Full Release by Marshall Thornton (classic books for 11 year olds txt) 📕

took it in his hand and leaned close to me. “If I had more time, I’d let you fuck me.” He cocked an eyebrow. “Maybe next time.”

I have to admit, I was pleased that I done well enough that he might call me again. He jumped off the table and waddled into the house. I folded up the sheet, which was now smeared with lotion. I reminded myself to pick up some extra sheets, preferably flannel like Eddie used. I had a department store credit card hidden in a drawer somewhere. It would be good to have a couple sets of sheets. Obviously, a lot of laundry would be involved in this endeavor.

After I packed up my bag and folded up the table, I put my clothes on. That was odd. I’d never been the type to walk around naked. Normally, I would have thrown my clothes on quickly and then folded up the table. Something in me was changing.

David reappeared wearing a pair of plaid shorts and nothing else. He walked me to the door. By the door, sat a small table upon which he’d left his wallet in a hand blown bowl. Counting out a number of bills, he handed them to me.

“There’s only one thing that bums me out about guys like you...” He left the comment hanging in the air.

“Okay. What’s that?”

“You never kiss.”

It was a dare. A gauntlet tossed down. I could have made an excuse. Claimed that kissing would lead to my getting every cold that made the rounds (though it was hard to see how the rest of what I did wouldn’t do the same thing). But I didn’t make an excuse. I leaned forward and kissed him. Kissed him deeply, my tongue exploring his. I did my best to be passionate, to give him a Hollywood-movie style goodbye kiss.

“I’ll be calling you again.”

I was floating on a cloud the whole way home. A lot of it was relief, I suppose. I hadn’t been sure I’d actually be able to go through with it. Some of it was the fact that David Barker had given me a fifty-dollar tip over and above my fee. Someone as important as David Barker was impressed by me; it felt good. I began to understand what Eddie got out of doing this.

I turned onto Mariposa Drive and there, sitting in front of my house, was Jeremy’s three year-old BMW. Pulling into my driveway, I turned and saw Jeremy and Skye sitting in the car. Just sitting. It creeped me out.

This is what they were doing the day Eddie died. I jumped out of my car, slamming the door behind me. I stomped across the lawn toward them, but Jeremy fired up the BMW and pulled away from the curb before I could get to them. I watched them drive off.

What was that about?

Chapter Seventeen

The next morning when I woke up I felt okay. I even felt okay when I remembered the things that were happening in my life. I told myself my mood had improved because I was doing something. I’d taken action, taken charge of my life. And maybe that was true. Or maybe I was just a little crazy.

Grabbing the paper from in front of my house, I flipped through it quickly to see if there was another story about Eddie’s murder. There was. Alan Moskowitz had written a small story about the murder, but it was just a follow-up and didn’t contain any new information. Annoyingly, they printed my mug shot right next to what was probably Eddie’s high school graduation photo. If it wasn’t me I was looking at, I’d say it was a slam dunk that the disheveled, crazed-looking guy killed the poor high school kid.

I checked my phone. I had two email requests for massages, one for that afternoon and another for Friday evening. I wondered if it was this busy for everyone, or if I was getting appointments because I was the new kid on the block. While I showered, I debated whether guys who went to masseurs behaved the same way they did when they dated. Were some faithful to the same masseur for years, while others needed the constant thrill of a new guy? Or did they split the difference, going back to the same masseur time and time again, while they occasionally ventured out and tried new ones?

My first client had gone so well I was feeling great about the whole venture. I’d even begun to calculate how much money I’d be making. I would be drawing a paycheck from the studio for quite a while, at least another six weeks given that I had so much vacation time built up. If I didn’t have this whole thing straightened out, Sonja might let me call in sick for another two weeks. After that, I’d probably have to go on leave. Unpaid.

I began calculating how much extra I could pick up and then added it to my salary. If I averaged, say, seven massages a week, I’d actually be making just a little less than my salary. That would go a long way to dig me out of my financial hole. If I picked up an extra thousand a week for ten or twelve weeks, I might be able to put together a modest kitchen--

Whoa. Wait a minute. A kitchen, modest or otherwise, wouldn’t make much difference if I got convicted of murder. I shouldn’t lose track of the whole point of the massage thing. The point was to find Eddie’s killer. I wondered how long it would take. A week? Two weeks? What if killing Eddie freaked him out? What if he wasn’t out there getting massages? He might never show up. Then I could end up with enough for a kitchen, except I’d be spending it on a lawyer.

I had to stay focused. I had to do more than I was doing. But what? I sat on my patio, sipping a cup of coffee, thinking