The Chosen

“You sure did. Out like a light.” He casually grabbed his towel and slung it across his shoulder. Vera, still prone, paused to look at him, the pool lights shifting on his skin: the long, damp swept-back hair; the sculptured muscles of his chest, shoulders, arms; the tapered frame. What am I thinking? she thought.

“It’s late,” he said. “I’m turning in.”

Vera bottled up the slow burn of angst. After all the accusations she’d made to herself, all the times she’d condemned him as a conman and womanizer, here was the truth. He’d had every opportunity to seduce her, yet he hadn’t.

And, Vera, as a result, was now disappointed, irritated.

“So how do I rate as a back-rubber?” he inquired, grinning.

“I believe the word is masseur, Kyle, and I’ll give you a high rating.”

“Just a high rating? Not the highest?”

Vera reflected, still lounging on her side. It had been good, hadn’t it? No, it had been better than good. “Now that I think of it, Kyle, yes, you get the highest rating. Five stars.”

“I thought so. And seeing how all’s fair, maybe next time I’ll get to rate you.”

“Possibly,” Vera said.

“See you tomorrow.”

Kyle turned and strode off. Vera watched after him.

These notions weren’t like her at all, these desires. I wanted him to do it. Indeed. For the first time in her life, she’d wanted no-strings, fast-and-furious, rough-and-tumble…sex.

She slowly rose, still aroused by the fantasy. Her nipples poked against the suit’s bright cups, the contact of the wet fabric titillating her. Diffuse chunks of light wobbled on the ceiling. She grabbed her towel, picked up the bottle of lotion Kyle had forgotten, and walked out.

Notions seemed to lag behind her down the hall. The Mouth nibbling her toes. The Hands kneading her ass. The images boggled her. It’s just stress, she convinced herself. New job, new place, new people. And: no sex life anymore. They’d added up, that was all. The frustrations would abate once she had time to get used to things.

She stepped into the darkened atrium, then instantly stepped back. A figure had turned around the corner, as if walking from the fireplace. The fireplace? Vera wondered.

The fire had died to ash. It must have been one of the maids or maintenance people checking on it. But—this late? It just didn’t feel right, though Vera couldn’t name a reason. She didn’t dare call out. What if it was Feldspar? He might be a bit curious as to why his restaurant manager, whom he was paying a hundred and fifteen thousand dollars a year, was traipsing about The Inn going on two in the morning, clad only in a damp swimsuit.

Still, she waited a moment, peeking back and forth. When she felt certain the figure was gone, she skipped out across the plush wool carpets to the fireplace. Only a trace warmth lingered. Its fieldstone maw was nearly large enough to stand in. Chopped logs filled a black-iron rack to the left. She peered down, noticing something else, the vaguest scent…

Ah, ha. The glint caught her eye. On its side behind the stacked logs lay a bottle. Scotch, she noted. A rail brand. That explained it. One of the maintenance staff was snitching a nip. She supposed it was her duty as a manager to report it, or to at least confiscate the bottle, but she let it go.

Something else was on her mind.