Chapter 3: The Morning After Care
The sun was a dying ember, staining the sky burnt orange and deep violet behind the sheer curtains of Jessica’s bedroom. She groaned, the sound scraping against the quiet of the apartment. Every muscle protested as she shifted under the rumpled sheets. Her left hip throbbed with a deep, persistent ache from a misjudged spin on the pole last night; her right shoulder knotted with tension from holding a difficult pose under the hot lights for too long. It was the good kind of hurt, the one that spoke of work done and money earned, but it was hurt nonetheless.
She had slept through the day, a deep, dreamless coma. The scent of lavender from her shower gel clung to her skin, mixed now with the faint, sharp smell of liniment she’d applied before collapsing. And underneath it, something else, something new: the ghost of Ridge’s soap, his skin, the memory of his weight.
The knock at the door was soft, tentative. One, two, three pauses, then two more. Their agreed-upon signal.
For a split second, she considered pretending she wasn’t home. Letting the ache in her body be a private thing. The vulnerability of it felt more exposing than anything she’d done on stage. On stage, the aches were costumes, props in a story of power. Here, in her half-dark room, they were just flaws.
He knocked again, the pattern repeated.
“It’s open,” she called, her voice raspy from sleep.
The door clicked, and she heard him enter, the soft thud of grocery bags being set on the floor in the hallway, the rustle of his jacket. His footsteps were quiet on the wood floor, then muffled on the area rug. He appeared in her bedroom doorway, backlit by the hall light, a silhouette holding a small paper bag.
“You’re alive,” he said, his voice low.
“Barely. The dead are probably less sore.” She pushed herself up on her elbows, wincing as her shoulder protested. The sheet slipped, and she instinctively pulled it higher, a gesture that felt stupid even as she did it. He’d seen everything last night, had mapped her skin with his mouth. Why hide now?
He seemed to sense her internal skirmish. He didn’t comment, just leaned against the doorframe. “I brought supplies. As promised. No fungal bread.”
“A true hero.” She managed a tired smile. “What’s in the bag?”
“Pancake mix. Real maple syrup. Coffee that isn’t just brown dust.” He paused. “And something else.”
He walked into the room, the golden haze from the window catching the sharp planes of his face. He sat on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping under his weight. He didn’t try to touch her. He just placed the small paper bag between them like an offering.
“You move like every step is a calculated risk,” he said, his eyes tracking the subtle tension in her neck as she adjusted her position. “Long night?”
“The good ones always are.” She nodded toward the bag. “What’s the something else?”
He reached in and pulled out a small, round tub. The label read ‘Arnica Cream’ in simple, bold letters. “My dad was a carpenter. His hands were always busted up. Swore by this stuff. Takes the edge off deep tissue bruises.”
Jessica stared at the unassuming container. A simple act of observation, of care. It was so utterly practical, so devoid of the poetic intensity of the silk ties. And yet, it felt more intimate. He wasn’t worshiping marks left by others. He was seeing her hurt, and offering to soothe it.
The simplicity undid her. A lump rose in her throat, stubborn and inconvenient.
“I’m fine,” she said, the automatic deflection leaving her lips before she could stop it.
Ridge didn’t argue. He just unscrewed the lid. A clean, herbal scent filled the space between them, cutting through the lavender and liniment. He dipped two fingers into the white cream. “Jess,” he said, his voice so soft it was almost absorbed by the twilight. “Where does it hurt the most?”
The question hung in the warm air. It wasn’t a demand. It was an invitation. An offered key.
She held his gaze for a long moment, the battle between her instinctive guard and this new, terrifying openness playing out in her chest. Slowly, deliberately, she let the sheet fall to her waist. She turned slightly, presenting her left side, the curve of her hip where a dark, plum-colored bruise was blooming against her pale skin.
“Here,” she said, her voice barely a whisper. “The hip. I came off a spin wrong. Caught the edge of the stage.”
He nodded, his expression focused, clinical almost. He warmed the cream between his fingers, then gently, so gently, applied it to the bruise.
His touch was a revelation. It wasn’t sensual. It wasn’t possessive. It was purely, profoundly careful. The pads of his fingers were slightly rough, but his pressure was perfect—firm enough to feel like it was doing something, soft enough not to ignite the pain. He worked the cream into her skin in slow, circular motions, his head bent in concentration. The sharp, herbal smell mingled with his own scent, something like clean cotton and the outdoors.
The knot in her shoulder, the one she hadn’t even mentioned, seemed to pulse in sympathy.
“The shoulder, too,” she admitted, the words sighed out on an exhale. “From holding a handspring variation. My core is pissed at me today.”
Without a word, he shifted, scooping more cream. He moved behind her on the bed. His knees bracketed her hips. His hands settled on the tight cord of muscle running from her neck to her shoulder blade. His thumbs found the exact epicenter of the knot and began to work, his touch confident and knowing.
A groan escaped her, long and low and full of relief. Her head dropped forward, her blonde hair spilling over her shoulders. “God. Where did you learn that?”
