When Daryl moved in with Mitch, he started looking for a job closer to the townhouse Mitch owned in Short Pump. Something that wouldn’t require a daily commute; the interstate could be a bear, as Mitch complained when he spoke of work. After a few months, a new spa opened nearby, and Daryl was offered a position as a massage therapist. The pay was slightly less than what he earned as a physical therapist with the rehabilitation facility, but he wouldn’t have to spend so much time and money traveling. Plus, the average masseuse earned ten or twenty bucks more in gratuity for an hour’s worth of work. Not bad, considering.
The physical therapy position Mitch hadn’t minded. He’d been to the rehabilitation facility himself—it was where they met—and he knew first hand that nothing suggestive or
