“Shh,” Brian whispered as we came through the front door. Tiptoeing through the house he peaked in to see Leighanne fast asleep in the room they shared. “Must still have a little jet lag,” he offered as an explanation, grimacing again as he moved his shoulder.
“Come on,” I said, urging him toward the living room. “Have a seat.”
Sinking into the sofa, he sighed. “Now what?”
“Now you sit on the floor,” I answered, pointing at his feet.
“What? Why?” he whined as he slid to the floor.
“Because I can’t do this if you are on the sofa,” I said, sitting down on the sofa above him. Gently, I began to massage his shoulders.
“Oh my Lord,” he moaned. “Don’t stop.”
Not the most appropriate thing to be saying to the woman in charge of protecting you. I moved my hands along his shoulders and against his next easing the tension and pain from his muscles. Most people would be shocked by the amount of tension in a “rock star’s” muscles. Brian’s carried more than most. Maybe it was because he was still caught up in trying to be a regular guy living his life. Whatever the reason he was going to pay the consequences if he didn’t wise up.
“Might be easier to do this if you took your shirt off,” I suggested. Oh I am a glutton for punishment.
“I don’t think so,” he answered, moving away.
“What’s wrong?” I asked, sliding to the floor beside him.
“Do know anything at all about the Backstreet Boys?” he asked.
“Honestly, no.”
“I had heart surgery back in ’98 due to a problem I’ve had since childhood. I’ve got a pretty graphic scar across my chest,” he explained.
“And you are ashamed of it?”
“Sort of,” he admitted.
“Are you that shallow, Brian?”
“No,” he answered, sharply.
“I didn’t think so. You want to see something to be ashamed of? I got this protecting a client from some nut with a knife,” I said, pulling the collar of my shirt over to show a scar on my right shoulder.
“How bad was it?”
“Buried to the hilt. I was out of work for nearly four months. It had to heal and I needed therapy. I got this one after being shot,” I admitted, lifting the edge of my shorts on my left leg a couple of inches to show the long scar.
“Why are you ashamed of these?” he asked, his blue eyes meeting my green ones.
“Because if they got that close to my client, to me then I wasn’t doing my job the best possible way I can. It means I wasn’t watching good enough,” I answered, getting up and moving across the room.
“Are you alive, are you clients alive?” he asked, getting up.
“Last time I saw them they were,” I answered, laughing.
“Then you did the best possible job you could have. You succeeded in keeping them safe,” he said from behind me.
“So what are you ashamed of?”
“I don’t know.”
When I turned around he was taking his shirt off. I’ve seen gorgeous and handsome and amazing, but nothing could have prepared me for Brian. I noticed the scar across his chest but there was something about it that made him perfect. It showed he wasn’t perfect.
“My shoulder still hurts.”
His words drew my attention from his chest to his eyes and I was thankful for the dimly lit room as I blushed. This was not happening to me.
“Well, sit down, handsome. Let’s see if I can work my magic on it,” I finally said as we resumed our previous positions.
His skin was like silk over steel, his muscles tight and strong beneath my hands. I was in a dangerous position but I couldn’t force myself away. Slowly, I moved my hands across his shoulders. Time stood still as I eased away his pain but caused more of my own.
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