“Bartending. You carry a lot of trays, lift a lot of kegs. You learn about muscles the hard way.” His thumbs pressed deep, circling, unknotting. “Also, my dad. Like I said. Hands-on guy.”
She let herself sink into the sensation, the steady, purposeful kneading of his hands chasing the pain away, replacing it with a slow-burning warmth. The last of the day’s light gilded the dust motes dancing in the air above her dresser. This was new. This was quiet. This was someone seeing the machinery behind the performance, and not looking away.
“I feel like an old car you’re tuning up,” she mumbled into the dim room.
He huffed a quiet laugh, his breath stirring the hair at her nape. “You’re a vintage Ferrari. Gorgeous, high-performance, and a little high-maintenance.”
She laughed then, a real one, and it made her shoulder jump under his hands. “Flattery will get you everywhere.”
“It’s not flattery. It’s a fact.” His hands slowed, then stilled, resting warmly on her skin. He was silent for a beat. “Does it help?”
“Yes.” She turned her head to look at him over her shoulder. His face was close, his eyes dark in the fading light. “Thank you.”
He leaned forward and pressed a kiss to the freshly creamed skin of her shoulder, a chaste, closed-mouth kiss. “Anytime.”
The moment stretched, tender and fragile. She turned her body fully to face him, the sheet falling away completely. The arnica scent was on her skin now, on his hands. She took one of his hands in hers, bringing his fingers to her lips. She kissed the tip of his index finger, tasting the faint, bitter-herbal tang of the cream.
“You’re a surprising man, Ridge.”
“I’m really not.” He looked at their joined hands. “I just… pay attention.”
“That’s the surprising part.” She released his hand. “Now, about those pancakes. I’m starving. And I want to see if you’re a man of your word.”
The spell broke, shifting into something lighter, easier. He grinned, the intensity of moments before softening into something boyish. “Challenge accepted. But you’re on bacon duty. I draw the line at multi-tasking before I’ve had coffee.”
“Deal.”
They moved to the kitchen, a different kind of dance now. He dug out the mixing bowl, she found a frying pan. The setting sun was gone, replaced by the deep blue of twilight and the warm glow of the under-cabinet lights. He measured out the mix, she lined up the bacon strips. Their elbows brushed, their voices low in the quiet apartment. He told her about a belligerent customer at the bar who tried to pay his tab in lottery tickets. She recounted a disastrous costume malfunction involving too much velcro and not enough foresight.
They ate at the small table, pancakes drowned in syrup, bacon perfectly crispy. It was easy. It was normal. It was a thing.
Later, after the dishes were rinsed and stacked, he stood by the door, jacket on. “I should go. Let you rest.”
She leaned against the doorframe, watching him. The ache in her body was a dull, distant throb, softened by the cream and his hands. “You don’t have to.”
He shook his head. “Boundaries, right? You work nights. You need sleep. I have a bar to open in,” he checked his watch, “ten hours.” He reached out, his thumb brushing a stray strand of hair from her cheek. “This was good. Today was good.”
“It was,” she agreed. She caught his hand, held it. “Tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow’s Tuesday. We’re slow. I could be here by seven.”
“I’ll be done by six-thirty.”
A nod. A final, soft squeeze of her fingers. “Lock the door behind me.”
He left, his footsteps echoing down the hall. She closed the door, turned the deadbolt. The quiet of her apartment settled around her, but it felt different now. It wasn’t just an absence of sound. It was a space waiting to be filled again.
She walked back to her bedroom. The tub of arnica cream sat on her nightstand next to her copy of Dune. She picked it up, the plastic cool in her hand. She unscrewed the lid, took a deep breath of its clean, medicinal scent, and smiled. Then she crawled into bed, her body sighing into the mattress, the ghost of his careful touch still warming her skin, a promise etched in something more permanent than neon light.
Then she crawled into bed, her body sighing into the mattress, the ghost of his careful touch still warming her skin, a promise etched in something more permanent than neon light.
Sleep came quickly, a deep and grateful blackness.
She woke to the harsh buzz of her alarm at five-thirty the next evening, her body stiff but improved. The bruise on her hip had faded to a yellowish green, a galaxy under her skin. She stretched, testing each muscle, and felt the pleasant memory of his hands in the sore spots. The apartment was silent, holding the quiet of the day spent alone.
She made coffee, the ritual grounding her for the night ahead.
The stage lights always burned away the lingering softness. The money was good, the rhythm familiar. She pushed Ridge’s face, his quiet question in the dark, to the back of her mind. It was a separate box. She needed both compartments to stay sealed tight, the line between them clear. He said he’d come at seven. The thought was a small, persistent warmth low in her stomach, like a pilot light.
She finished her set, collected her tips from the dressing room stool.
The usual ones were there: folded bills tucked with shy hands, a few clumsily written notes. One envelope felt thicker. She opened it. Inside were five one-hundred-dollar bills, crisp and new. Paperclipped to them was a plain white card with a phone number and a single, typed sentence: A private consultation. Discretion assured. Her skin prickled, a cold wash that had nothing to do with the club’s AC.
