"You no touch now," she admonished him. "You give me fifty dollar after regular massage over."
She was a thin Asian woman of about 35, with clear skin, pouting lips, and a small bust. A purple band held her long, sleek black hair, which trailed down to just below the hem of her skirt. Looking through the opening for the face at one end of the padded table, John caught occasional glances of her dainty black boots stepping around him.
Moving to his arms, she asked, "You like?"
John grinned. "Oh, yes."
Driving home from work for the past four months, John had tried to ignore the faded neon letters in the window of the Lucky Seven Spa. One night his willpower weakened, and he parked his old Toyota Tercel on a side street. Verifying that all of the doors were locked and The Club® was in place, he stole to the back of the old brick building and pushed the buzzer. He would just "check it out."
A short, skinny Chinese lady of about 60 opened the door, smiled, and led him by the hand down a dimly-lit hallway. Upon reaching their destination, some thirty feet from the entrance, the woman instructed John to disrobe, whereupon she exited the room, closing the door softly. Please, don't let it be her, John thought.
It wasn't. Three minutes later, John heard a knock, the door swished open, and a young woman stood in place of the diminutive madam. She looked about 19 or 20.
"You come here before?" she asked, smiling.
Since then, John had been to the Lucky Seven four or five times, afterward furnishing his wife with the plausible explanation that he had to work late.
He felt compelled to make small talk, even though he doubted that she understood most of what he said.
"I'm John," he said. "Who are you?"
"Amy."
He flinched at hearing the name, which coincidentally was that of his wife. Of course, that couldn't be the girl's real name.
Absorbing the flow of her fingers for a few more minutes, he said, "When I was a little kid, I had a dog named Bobo. Dachshund. Great pet."
"Mmmm," she purred, bolstering his hunch about her English comprehension.
New Age music wafted across the small, dark room, emanating from a CD player on a glass-top table against the wall. A delicate aroma of incense hung in the air. In the corner was a wooden chair with John's clothes draped over it. A sound that mimicked flatulence erupted as "Amy" squeezed a clear bottle of baby oil into her palm, then rubbed the liquid onto John's shoulders. This time she extended her range all the way down John's legs, rubbing his thighs and calves and culminating with his feet. She gently yanked each toe, eliciting an occasional pop, just as she had done with his fingers.
The door chime sounded its alternating octaves.
"Be right back," she said, departing silently.
Something about the arrival of strangers while he was prone and naked made John uneasy. The fact that he was married further compromised his situation. He lifted his head a couple of inches and listened, hearing nothing at first. Then everything hit the fan.
A man's voice, loud and quarrelsome, and growing more so. A woman's voice, shrill and agitated. A loud thumping, then glass shattering. A scream.
John swung his legs over the edge of the table, stood up and made for the chair. His hands shook as he stretched the elastic waistband of his jockey shorts, tearing the white cotton fabric as he clumsily shoved a foot inside. Hastily climbing into his slacks, he nearly toppled forward as the errant foot once again snagged on the material. He threw on his undershirt and pulled on his v-neck.
A second scream cut through the air, followed by a stream of expletives.
Sitting down, John stuffed his feet into his Hush Puppies®, tied his laces, and dashed toward the door. Then he spotted his wallet on the floor.
Damn it!
Scrambling, he reversed course and scooped up the wallet.
He had to get out fast. He felt bad about abandoning the women to their plight, but this was one of their occupational hazards. Wasn't it?
Turning the knob fiercely, he pushed open the door and burst into the hallway. John scanned the area like a gunslinger in a spaghetti western sizing up his foes. A small, wiry fellow with a bald spot and a ridiculous-looking braided ponytail about four inches long stood between him and the foyer. Black motorcycle boots, torn jeans, and a denim jacket with a patch reading Blue Boys MC sewn onto the front added to his vicious, formidable demeanor, despite his short stature. John could smell the alcohol on his breath from twenty feet away.
The shards of a broken vase lay scattered on the plush gray carpeting, and a single red rose lay atop a wet spot. Amy sat on the floor, her hand pressed against her cheek, blood streaming from her lower lip. The middle-aged madam that John had encountered on his first visit stood in front of a third woman, shielding her from the belligerent stranger. Her trembling hands brandished a broom.
He fixed John with a red-eyed glare.
"What the hell you lookin' at?" he snarled.
For a moment, John wavered. Then he noticed a large wooden sword hanging on the wall to his left. Dashing across the corridor, he ripped the weapon from the plaster, leaving several conspicuous holes.
The menacing intruder grinned, as if pleased at the challenge. He advanced slowly, but with more coordination than John would have expected. Locking his sights on John, the man taunted him.
"I'm gonna make you eat that sword . . . backwards."
With the speed of a striking cobra he lunged, covering the distance between himself and John in a couple of seconds. John barely stepped out of the way, and swinging like Babe Ruth, cracked his opponent on the jaw. Blue Boy went down, his face hitting the floor like an anvil dropped from two stories. Even with the thick carpeting, John figured, that had to hurt.
The guy lay motionless, his thin arms and legs splayed out. John still gripped the wooden sword, the top half of which had snapped off. Amy got to her feet.
"He dead?" she asked John.
John didn't answer at first, partly because he was shocked at his own bravado and partly because he didn't know. Examining his prostrate attacker, John saw that he was breathing.
"He's alive," John replied. Then he said, "I gotta go."
The three women stared at him, bewildered, as John walked swiftly towards the exit. Just as he was about to leave, he realized that he was still clutching the broken sword in his right hand.
"Sorry," he said, setting the splintered blade down on an armchair in the foyer. "You might want to call the police, or get this guy some medical attention." Then he added, "Or not."
He gripped the steering wheel tightly during the drive home, trying to staunch the wave of anxiety that washed over him. He couldn't let his wife sense that anything was amiss. If the guy died, so what? He was a thug. He had attacked John. Hell, he had attacked Amy.
What if he woke up before they had a chance to . . . fix things?
Spotting a convenience store on his right, John veered abruptly into the parking lot, pulling his vehicle up to a pay phone. An angry car horn blared behind him. He drew several deep breaths, killed the engine, and got out of the car. He picked up the receiver and punched 911.
Half an hour later, he pulled into his own driveway. As he entered the kitchen, his wife glanced up nonchalantly from her newspaper. John noticed just before she did. But it was too late to do anything now.
"Why is your shirt on backward?" Amy asked.
A mild panic began throbbing in his gut, but with sheer willpower, he quelled it. His earlier adventure had put things into perspective.
He took another deep breath, exhaling slowly.
"Well, it's like this . . ."
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