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 gone looking for him, she instead found Kyle, who persistently made snide comments about The Carriage House’s trickling turn-out. “Yeah, we’re slammed every night over at room service,” he’d say. Then he’d grin. “How about you?” Asshole, she’d always answer in thought. Then he’d always ask, “When are you and me going to go for a dip? Oh, that’s right, I keep forgetting, you don’t have a swimsuit.” That’s right, Kyle, and I’II never have one as long as you’re around.
Their second weekend, Vera was surprised to book a few guests into the small wing of second-floor rooms that she’d been put in charge of. The mayor had some relatives in town, and there were a few others. Vera made sure that their rooms were in pristine shape, and that anything they’d order from upstairs was of the highest quality. It infuriated her, though, to discover that Kyle’s room-service elevators bypassed the second floor, which meant that her food orders had to be carried through the atrium and up the stairs. Afterward, she’d received some odd comments, however. “I hope you enjoyed your stay,” she remarked to one couple. “Oh, your accommodations are superb,” the wife had replied, “but it’s a bit loud, isn’t it?” Loud? Vera thought. “We kept hearing this thunking noise—” The doors on the room-service elevators, Vera suspected; she’d heard them too, opening and closing. “We had a very nice time,” another couple cited to her, “but your housemaids aren’t very friendly.” Shit! Vera thought. Yet another couple had actually submitted a complaint card about similar noises and smirking housemaids. She felt it her responsibility to report the complaints, but when she mentioned them to Feldspar, he didn’t seem to care at all. Instead, as usual, he commended her on the job she was doing, and claimed that the upper suites were booked solid. “Business couldn’t be better,” he’d said, and then invited her to sample a glass of Montrachet ’83.
She’d hotly wanted to point out to him the foolishness of maintaining such a large inventory account for the restaurant. A million dollars? It was ludicrous. Less than a hundred thousand would be more then ample; the rest could be put into a higher-yield CD and at least be earning interest for the company till. But she never brought it up, far too used now to the man’s lackadaisical attitude toward financial management.
And all the while, her distraction deepened. Paul, she thought. That final night, and its obscene imagery, had never ceased to churn through her memory. She hoped she never saw him again, but that was a false hope. Sooner or later, she’d have to see him. There were still a few things back at the apartment that she needed to retrieve.
Sooner or later, she knew, she’d have to go back to the city. She’d have to face him one last time.
««—»»
Dinner wound down. The third night of their second week. Twenty-two dinners tonight, she thought. Not bad. Breaking twenty dinners per night was their new goal, akin to breaking one hundred in golf. Not too good, but better than shooting sevens on every hole.
The last of the diners complimented her as they left. “A simply lovely meal,” an elderly, perfumed woman gushed, donning a mink stole. “I’m glad you liked it,” Vera replied. “Please come again.” “We will,” promised the younger man with her. He looked like Dapper on The Three Stooges. While the rest cleaned up, Vera meandered to her office in the west wing. She cashed out, wrote up the night’s receipts, and logged in the payroll hours. All the while, though, her mind wandered, never stopping on a single thought, image, or notion. Paul. Feldspar. The Carriage House. Paul. She poured herself a Cordial of DeKuyper Cinnamon Schnapps and felt even more remote. Paul. Sleep. The dream. Feldspar. Kyle…sex.