Where Nerves End

he could throw them.
But I was curious. What kind of guy went into acupuncture, anyway? I could only imagine the banter between these two. Seth the hardcore prove-it-or-itdidnt-happen atheist versus “Dr.” Whitman the acupuncturist. Of course, the guy had persuaded Seth to get this kind of treatment. That more than anything made me raise my guard. What was I dealing with here? A guy who could sell used cars and snake oil? Or a New Age, hippie type who bought into this as much as his clients did?
Give him a chance, Jason.
I closed my eyes and released a breath. I would give him a chance. After the other nights excruciating episode, Id believe in unicorns if someone told me it would help. Well, not really. I was desperate, but I knew that was when I was most vulnerable to a convincing sales pitch. The proof had damn well better be in the pudding, or I wasnt buying.
Down the hall, a door opened. As footsteps and a male voice approached, I turned my head. An elderly woman appeared first, and when the source of the male voice came into view, I almost choked on my breath.
Apparently that was the kind of guy who went into acupuncture. Holy. Fuck .
I couldnt say if I was expecting dreadlocks and hemp or glasses and a lab coat, but what I wasnt expecting was six-footplus of oh my God with a heaping dose of please tell me you’re single . He looked like hed just stepped out of a laidback business meeting: pressed slacks, a plain white shirt with the first button casually left open and the sleeves rolled to his elbows. His hair was almost black, and short but not severely so. Short enough to be neat and professional, long enough it just started to curl. Long enough for a man to get a grip on if—
Jesus, Jason. You get a grip.
A thin string of twisted brown leather hung around his neck and disappeared down the V of his shirt, and he had a beaded hemp bracelet on his left wrist, so he wasnt entirely without the signs of his “hippie lifestyle” as my brother—and Seth, whether he admitted it or not in this case—would call it.
While the acupuncturist and his patient exchanged a few words, I just stared. Goddamn, he was hot. Hed taken that old cliché “tall, dark, and handsome” and made it his little bitch. Dark-haired, darkeyed, tall enough Id have to look up at him, and he had a perma-smirk that hinted at something dark and devious hiding inside that mind of his. And handsome? Good God, yes. The perfect amount of ruggedness roughened his edges, tempering his borderline pretty boy look like an invisible black leather jacket and sunglasses. If the receptionist was Seths type, Michael was undeniably mine.
And then he looked right at me. “Mr. Davis?”
I cleared my throat and stood. “Jason.”
He extended his hand. “Im Dr. Whitman, but most people just call me Michael.”
“All right,” I said. “I guess Ill call you Michael.”
He smiled, which crinkled the corners of his eyes just right to draw my eyes right to his, and suddenly nothing was on my brain except and I thought I was a sucker for blue eyes . Apparently brown ones did it for me too.
“Follow me.”
Don’t mind if I do…

CHAPTER 2
    Michael led me down a hall with four doors on either side, and gestured for me to go into the third one on the left. In the center of the room was a table. Not an exam table like Id expect in a doctors office, though. More like a massage table. Black leather, cushioned, complete with the doughnut-shaped cushion on one end so someone could lie facedown.
    “Just have a seat for now,” he said. “Well go over your history, primary complaints, and all of that before I treat you.”
I sat on the table, and Michael took a seat on a small, wheeled stool. He scanned the form, stopping abruptly when something apparently caught his eye. “You own Lights Out?”
I nodded. “Youre familiar with it?”
“Ive heard of it.” He smiled, glancing up through his lashes and almost coming across as shy. “Cant imagine Im exactly part of your target demographic.”
I laughed. “Not many people in this town are.”
We went through the usual rigmarole, as if I was going to a new doctor. Was I taking any medications? Did I drink? Did I smoke? Pains a four on a good day, eleven on a bad night, seven right now. Blah, blah, blah.
Then he scowled at the page, and I didnt have to ask which part hed read.
“So youre taking Percocet?” He looked up at me. “How often?”
“Whenever I need it.”
He raised an eyebrow. “And how often