Initiate and Ignite by Nevea Lane

Behold
    An ache formed in her chest as Celine Beauregard flipped through the chart for her next client. It was always the same heart wrenching ache every time she saw the name Xerxes Talmay on her schedule. She wished there was more she could do for the war-weary veteran besides these tense massage therapy sessions. Her ache wasn’t because he was disfigured physically. Actually, he was quite the opposite. Xerxes had all the bells and whistles of a very eligible bachelor: he was single, had a steady job, no kids, fifteen years of military service, several siblings and a doting mother. He even owned a loft in the heart of the city, a few blocks away from her studio.
    There was just the small problem of his social skills. According to friends and relatives, he’d always been slightly shy, but after six deployments to Afghanistan, Gunnery Sergeant Talmay had become less than himself, according to his mother, her fellow workers and the local Veteran’s Administration hospital.
     

     
    She’d been a trauma touch therapist since she witnessed firsthand what trauma could do to a man’s psyche. Her own brother would stare off into space for countless hours unless she touched her finger to his knuckle to bring him back to the present. To her, Xerxes was no different than her brother, who witnessed a brutal civil war during his nomadic wanderings throughout the Middle East. According to Xerxes’ paperwork, his social skills were remarkable, once he opened up. She kept telling herself he was just another client, but his despondency was becoming more personal with every session. It was the look in his eyes that made her feel like he was so much more than a client.
    She wasn’t a psychiatrist, nor was she a psychologist. Celine’s therapy was based on touch and a method of neuroscience taught to massage practitioners. Of course, she always had to deal with all sorts of assholes who assumed the title ‘massage therapist’ meant ‘fancy escort’ or ‘happy endings,’ but Xerxes was nothing like those men. The first time the closed off ex-Marine came in for a session, she’d managed to get his shirt off and a hand on his shoulder before he bolted out of the room like a band of jihadists was after him. She knew when she’d gotten the referral from her friend at the Department of Veteran affairs this wounded soldier would be a tough cookie to crack.
    Sighing, Celine mentally prepared herself for this particular session. She’d decided during their session the week before that this marine needed a new medicine. During last week’s session, a pencil rolled off the desk and clanked to the floor. The sound created something within Xerxes so fierce he didn’t stop to put his shirt on when he stalked out the door. Before the door slammed on her, he looked over his shoulder and simply said “Sorry.”
    Standing up from her oak desk, Celine began to coil her long raven tresses into a loose chignon. When she looked at the wall clock, she realized she only had fifteen minutes to prepare. Locking the door to her inner office, she looked toward the stairs to her apartment above the studio. This office had become her sanctuary after her own terrifying flight from an abusive ex-boyfriend. Her French mother had told her to run away, but she refused to head home to Chamonix. She loved France and she loved her mother, but her parent was somewhat of a wandering soul who never stayed in one place for long. It was no wonder her mother had fallen hard for her gypsy father. Their spirits were both nomadic and restless. How they stayed still long enough to bring Celine and her brother into the world was still a mystery.
    Heading up the stairs, she looked around her studio. She believed the soft muted mauves, tan and plum of her couch and drapes would be soothing to anyone in need of solace and comfort. The studio was her anchor. Every piece of furniture, wall-hanging and decoration was a form of her personal ‘state control.’ Her life and her