Jasbee knew it was a mistake. Sure, the guy looked respectable--he wore an impeccably tailored suit that looked like it cost ten grand, and whoever cut his sandy blond hair probably charged another two hundred bucks on top of that. He had a genuine Rolex watch, a fancy ring on his finger that looked to be eighteen karat gold, and even the leather satchel sitting next to his expensive shoes probably cost more than Jasbee made in a week. Everything about him reeked of money, especially the stack of literal, actual money sitting on the counter in front of her. Whatever he was here for... and Jasbee knew damn well what he was here for... it wasn't like he was going to rob her.
But the richer a client got, the more entitled they got, and this guy was already acting like he owned the place from the moment he walked in and laid five stacks of crisp, brand-new twenty dollar bills on the table. Jasbee knew how to handle that kind of rich, entitled customer when it came to her usual clientele of pampered trophy wives and spoiled trust fund babies--twenty minutes on the massage table and the endorphin rush usually left them floating on a happy pink cloud of amiable acceptance. But this man didn't come here for a massage. He had an 'unusual request'. Jasbee knew what that meant, even if neither one of them was coming out and saying it.
But that was five hundred dollars. Cash, too; no chargebacks later, no need to report it to the IRS, she could just sweep it into her pocket and take it home with her. And the holidays were coming up, and Jasbee had to buy for three sisters and two brothers and her mom and her dad and her boyfriend and the girlfriend that her boyfriend pretended he didn't know about because he was hoping for a threesome some day. And Mister Anonymous was the first person to walk into Skinz Trinity, the little strip-mall day spa she owned and operated, since she opened this morning. She could take the money up front, put it in the safe, and if he tried to renegotiate, well... she'd decide what to do about that when the time came.
She looked into his piercing, grayish-blue eyes. "Just a facial, right?" she said, trying hard to hide the naked hunger in her voice for the stacks of twenties. "That's it?" She knew it was a mistake, but times were tough. Everybody had to hustle if they wanted to get by.
The man smiled thinly. "That's right. Just a facial treatment. I've even brought my own supplies and equipment, so none of that five hundred dollars will need to go to replenishing your stock." He nudged the large leather satchel with his foot. "Just sixty minutes of your time. That's all I ask."
Jasbee's teeth worried at her lower lip for a long moment, and her hazel eyes betrayed her agonized indecision. But they were looking at that money, and he knew it. He didn't say a word, just waited for her to convince herself that she could talk him out of doing anything else he wanted to do. The silence stretched out for what felt to Jasbee like a small eternity, but it headed to a conclusion that seemed almost predetermined. "Okay," she said at last, scooping the money off the counter and dropping it into the safe.
Then she went up to the front and locked the door, hanging up the 'With a Client - Come Back at' sign after setting the little clock hands to a generous ninety minutes later. She wiped the sweat from her palms on her smock, double-checking to make sure that the privacy blinds were fully closed. Then she walked back to the massage table and lay on her back, closing her eyes and doing her best to relax.
There had to be a catch. Nobody paid five hundred bucks to pamper somebody else for an hour.
Jasbee tightened up a little when she felt his fingers press against her fawn-colored skin, but she managed to resist the urge to visibly flinch. Everything about the sensation was strange and incongruous, though; for someone who spent her day regularly massaging someone else's facial muscles, Jasbee rarely availed herself of the services of an esthetician for her own relaxation. She did the basics for herself every night--cleaning, exfoliation, extraction, and mask--but that was strictly business. Nobody went to have their face done by a woman with visible blackheads, after all. Letting someone else touch her like this, though? The stranger was taking her into uncharted territories in many ways.
He sure seemed like he had a map, though. His long, dexterous fingers pressed firmly but not painfully at the pressure points of Jasbee's cheeks and forehead, forcing the muscles to relax and loosen up with a mix of long and strokes across her face. "That's an interesting name, Jasbee," he said conversationally as he worked, his voice mild and pleasant in her ears. "I don't think I've ever heard it before, Miss Wong. Is there a story behind it?"
Jasbee chuckled. "Not much of one. My mother always liked the name Jasmine, but my father thought that it would make me sound too 'exotic', make it hard to blend in. He wanted to call me 'Beatrice'. They argued for nine months, and 'Jasbee' was the compromise. Worst of both worlds, if you ask me." She thought about asking the stranger's name in return, but she suspected he would simply deflect any inquiry. He probably had a wife or something who might get upset if she found out that he was paying five hundred bucks to massage the faces of strange women, and he didn't want Jasbee finding out about her. Rich people had weird kinks like that. She remembered one woman who kept asking if Jasbee offered ashiatsu, even offered to pay for the training....
Her mind was wandering a little, Jasbee realized. The stranger's fingers felt so nice, and the constant transitions between light, gentle touch and deep massaging pressure were raising a ton of endorphins. It was a natural high, half the reason people kept coming back for another spa treatment even if they didn't know it, and it was making her a little light-headed. God, no wonder it was so easy to talk people into a full package if they felt like this. Jasbee let out a sigh, exhaling tension she didn't even know she was holding inside herself.
