Edward Lee - The Chosen

Evidently, Feldspar had sent him packing. Taylor had said he’d be dining at the restaurant, but Vera hadn’t seen him all night. What are you thinking now? she questioned herself. What, you were going to make a play for him? Have sex with him in his suite? For all intents, a perfect stranger? Preposterous.

Nevertheless, she felt curious as to whether or not Taylor had had dinner at The Carriage House, as he’d said he would. Certainly, as a scout for an accounting firm, Taylor would have a company credit card for business expenses. She flipped through night’s credit receipts but—

No Terrence Taylor, she discovered.

Kyle had checked Taylor into one of Vera’s suites. Next, she checked her room register to see when Taylor had checked out.

That’s weird…

According to the register, Mr. Terrence Taylor, Room 201, never checked out at all.

««—»»

He’d checked in instead—

Good Christ …

—into a nightmare.

When Mr. Terrence Taylor’s eyes finally opened, all he could see at first was an ill-lit wash of murk. His legs felt numb, and a headache gnawed his brain. What the fuck happened?

Taylor’s memory struggled back…

That guy! What was his name? Kyle? He’d taken him to meet this Feldspar fellow, the general manager, but he hadn’t been in his office. “Oh, that’s right, he’s in the stockroom checking in a morning shipment. Follow me.”

Sure, Taylor thought. But hurry it up, will ya? Wres tling comes on in a half hour. Kyle led him down a cramped hallway behind the front offices, which seemed an odd access to a supply room. And—wait a minute. Why would Feldspar be tending to a supply delivery? Taylor had been a manager himself once, at a T.G.I.F. in Charlotte. Inventory and supply receipt was the service manager’s job, not the general manager’s…

Along the way, they passed several housemaids who were not exactly…provocative in the looks department. Sullen. Pasty-faced. Fat. One, with breasts like flaccid goldfish bowls, seemed to shrink at the sight of Kyle. If you were the last girl in town, Taylor thought, I’d be cutting holes in watermelons. You better forget about trying out for that Cosmo cover, baby.

A large security door stood at the end of the hall. room service staff only, read a plaque. Kyle unlocked it, and showed Taylor in. “The first pantry,” Kyle indicated.

Pantry? Taylor wondered. “I thought we were going to the supply room.”

“We are. Right in here.”

Taylor viewed the long kitchen, amid vague cooking smells. Pretty complete set-up, he appraised. Sure as hell more complete than the kitchen at T.G.I.F. Everything looked brand new. Along the back wall behind the prep line stood three heavily padlocked pantry doors, the first of which Kyle unlocked. They’re awfully secu rity conscious around here, Taylor concluded.

“Mr. Feldspar’s right in here,” Kyle said.

It never occurred to Taylor (not the most deductive of men) to wonder why the general manager of The Inn would be behind a padlocked door. He was too worried about making his pitch. He straightened his tie and lapels, then his hair, then checked to make sure his phony Rolex was still ticking. Yeah, it would be great to sell this Feldspar guy a bookkeeping contract. The company needed more business, and Taylor sure could use a contract himself since he worked on commission. At least at T.G.I.F. he’d gotten a salary.

Then:

What the hell is this? he thought when he entered the pantry.

The pantry was smaller than a trailer bedroom. And it was—

Empty, Taylor realized.

Nothing on the shelves because there were no shelves. No foodstocks, no supplies—

“What gives?’’ Taylor began to turn. “This is no pantry—”

And before he could finish turning, Kyle had the garrote around his neck nice and tight. Taylor tried to yell but no sound came out. His fingers tried to dig in under the garrote. His heart beat to explode…

Kyle was chuckling from behind, tightening the cord. The buttons on Taylor’s suit jacket flew off as he struggled. Next, he was powered to the floor, his Florsheim’s thunking the walls. The cord around his throat tightening in increments; Taylor felt his face swell up. He was a strong man, more than a match for this psycho Kyle, yet every expenditure of his energy proved a waste. Not much more than shock and pure, primitive terror coursed through his brain. Beyond that, however distantly, he somehow sensed that he was…descending.

Kyle’s knee pressed against Taylor’s neck; the garrote continued to tighten. And next:

A gush of air. A block of bright light.

Feet thumping, his eyes fit to launch from his skull, Taylor was dragged out by the throat. “Right this way,

Mr. Taylor,” Kyle mocked, his face huge in Taylor’s warped vision. “Mr. Feldspar seems to be detained for the moment, but I’m sure that we can take care of you.”

“Oh, we’ll take care of him, all right,” another voice issued. It was clearly a woman’s voice, rough and densely sultry. Two more hands were on him now. His brain starved of blood, Taylor could think now only in snatches and obscure chunks of terror. As he felt himself being lifted up onto some sort of table, his consciousness began to dim out…

“Aw, shit!” complained the woman’s voice. “He’s dead already. Why’d you kill him so fast? We could’ve had some fun first.”

Kyle’s hands came away. The garrote lost its tension. “Well, what difference does it make if he’s dead?”

“Yeah, I guess you’re right.” The woman laughed. “We can still have a little fun at that.”

Blood swam back into Taylor’s brain—

They think I’m dead, he thought.

Unseen hands next were pulling off his slacks.

“Oooo! Red undies!” exclaimed the woman. “How sexy. I just hate plain old white shorts on a man.”

Don’t move! Taylor thought beyond the madness of what was being done to him. Play dead! Let them think you’re dead!

Not an easy task, considering what happened next. His fancy red undershorts were skimmed off, and, very quickly—

“Holy shit!” Taylor yelled, lurching on the table.

“How do you like that? He’s not dead after all—”

A bottle cracked Taylor in the head, then shattered. His brain bounced within his skull.

“Yeah, that ought to calm him down a little.”

Only then did Mr. Terrence Taylor pass out for real. But just before that final spark of his consciousness faded away, he did indeed realize what exactly what was being done to him: He was being very enthusiastically sodomized.

««—»»

Eventually it all came back. No details, just the barren facts. The fuckers tried to kill me… His vision, and consciousness, returned to him in little drips. Pain roared in his skull.

Where am I now? he struggled to wonder.

He lay flat on his back, elevated. A table, he thought. It felt cold beneath him. His eyes roved behind slitted lids, against cold white light, but his vision remained too blurred to make out any features of the place; beyond just a few feet, objects turned to blobs.

Then he heard…whistling.

Very slowly, Taylor turned his head to the right. Just a yard off a figure stood with his back to him. It’s that Kyle psycho, Taylor realized. The fucker that tried to strangle me, the fucker that—

Well, Taylor didn’t finish that thought. He squinted on. Kyle was whistling as he tended to some unseen task at what appeared to be a long stainless-steel table.