Boonie shook his head, all leashed tension and predatory menace.

“I’m not here to talk to you about money. But you bring up a good point.”

“What’s that?” I asked. The room really felt too small. I was used to my clients lying down on the table—I liked it that way. I was in control, powerful. Boonie was way too tall, and he was definitely using up more than his fair share of the oxygen in here.

“I’d already heard you left him.”

“Right . . .” I replied, confused.

“Why?”

“Because he’s an asshole and I’m done eating his shit.”

“What happened to taking care of him?” he asked, mocking me. “I thought that was your job?”

Crap. He wasn’t playing fair.

“I was just a kid,” I said slowly. “I thought he needed me, that he loved me. Maybe he did, in his own way, but that was a long time ago. Now all he does is drink and gamble. At this rate he’ll be dead in a few years anyway, because he ignores his doctors. I guess I woke up one morning and realized I’d married my dad. Sooner or later we all have to grow up.”

He studied me, those dark eyes of his impossible to read as ever.

“I had to hear about it in a bar,” he said finally, his voice tight.

“What?”

“I learned you left your husband” —he spat, turning the word into a curse— “in a bar. Jake Preston and Chad Gunn were talking about how much they wanted to tap your ass now that it was on the market again.”

I swallowed, feeling a little sick to my stomach. Callup never changed, apparently. Good thing I lived in Coeur d’Alene now.

“That’s . . . flattering,’’ I managed to say. “But I’m not quite sure what that has to do with you being here.”

Boonie gave me a tight smile that never quite reached his eyes.

“Now you’re just being difficult,” he said, his voice low and rough. A spark of tension raced down my spine, settling low between my legs. Thank God my arms were crossed, because I was pretty sure my nipples had gotten hard. So what if I wanted Boonie? That wasn’t a big deal—so did every other woman who met him.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

No, but you’ve got a fantasy, my traitorous brain whispered. Right, because that’d turned out so well last time.

“So that’s really how you’re gonna play it? Fine. Tell me about the massage,’’ he said abruptly. I blinked, caught off guard.

“Well, treatment depends on what kind of issues you’re having. We can do everything from deep tissue to simple relaxation.” I swallowed, frowning. “Boonie, I don’t think this is a good idea. If Farell doesn’t owe you money then you shouldn’t be in here.”

“Why not?” he taunted. “Do you have a problem touching me? If that’s the case, lay it out for me. How is rubbing your hands all over my body a problem for you? ’Cause it sure as fuck isn’t one for me.”

Hearing those words should really piss me off, because this wasn’t some cheap massage parlor where women offered men happy endings. Unfortunately, hearing him talk like that was a turn on, which seemed deeply unfair.

He was the last man I should be attracted to.

I’d just gotten out of one shitty relationship, and while I might not see Boonie very often, I knew far too much about him. He was Callup, born and bred, and we kept track of our own whether they liked it or not. He’d given the ladies down at the Breakfast Table more than his fair share of gossip since he’d come home last year.

According to them, the man was hornier than an alley cat.

Shit. I couldn’t think about that right now.

“I’m a professional, Boonie,” I told him firmly. “I’ll step outside and let you get ready. Undress to your comfort level and lie face down under the sheet. I’ll be back in just a couple of minutes.”

I stepped out of the room and shut the door, leaning back against it. Could I do this? I wasn’t sure. If I’d had any idea he’d actually expected me to touch him I wouldn’t have let him back into the room at all.

Liar.

Why hadn’t he gotten fat? Or started losing his hair? Granted, twenty-three was young to start balding but that hadn’t prevented it from happening to Farell. God, I wished I could go back in time. Maybe if I’d walked out of the hospital without talking to Renee that night, things would be different right now.

Except they wouldn’t. Even if I’d been free, Boonie hadn’t been. And now the Bastards held him tighter than any woman ever could.

“You okay?” Kelly asked, peering through the small pass-through window between the rooms and the reception area.

Say you can’t do it. Just tell her you’re not feeling good, you’re going to throw up, anything to get out of walking back into that room.

But I’d only been working here for six months. For three of those, Farell had been leaving nasty phone messages and while Gloria had been patient, did I really want to risk causing trouble? Because getting rid of Boonie would be trouble, no question. He wouldn’t just get up and walk away without a fight.

Boonie never, ever backed away from a fight.

I knocked on the door, then stepped inside. The man who’d beat up my boyfriend on graduation night (before fucking me on a stranger’s grave) lay on his stomach, watching me speculatively as I came toward him. Everything about the situation was completely appropriate on the surface—the sheet covered him to the middle of his back, just like it was supposed to. He should’ve been just another massage client, one of hundreds I’d seen.

He wasn’t, though. Not even a little bit.

I swallowed, then came to stand next to him. “Everything comfortable?”

“Yeah.”

“All right. Just go ahead and relax. Let me know if the pressure’s all right or if there’s anywhere I should concentrate on.”

Once again, the words were the same I’d used a thousand times, but somehow they seemed different today. Dirty.

Thankfully I could ease into this. Pumping my hand full of lotion, I reached down and touched his back for the first time. Oh crap . . . All these years I’d told myself I’d imagined how good his body felt. That I’d been drunk, that whatever Boonie and I had between us had been a figment of the booze and the fire and all the adrenaline that followed.

I was wrong.

His skin felt smooth and hot against my fingers, silky soft over a layer of hard muscles. My heart skipped a beat and I stilled.

“You okay?” he asked, his voice low. I swallowed.

“Fine. How’s the pressure?”

The words hung between us and I bit back a giggle. What was wrong with me?

“Give me everything,” he finally said. It took all I had to force my hands to keep moving. I warmed up his back with slow, steady strokes, studying his Marine Corps tattoos. Every touch reminded me of that brief, incredible night that he’d pulled me out of the party and taken me in the darkness. I still had dreams about it. Not that Boonie cared—it’d obviously meant a lot more to me than it had to him.

Not a huge surprise, I guess. We’d never even had a date. Just a fast, hard fuck. One of many in his life.

“So you’re living in Coeur d’Alene now?’’ he asked as I started working his shoulder.

“Uh-huh,’’ I answered, falling into the rhythm of my strokes. “I moved out three months ago. They tell me the divorce should be easy—I don’t want anything from him.”

The words came out sharper than I planned, and I felt his body tense.

“Did he hurt you?”

Fuck, how to answer that one? I considered my response carefully as I smoothed down the length of his arm.

“Not physically,” I finally said. “But that night changed him . . .”

Boonie snorted, muscles growing tighter.

“According to your letters that was a good thing.”

“You read them?”

“Yeah, I fuckin’ read them.”

Then why didn’t you answer?

I didn’t ask, moving down to his lower body instead. Reaching for the sheet, I folded it back to tuck behind his leg, fingers brushing the back of his right glute in the process. The technique called for me to fold it across, revealing the sides as I tucked it down between his legs. His muscles flexed, and he took in a harsh breath.