Page 122 of Two-Step
“Also irrelevant.” That’s a yes, but his expression gives away nothing, and it freaks me out. “Besides, I don’t own a television.”
“It’s streaming,” I mutter, sure he’s avoiding telling me he thinks my show sucks. And why wouldn’t he? He’s smart, cultured, world-travelled. And so serious. The show’s target audience was girls aged twelve to seventeen.
“Teach me something,” he says again. And now the look in his eyes reveals a hunger. A need. My bratty heart beats faster.
I swallow. “I could teach you how to make a fake wound using coffee grounds, glue, and face paint,” I say, shrugging. “Not very useful.”
Beau shakes his head. “I don’t care about useful. I want memorable.” The corners of his mouth turn down when he says this, his eyes clasped to mine.
He wants memorable.
I go very still, drinking him in. Is Beau asking to make a memory with me? Something to keep? To hold onto? Pain squeezes my unruly heart.
If he is, I don’t want it to be a memory of how to make a wound.
If he’s asking for a memory, I want it to be something that feels good. I want to remember it too. And I want to remember touching him.
“Do you ever get headaches?” I ask.
Surprise flits over his gaze. “Sometimes. If I’ve been grading too long or I go a day without coffee.”
I smile, loving the image of him bent over a stack of French tests, frowning down at his students’ poor conjugation, an empty coffee mug beside him.
“Have you ever tried acupressure to relieve your headaches?” I ask, my voice coming out somehow soft and rough at the same time.
He blinks twice. “No… You?”
“Yeah.” I nod. “My stylist on the show used to have to pull my hair in a tight bun whenever Raven Blackwell had to wear this ceremonial headdress—” I wave my hand to scatter the image of me in a crazy bandeau. I hope he never Googles that image. “Anyway, the bun and the costume were really uncomfortable, and I used to get these tension headaches, and my stylist showed me how to ease them with acupressure.”
I half-expect him to snicker and make fun, but his hungry look only intensifies. “Show me.”
His gaze makes my throat go dry. I swallow again. “T-turn around.” I shift in my seat and nudge Mica with my knee. He huffs in irritation and jumps off the couch, removing the barrier between us.
“Okay,” he mutters. I could be wrong, but Beau’s throat might be as dry as mine. He turns, giving me his back. He’s in a dark gray T-shirt and black athletic shorts, probably to keep cool if we lose power, but his attire is absolute crap at keeping me cool. The cotton of his tee stretches across his shoulders and hugs his back, doing little to hide his sculpted physique.
I inhale through my nose as quietly as possible. This isn’t about me. More than anything, I want to make Beau feel good. In the time I’ve known him, Beau has given me so much. So much. And he’s asked for nothing in return.
Except for asking you out. And you shot him down,my conscience scolds.
I shut my eyes and wince against the regret, glad Beau can’t see me. I grit my teeth and pull myself together.
“So… the trick is to find the right points that relieve the tension.” I lay my hands lightly on Beau’s shoulders, just at the base of his neck. He’s warm, and beneath my hands, I feel the slight lift of his shoulders as his lungs fill.
I glide my thumbs up his neck to the base of his skull on either side of his spine. His hair is short back here, trimmed and tidy. His ears are perfect. Neither too big or too small. But from behind, they look vulnerable and new, the flesh just a little pink.
Are they sensitive? Would he shiver if I stroked them with my thumb? With my tongue?
Focus, Iris.
I position the pads of my thumbs. “This bony ridge,” I say, pressing into the dips in the bone at the base of his skull. I apply gentle pressure. “Right here. Feel that?”
“Yeah.” Beau’s answer is a rasp.
I hold the pressure steady. “Those are your occipital muscles.” While my thumbs stay firm, I allow my fingers to barely graze the sides of his neck. This isn’t technically part of the headache remedy, but it’s got to feel good.
When the tiny hairs on the back of his neck stand up, I know it does.
Good. He deserves that. Even when I first met him—even when I was sure he didn’t like me—he gave me what I needed. He stepped between me and that vagrant that first night. He took over as my dance instructor. He fed me every damn class. He took me hiking so I wouldn’t go into the woods alone.
