The Grays Document ~ Part One
by C.A.B.
(Fiction. M/f, Warning: adult themes. non-consensual, sex. violence, torture)
Becky steps from the chain bookstore and into the cool air of deep night. Coffee still in hand, she pauses to note that the parking lot is now mostly empty but the lights are still buzzing with a bright impersonal glare. Her heels clack purposefully as she makes her way around the building, having been forced to park out back when the store was packed with silent weekend literary bugs, acne scarred gamers, and lonesome shelf stalkers trolling for some miracle eye contact and subsequent (if just as unlikely) romance over double espressos.
But now there was only moths and mercury vapor, and the thin haze of dew sweat on her black car; half in the shadows near the dumpster with its reek of grinds and cardboard. Her girlfriend canceled their dinner hours earlier and she was left dressed up with nowhere to go. The bookstore was always a last ditch at salvaging a Saturday night, so why not; people watching is interesting... even the creeps. But now, later than she was used to staying, she had to admit defeat and crawl home to bed. Another bland weekend.
In her car, the door shuts and keys jingle. Suddenly a rush of breath and a panic. A firm hand. The acrid smell of gun muzzle. And then there was the first of a voice that would rule her nightmares.
"...that's it. Nice and calm. I will talk."
Pounding heartbeats thrum in her ears. Nausea.
"Now. Turn on the car and drive. I'll tell you where to go."
Twenty minutes later, shaking hands steer out of town and down snaky back roads. The next county, and then the next, and then the unfamiliar. Ahead, a dim, rusty sign. The pink neon should read 'Snow Hope Motel' but the letters not burned out make it read, "no Hope Motel" Becky feels a cold sweat wash over her anew.
"Turn here. Park at the end of the building away from the office. That's right, that last room. The end space," The lot is silent, no lights in the room windows and just a car or two. The office is dim with nicotine stained windows which casts sickly and weak evidence that someone inside is in attendance. The muzzle at her temple, "Open the door when I do, walk in front of me. To the last door there."
Becky's thoughts are everywhere and nowhere. The man has a gun. She does not want to die tonight. Humor him, then maybe...
He shuts the door motel room door behind him. The room is dark but for a sad glow from the bathroom. The air conditioner rattles loudly and smells of mildew. "Face down, on the bed. Now!" There is no time for easiness, no sooner is she knee up on the bed then he is pushing her down. A wrist is grabbed and pulled behind, cuffed, and then to the other. "Slide to the floor and sit forward." She is pulled, then pushed. A second set of cuffs ratchet closed on the first, and then to the mattress frame. He stands, puts his pistol on the far dresser and takes off his coat. Then crosses his arms. Leaning. Staring.
Becky dares to glance up and meet his eyes. In the light of the room they look black and full. He is trim and tall, but there is nothing gangster or smarmy about him. Nothing criminal like one imagines. He looks as if he might have just stepped from an insurance office or bank. He smirks and rolls up the sleeves on his white shirt, one by one, methodically. His tie is plain and might be deep red or purple. His slacks are off the rack, more utility than suit. And the same goes for his shoes, dressy, but with tread sport soles for comfort... or physical work.
"That's right," he says, "Make a note for the Home Office. It doesn't matter to me. If I really cared about you listing the landmarks on the way here do you really think I would have let you drive?"
Becky blinks. Not understanding or too frightened to comment, or both. Her eyeliner has begun to smudge with teary eyes, "Please... Mister..."
"Save it," he throws up a palm dismissively, "Let's not pretend. If we get down to business we can both get out of here before Monday. Yes. Monday. That's all the time I have to deal with you. After Monday, I go home. You do not. Clear?"
"Mister, please! I don't..." she begins to cry.
"Okay. We'll play it your way. Listen up," he stares, "Listening?"
"Please! What do you..." He moves quickly, unexpectedly. His palm leaves her face red and smarting.
"Listening?" he cups her jaw.
"...yes."
"The Grays Document. Name the actionables. All three people. Do it."
"What?"
He exhales, and repeats, "The Grays Document. Name the actionables. All three people. Do it."
"Mister I don't know what you're talking about this is some kind of mistake why am I here why are you doing this I want to leave..." Becky trails into a run-on sob and her face contorts flushed and wet.
The man stands erect and stares, more disgust than confusion, "Okey dokey, then. Not 'my way' or 'your way,' but he 'hard way.'"
Becky bounces a little in frustration and cries out, "Let me go! LET ME GO!" then she screams as loud as she can.
