

  “My name is Ella,” I told him, as if he didn’t know and it was an honest mistake.

  “Right,” Rex said, “Ella; yeah I saw that up front.” It wasn’t an apology, but it seemed like an acknowledgment at least.

  I sank my knuckles into the muscle over his chest and stripped both sides an inch at a time while he breathed through it. Tension fled, knots unwound, and trigger points released sending, I hoped, referral pain straight to his jaw. All true healing hurts a little before it feels good. Wisdom. Seriously, like, actual ancient Chinese wisdom.

  When I finally got to Rex’s quads, he was kind enough to spread his knees a little to make sure I had access to the upper muscle attachments, I’m sure. I glided my elbow through the mass of tough tissue, and made sure to work the tender, painful knots at the top, where his thigh blended into his hip.

  I had almost managed to get through the whole thing, and was reasonably certain that Rex had pretty much learned his lesson on the dangers of antagonizing his massage therapist. I was self-congratulatory on that count—civilizing the male half of the human race one jerk at a time; Ella Robinson, medicine woman.

  But, Rex had to ruin it.

  It wasn’t that he got an erection. The truth is, lots of guys get erections during a massage and throughout my practicals in school all of them had generally been embarrassed and even stopped the massage themselves. It had to do with tension, and nerves, and sympathetic-parasympathetic balances and probably humors to for all anyone really knew; just a fact of life for men and not something I shamed them for or paid any attention to.

  Not unless, that is, they drew attention to it on purpose in a particular way.

  Rex’s erection jumped a little. When I looked up at his face to get a read, he was smiling. I sighed. Here it came.

  “Hey, uh, I got another big knot,” he muttered. “I’ll tip you real good for a little extra work.”

  “Really, Rex?” I used my elbow to push myself up to standing, and he winced when I dug into his hip. Legit therapeutic benefit. For him, too.

  “What,” he said, “you a lesbian or something? It’s eight inches, honey; you don’t see that every day.”

  I rolled my eyes, and walked to the door. I opened it and stuck my head out. I didn’t have to say anything, I just caught the eye of one of the trainers, gave them an eye-roll and a politely begging smile, and off she went to fetch Jarome.

  Not everyone trained with Jarome directly, but they were all more or less officially his trainees. No one wanted to piss of Coach.

  “I’ll be quick,” Rex said. “Been a few days.” He really still thought it was his lucky day. Amazing. Just amazing.

  It wasn’t Jarome that came in a moment later though. Rex’s eyes snapped open, and he looked down his prone body at a man about twice his size, clean cut and stone faced. Unbelievably handsome.

  Well, Rex probably didn’t think that—though, for all I knew he did—but I certainly thought it. Jesus, where did Jarome dig this one up? I knew all the trainers and this wasn’t—

  Oh, wait.

  “Hi,” I said, “Mike, right?”

  Mike nodded. “Problem here?”

  “Nah, buddy,” Rex said. “No problem. All good. We was just finishing up. Right Ella?”

  “So you do remember my name,” I wondered out loud.

  Mike looked directly at Rex’s flagging but no less obvious erection, and was visibly disgusted. “It’s Rex, right?” He asked.

  Rex didn’t answer, just nodded. He was sitting up, gathering the sheet a little to hide his arousal from the new alpha in the room.

  “The rules are clear, Rex,” Mike said. “I saw you there when Jarome laid ‘em out. Up. Out. You’re done here.”

  “Come on, dude,” Rex complained. “I didn’t do anything. Tell him, Ella; I didn’t make a move, I didn’t touch you!”

  “No,” I said, “but you did way overestimate yourself. Good thing you’re not a carpenter. I recall you said it was eight inches? Your house must be real wobbly.”

  Mike’s face went much darker, and a vein on his temple showed his pulse visible getting faster.

  “Come on, Mike,” Rex said. “You know, I was just kidding around is all. This is a guy’s place, you know? I was just treating her like one of the guys is all.”

