When Saturday night rolled around, nestled deep in the cushion of Tom's GT, I looked forward to my massage. Something I had been spoiled with the past two nights. My eyes slid to his hands on the steering wheel. Long fingers, strong, his knuckles scarred in all directions. He was a fighter. I knew that without seeing the scars. I wondered what it would feel like to have his touch turn cold, his hands turn hard.
I squirmed in my seat as phantom hands grabbed onto my hips, I lurched forward in my seat, expecting my head to meet that same shattered mirror. My heart beating urgently, I pulled my seatbelt away. Then a hand - real, warm and heavy on my knee, it squeezed. "Mila?" Tom's voice pulled me back. I wasn't in the bathroom; no hands were on me. No hard ones at least. None that held mal
