Edward Lee - The Chosen

It was sleep that she dreaded.

She closed her door, poured herself a Grand Marnier, and ran a bubble bath—her nightly ritual. A glance in the mirror affirmed Donna’s observation. Vera was run down, tired out. She assessed her reflection as she took off her clothes. The dark circles under her eyes told all.

Not enough sleep. And it was more than just worrying over the opening, she knew.

It was the dreams.

The lewd dreams seated in her inexplicable sexual fantasy. The hands, she thought, and hung up her tulip wrap-dress. The hands slowly caressing her into a frenzy. The fantasy lover was Kyle, or at least she guessed it was, and that made even less sense. Why fantasize about someone you can’t stand? she wondered. Perhaps it was all Freudian. Nevertheless, each night the fantasy seduced her to the point of touching herself. Then she’d fall asleep, and the dreams would begin…

She slipped out of her panties, unclasped her bra. Her amethyst necklace sparkled against her bosom. She lay it on the marble counter and eased into the warm tub.

She dreaded the dreams because they made her feel ashamed, and she felt ashamed because…she enjoyed them. They reduced her to a slut. Maybe I’m a slut and don’t know it, she attempted to make a joke of it. She could not believe the things that happened in the nightly dream. She couldn’t even believe how her subconscious could conjure such things…

The dream was always the same, just blurred in certain details. The hands, somehow, were the catalyst. They’d repeat their ministration of the fantasy, goading her, setting her off. Then they’d urge her to her hands and knees. Doggie style, she thought now. She’d never even liked it that way. It seemed insincere, whory, indulgent. When she made love for real, she liked to be face to face with her lover, not just a back and buttocks. It turned lovemaking into a faceless antic, a joining of bodies with no identities. Was the dream orchestrating her aversions, playing out acts she didn’t consciously condone? If so, why? Why was her mind not only including a person she didn’t like but also a sexual position she didn’t enjoy?

She enjoyed it in the dream, however. It brought tumultuous orgasms, and sensations so erotic it dizzied her to think of them now. It seemed to go on all night. Her sex would be plumbed from behind, while the hands reached around and plied her clitoris. The penis felt huge; she could scarcely take it all. Eventually it would withdraw and release its ejaculation onto her back. The dream-lover would then push her back down onto her belly, straddle her, and massage her back and shoulders as though the long gouts of seed were body lotion. And next, the hands would urge her up, gently position her to sit at the edge of the bed. No words were spoken, none needed to be. The figure would merely stand before, with hands on hips as if in wait. What it awaited was clear. Without reservation, Vera would eagerly lean forward to admit the massive organ into her mouth.

And that was only the beginning…

I should see a shrink, she considered now. My mind has become a garbage can. She lay inert in the tub, staring up not so much at the ceiling as at the confusing images of herself that had never presented themselves until now.

Why? she thought. Her toes diddled with drips from the faucet. And why now? How come I’m not sleeping well? How come I feel like I’m falling apart? And why the hell am I all of a sudden having these gross dreams?

She had no idea.

Nor did she have any idea whatsoever that all of these things had one very specific common denominator:

The Inn.

««—»»

Lee popped the Gun Club tape into his boom box and boogied. He always worked better with good music. The Gun Club was kick-out-the-jambs rock. He also worked better with a beer. He’d conned Donna into copping him a few bottles of EKU Maibock before she’d locked the service cage for the night. What was the big deal anyway? A few beers, aw so what? Dishwasher was always the last man out and it was the groatiest job, so why shouldn’t he be allowed to toss a few while wrapping the kitchen up?

He jammed to the tunes, a song about Elvis from hell, as he off-loaded the last rack of plates from the Hobart. Dishwasher was an erroneous job title—you didn’t just wash dishes, you cleaned everything in the kitchen so it was spic ’n span for tomorrow. Of course, he wasn’t exactly busting his ass tonight. A kitchen didn’t get that dirty after only serving fifteen dinners. All he had left was the floor to mop, and he could call it a night.

Lee was enthused; he was making righteous money now, and he wasn’t discouraged by opening night’s low draw. Things would pick up, he was sure. With Dan B. at the range and Vera running the show, word would get around fast that the best place in town to eat was The Carriage House. He didn’t understand why Vera was so bent out of shape tonight, though. She knew these things. In fact, she’d been acting funny for a while. Frazzled, off-the-mark, and a little bitchy. That made sense though, what with Paul Whatshisface cheating on her. What a scumbag. Vera was a nice lady, she didn’t deserve to be duped like that. For all that time she’d had her hopes up for marrying the guy, and then the guy puts her through the wringer. I wish he was here right now, Lee thought and polished off the first Maibock. I’d run his dog ass through the Hobart a few times, see if that doesn’t clean up his act a bit. Poor Vera. No wonder she hadn’t been herself lately.

That and that Kyle motherfucker giving her the extra headache. That’s the last thing she needed on top of the shit she had to take from Paul. One thing Lee knew from the word go: that Kyle motherfucker was bad news. He’d been on all their asses.

Speaking of motherfuckers…

Suddenly the door to the room-service kitchen was unlocked and open. Standing within, and sneering big-time, was Kyle. “Hey, fatboy,” he said.

Lee shot the dude a scowl. “You talkin’ to me?”

“No, I’m talking to the ten other fat shits standing behind you. Who do you think I’m talking to?”

“What do you want, man?”

“I want you to get your fat can over here and finish up the RS dishes. We got slammed tonight, and my dish-man’s ragged out.”

Lee, at once, was tempted to suggest that Kyle dine on his Fruit of the Looms. Instead, he said, “I don’t take orders from you. Vera’s my boss.”

“Bullshit. We’re both your bosses, and right now I’m telling you to do something, so how come you’re not doing it, fatboy?”

Lee sputtered. Sure, he knew he was fat, but he didn’t need to be reminded of that fact, especially from a cocksure, snide motherfucker like Kyle. This was a tough call. Kyle, after all, was staff management. Lee didn’t revel in the idea of cleaning up room service’s mess. But there was another thing he didn’t revel in the idea of: a reprimand.

“What’s that there?” Now Kyle was squinting, his grin sharpening. “Is that beer you’re drinking?”

Fuck! Lee thought. The second bottle of Maibock was sitting there big as day next to the dressing mixer. “Uh, yeah,” he answered up. What could he say? No, it’s milk, it just looks like beer.

“Drinkin’ on the job’ll get you fired around here, fatboy. Dump it out.”

“Aw, come on, man. It’s just a beer, it’s not a federal fucking offense.”

Kyle cocked his head. “You got a hearing problem to go along with the weight problem, fatboy? I said dump it out. Pick up the fuckin’ bottle in your fat little hand, walk over to the sink, and dump it the fuck out. That, or you can pack your bags and head back to Fatboy City right this second.”