This was different.
This was the other side of the line, the one that didn’t stay neatly in its box. She crumpled the card in her fist, shoved the money deep into her bag. It felt contaminated. She scrubbed her makeup off with aggressive swipes, the lavender scent of her cleanser failing to erase the feeling. She needed the normalcy of her apartment, the quiet, the silence.
She needed the knock at seven.
By six-forty-five, she was home, the deadbolt thudding into place a solid sound. She paced. The offered money on the card felt like a key turning in a lock she’d kept tightly shut. It proposed a different future, one of hidden rooms and sharper transactions. The memory of Ridge’s hands, applying cream with a focused gentleness, seemed to mock her. Which world was real? Which one did she deserve?
A sharp, familiar knock broke her spiral.
One, two, three pauses, then two more. Her heart vaulted into her throat. She stood frozen in the center of her living room, staring at the door. The sound was a rope thrown across a chasm. She could take it. She could pull herself back to something simple.
Another set of knocks, a little louder this time.
“Jess? You in there?” His voice, muffled but clear, came through the wood.
She heard the scuff of his shoes on the hallway floor. She took a half-step forward, her hand lifting. Then she stopped. The crumpled card in her bag felt like it was glowing, radioactive. She couldn’t let that stain touch him. Not yet. Maybe not ever. She needed a wall, a night, to figure out which side of herself was the performance.
She didn’t answer.
She heard him shift his weight. He was listening. She held her breath, paralyzed. From her kitchen, the drip coffeemaker she’d forgotten to turn off gave a final, metallic plink of water hitting the hot plate. It was loud in the silence.
He would have heard it.
He knew she was here. The guideline they’d unspokenly agreed upon hung in the air between the door and her: if she didn’t answer, he would leave. It was the rule. It was safety. She waited, her nails digging into her palms.
After a long moment, she heard a soft exhalation, almost a sigh.
“Okay,” his voice said, low and resigned. “Okay, Jess.”
His footsteps retreated, slower this time, down the hall. They faded into the building’s hum. She stood there until the silence was complete and absolute, then sank to the floor. The cool wood pressed against her knees. She had drawn the line herself, and she was finally, terribly, alone on this side of it. The echo of his leaving was the only thing left in the room.
The echo of his leaving was the only thing left in the room.
It took her twenty minutes to move from the floor. Her knees ached from the hardwoods. She pulled the crumpled card and the money from her bag, smoothing the paper against her thigh. The typed words, ‘A private consultation. Discretion assured.’, felt less like an invitation and more like a diagnosis. She stared at the phone number, a string of digits that was a door, and she knew she was going to open it. She needed to see what was on the other side. To know.
She called from her burner phone, the one she used for scheduling shifts and nothing else. A man’s voice answered on the second ring, calm and unsurprised. “Yes.” “I’m calling about the consultation,” she said, her own voice flat. He gave an address, a time, instructions to use the service elevator. It was a hotel downtown, the kind with marble floors and silent staff. He named a sum, twice what was in the envelope. She agreed. The conversation lasted fifty-seven seconds.
The hotel room was a temple of muted grays and beiges. A wall of windows showed the city grid, lights twinkling with a sterile cheer. The man was older, in a suit that cost more than her rent. He didn’t want conversation. He wanted a specific, choreographed performance, one that involved the steel ballet bar he’d had installed by the window. “I’ve seen your work,” was all he said, placing the cash in a neat stack on a side table. He watched from an armchair as if viewing a gallery piece. It was technically demanding. It was emotionally hollow. She executed every move with perfect, detached precision, her body remembering what her mind checked out of. The money, when she took it, was cool against her palm.
The service elevator descended in a silent hum. Out in the alley, the night air was sharp with garbage and cold. She felt used, but not in the way she usually did. This was different. This was a transaction that had crawled under her skin and left a chemical burn. Her muscles, warmed from the work, now ached with a new fatigue. She wanted her own shower. She wanted the smell of lavender to scrub this feeling off. She wanted to not feel so damn alone inside her own head.
She climbed the stairs to her apartment, her heels clicking a tired rhythm on the concrete. At her doorstep, a small, creamy rectangle stood out against the dark wood. A business card. She bent, her lower back protesting, and picked it up. It was plain, expensive cardstock. On one side, a phone number was written in a familiar, precise handwriting—Ridge’s. On the other, he’d written: For when you’re back.
She unlocked her door, closed it behind her, and slumped against it. The card sat in the center of her palm. He’d come back. After she’d shut him out, after she’d let him walk away, he’d come back and left this. No demand. Just a line. She looked at the number, then at the stack of cash from the hotel room on her coffee table. Two different kinds of currency. Two different futures.
She peeled off the hotel from her skin, showering until the water ran cold. She washed her hair twice. Wrapped in her robe, she picked up her personal phone. The message window with Ridge was empty, a blank space. Her thumbs hovered over the screen. She didn’t have the energy for cleverness. She typed three words and hit send before she could stop herself.
Come over. Please.