The Chosen

reached behind, and unhooked her bra.

Then it hit him. She wasn’t here to clean his room, she was here to thank him for getting Kyle off her last night in the room-service pantry. This was her way of expressing gratitude. But—what the hell? he thought. What’s she doing? She was just lying there with her back exposed.

Then, peering closer, he thought: Holy shit…

Her entire back was a mat of coarse, crisscrossing scar tissue. Someone’s been whipping the shit out of her, and for a long time, he couldn’t help but conclude. A shiver ran through him, next, when he reached into the paper bag and withdrew its slack contents:

A black rawhide whip.

“Look, lady,” he said. “I’m not into kinky stuff like this.”

Eventually she turned and sat up, her forearm holding the large cups of the bra to her bosom. She seemed confused for a moment, as though it were a shock that he didn’t want to whip her. But then the confusion in her eyes paled to a look of resigned despair. She reached into her apron pocket, withdrew a small black-plastic pouch and gave it to him, then lay back on the bed.

Lee almost puked when he opened the pouch. At first he thought it was a sewing kit, but then he remembered. He’d seen stuff like this once, on a high school field trip to New York City to see some Egyptian museum exhibit. He and Dave Kahili had slipped out to an adult bookstore on Forty-second Street, and he’d seen things identical to what he now held in his hand. Needles of various lengths, leather lashes, clip-pins and nipple-screws. This was no sewing kit—it was hardcore S&M gear.

Lee put the pouch down. Just holding it made him feel sick. “You want me to stick needles in you? No way. I already told you, lady, I’m not into it. It’s not my scene.”

Judging from the web of scars on her back, she was well-used to shit like this. Lee realized no pleasure in pain, giving or receiving. It was sick. How could anyone get a charge out of whipping a woman, or sticking pins in her? Sick motherfuckers like Kyle, Lee thought. He’s probably been doing shit like that for years.

The woman sat up again. She seemed frustrated now, desperate to please him but not knowing how. She re-clasped her bra, and slid back up to the edge of the bed.

Some weird expression of relief came over the pale, doughy face. She looked up at him. She smiled.

Then she got down on her knees and began to unwrap his towel.

— | — | —

^{CHAPTER SEVENTEEN}

Business didn’t pick up much over the next week. One night The Carriage House did seven dinners; Vera could have keeled over. Another night they did thirty-seven—a record—but still nothing compared to the hundred-plus they’d done on weeknights at The Emerald Room.

Vera, generally the most stable of the bunch, had become suddenly the least tolerant of the start-up drag. Dan B., Donna, and Lee, took it all in stride. Why couldn’t she? The others actually were taking to The Carriage House quite well. Dan B. whipped up specials of unheard of standards, multistage souffles, intricate flaming beef entrees, and many other dishes that The Emerald Room’s big crowds never gave him time to attempt. And since Donna was the only waitress, her tips were good most nights. Even Lee, paid the least of all, seemed more content here than Vera had ever seen him back in the city.

She’d felt distracted throughout the entire week. Her very libidinous dreams had not abated; instead, they’d intensified, leaving her to wonder further about herself. She slept in fits. Feldspar was scarcely seen at all; the few times she’d