  The behemoth in the room took a step forward, and leaned his fists on the table. “That so? In that case, Rex, you want me to jerk you off? Just one of the guys, right?”

  Rex recoiled. “I didn’t mean… look, I’ll go, okay? It won’t happen again.”

  Mike shook his head slowly. “Nope. Jarome was clear. One strike. This was it. You’re out.”

  Rex’s face reddened, and he tensed. “You can’t throw me out, asshole; I pay my dues.”

  “Take it up with Jarome, then,” Mike said evenly. “His place, his rules.”

  “Shit,” Rex spat. He looked at me, and I held my hands up. No answers here.

  Mr. Mike straightened, and folded his massive arms over his massive chest. He looked like he might just tear out of that shirt any second. What was it even made of? Some space-age material you could stretch across a room, I assumed. He waited, patiently. After a moment, he started tapping his foot, staring Rex down.

  Rex eventually got the message. With a huff, he got off the table—clutching the sheet to him in his sudden modesty. I wondered if I should leave him to dress—if Mike and I both should—but Mike didn’t move, so I didn’t. We watched as Rex carefully dressed himself.

  At the door, the oily prick turned and sneered at both of us. “I’ll have your jobs. Shut this place down. You guys don’t know who I am; my brother works for the city.”

  “Gosh,” Mike said, sympathetic, “if he heard what his brother was up to, trying to get a happy ending in a legit venue like this one, that’d be real embarrassing for him, then, wouldn’t it?”

  Rex spat something foul, and then stormed off, slamming the door behind him.

  I let out a long breath. “Wow. That. Was. Fantastic. I’m Ella, by the way. Robinson. Ple
ased to meet you. Thanks for that.” I stuck a hand out.

  He took it with a hand big enough to nearly swallow mind whole, though in fairness that pretty much describes half the hands on the planet. “Mike Frazetta,” he said. That voice. Oof. Hit me right in the gut. A smooth bass that I felt in the air between us. “Rex was a lost cause anyway,” he went on. “Jarome told him he didn’t have the chops, but the guy can’t take criticism, didn’t believe it.”

  “He certainly couldn’t cut it on my table. Good thing they pay in advance.” I smiled. “Well… crisis averted. So… how long have you been working here?” I knew, of course, but I had minutes to kill and would have been happy to listen to Mike talk for hours.

  “I got out Saturday,” he said. Then he scratched the back of his head self-consciously. “Out of school, I mean. I’m a trainer.”

  “That’s what Jarome said. Welcome on board. I guess I’m no longer the newbie, huh?” I winked at him.

  “Didn’t you start last Thursday?” He asked. There was amusement in his big brown eyes, though.

  “Two days before you did,” I agreed. “Which gives me seniority, by anyone’s reckoning.”

  Mike chuckled, and nodded his head. “Yeah, okay. I’ll buy it.” He looked around the room, and then back at the door. “Well… I should let you get back to work.”

  “Yeah, I need to clean this mess up.” I waited for him to leave, or say good bye, but when he didn’t do either of those things right away I snatched what I thought was a tiny loose thread of opportunity. You don’t play, you don’t win. “I’ve got a lunch break at one,” I said. “Don’t really have any friends in this town yet, so… care to grab something cheap with me?”

  I didn’t know why I even asked him. I hadn’t been out with a guy once since my divorce. And I wasn’t sure a guy like Mike was the right type for me. Maybe I should settle down with an artist type. But then again, I’d gone for the straight-laced, suburban dad type once before, and it hadn’t exactly worked out for me.

  He looked like he might, for a second. But, he ultimately shrugged, and jerked a thumb toward the world outside the door. “Ah, maybe some other time. Got a few guys to work with, so…”

  “Okay,” I told him, hiding my minor disappointment. It wasn’t like I was ready to date someone anyway. Not that I had invited him on a date. I mean, not like a real date, anyway. “No problem. Well, next time some jerk asks for a handy jay, I’ll be sure to flag you down and maybe we can talk some more.”

  Mike laughed at that, bobbed his head, and chuckled as he left the room.

  The rest of the day was blessedly uneventful—thank God—and I left with about eighty bucks in tips in my pocket, which made this day, in my book, a net win. I was also pleased to have found out, even though it had been tense and a little embarrassing, that Jarome really did have my back in there. Zero tolerance; he meant it.

  And then there was Mike.

  I smiled. Well. I had myself well established into step four. It could have been jumping the gun a little, but…

  Maybe I was ready for Step Five: Start airing out that broken heart, and give someone the chance to prove everything He-who-shall-not-be-named taught you about men wrong. But, don’t go crazy.

  But was a guy like Mike really the right kind of guy?

  Chapter 2

  Michael

  She was an odd bird, I was thinking, after work, waiting for my parole officer to finish with whatever other ex-con she was dealing with before she saw me. Ella Robinson. Coo-coo-ca-choo. Except Ella didn’t look like anybody’s mom I knew. She was cute. Too cute for the job. I wondered what she’d been thinking, getting herself into a place like the gym. Not that Jarome put up with anyone’s shit; he’d been serious about his zero tolerance policy and had terminated Rex’s contract the second he heard what he’d pulled.

  Still, Jarome’s place, or any other gym known for training up fighters of one kind or another, tended to attract a certain type. They were my type, granted, and I never woulda done what Rex did in there but… there was probably a reliable statistic is all I’m saying. Guys like me ran hot, all that extra testosterone maybe, and while Jarome didn’t put up with drugs on his turf there were a couple guys—Rex included—that he suspected might be using steroids. Time would tell, and he knew what signs to look for.

  Funny thing is, Ella hadn’t seemed to shaken up by it. She had some mettle in her. It made her cuter, somehow, little fireball in her workout clothes, skinny but not like the girls these days that get that way by eating salads and swallowing cotton balls or lived on cleanses and whatever diet was hot. No, Ella looked solid. If I didn’t know better, I’d think she was a fighter herself; lean muscle and punch. I wondered what was hiding in that cute little body besides fight.

  Not that it mattered. Who was I? An ex-con with nothing to my name except that little room over the gym that wasn’t exactly the place you took a lady friend. Not that I wasn’t grateful to Jarome for it—I was, it would take years to pay the man back for his kindness—but to a girl that had her shit put together I was probably more eye-candy than anything else.

  At least I had that going for me, though.

  Annemarie let her parolee go, and looked me over from the door, like any other woman would. Except she didn’t care to flirt with me. All professional, this woman. I’d met her twice now, and she didn’t take shit from nobody either. “Michael,” she said. “Good to see you. Come in.”

  She was a roundish black lady with a crop of red curls on her head that bounced when she moved. Couldn’t place her age, but she was mature. She had a way about her—like somebody’s mother; ready to discipline, but compassionate enough to see you for who you were, not what you’d done. I liked her okay.

  We sat down on either side of her overfilled desk, a mess of papers, folders, and sticky notes that made me wonder just how many cases she had besides mine. In this city, probably a lot. There was a little plastic up on my side, the kind you piss in for a drug test. I didn’t mind. Just the cost of doing business like this.

  “So you’re working with Jarome Tyson?” She asked. I’d filled out her papers in the waiting room.

  “Yeah. Good gig. Great guy. Took a chance on me.”

  She nodded slowly, and looked at the second page. She raised an eyebrow. “Living there, too?”

  “Room upstairs,” I said.

  “I understand you have the option to stay with family,” Annemarie said. She looked at me over the rim of her glasses.

  “I could,” I said. “Tony would take me; my brother. But, I don’t think I wanna get too close. Breaks my heart but… you know.”

  Annemarie sighed, and put the clipboard down. “I do know. I’m pleased to see you making progress and distancing yourself from a potentially bad element. How are you finding the outside world?”

  “It’s not bad,” I said. Probably sounded weird; like prison was any comparison. “I’m getting used to it.”