He turns to the dresser, shaking his head. Amused. "That's good. That's real good. Do you think anyone can hear you? These old places are really thick walled. Cinder block. Then you got the noisy AC in every fucking room. I paid for the next three adjoining rooms. And I paid the night manager... in crap Budweiser, if you can believe it. And, of course there's old State Road 4 out there which died when they put in new Route 31. Ghosts and three year old roadkill jerky, is all you'll find out there at this time of the early morning," he chuckles, "So how about we shit can the damsel in distress routine?" Then he mocks her lightly with hands fluttering, "Help me! Oh help!"
Becky coughs and sputters on tears, "What are you going to do with me?"
He leans on the dresser again.
"Not 'with you,' ...'to you.' I'm going to ask you again and if you don't answer, I'm going to do things 'to you.'"
"I don't understand! Who are you? Why me? I don't know you at..."
"Me? You might say I'm a freelancer. The folks who want that information hired me. I've been tailing you for three weeks. You even smiled at me passingly in the supermarket. But this is neither here nor there," he glances at his watch, perturbed, "The Grays Document. Name the actionables. All three people. Do it."
Becky shakes her head from side to side and begins to wail uncontrollably. The man hangs his head and starts for the door. Becky calls disparately, "Wait! Don't leave me here!"
The man turns, bemused.
"I'm not going to leave you here. I'm gonna get my things. And when I come back, I'm going to start torturing you."
— To be continued
by C.A.B.
(Fiction. M/f, Warning: adult themes. non-consensual, sex. violence, torture)
Becky steps from the chain bookstore and into the cool air of deep night. Coffee still in hand, she pauses to note that the parking lot is now mostly empty but the lights are still buzzing with a bright impersonal glare. Her heels clack purposefully as she makes her way around the building, having been forced to park out back when the store was packed with silent weekend literary bugs, acne scarred gamers, and lonesome shelf stalkers trolling for some miracle eye contact and subsequent (if just as unlikely) romance over double espressos.
But now there was only moths and mercury vapor, and the thin haze of dew sweat on her black car; half in the shadows near the dumpster with its reek of grinds and cardboard. Her girlfriend canceled their dinner hours earlier and she was left dressed up with nowhere to go. The bookstore was always a last ditch at salvaging a Saturday night, so why not; people watching is interesting... even the creeps. But now, later than she was used to staying, she had to admit defeat and crawl home to bed. Another bland weekend.
In her car, the door shuts and keys jingle. Suddenly a rush of breath and a panic. A firm hand. The acrid smell of gun muzzle. And then there was the first of a voice that would rule her nightmares.
"...that's it. Nice and calm. I will talk."
Pounding heartbeats thrum in her ears. Nausea.
"Now. Turn on the car and drive. I'll tell you where to go."
Twenty minutes later, shaking hands steer out of town and down snaky back roads. The next county, and then the next, and then the unfamiliar. Ahead, a dim, rusty sign. The pink neon should read 'Snow Hope Motel' but the letters not burned out make it read, "no Hope Motel" Becky feels a cold sweat wash over her anew.
"Turn here. Park at the end of the building away from the office. That's right, that last room. The end space," The lot is silent, no lights in the room windows and just a car or two. The office is dim with nicotine stained windows which casts sickly and weak evidence that someone inside is in attendance. The muzzle at her temple, "Open the door when I do, walk in front of me. To the last door there."
Becky's thoughts are everywhere and nowhere. The man has a gun. She does not want to die tonight. Humor him, then maybe...
He shuts the door motel room door behind him. The room is dark but for a sad glow from the bathroom. The air conditioner rattles loudly and smells of mildew. "Face down, on the bed. Now!" There is no time for easiness, no sooner is she knee up on the bed then he is pushing her down. A wrist is grabbed and pulled behind, cuffed, and then to the other. "Slide to the floor and sit forward." She is pulled, then pushed. A second set of cuffs ratchet closed on the first, and then to the mattress frame. He stands, puts his pistol on the far dresser and takes off his coat. Then crosses his arms. Leaning. Staring.
Becky dares to glance up and meet his eyes. In the light of the room they look black and full. He is trim and tall, but there is nothing gangster or smarmy about him. Nothing criminal like one imagines. He looks as if he might have just stepped from an insurance office or bank. He smirks and rolls up the sleeves on his white shirt, one by one, methodically. His tie is plain and might be deep red or purple. His slacks are off the rack, more utility than suit. And the same goes for his shoes, dressy, but with tread sport soles for comfort... or physical work.
"That's right," he says, "Make a note for the Home Office. It doesn't matter to me. If I really cared about you listing the landmarks on the way here do you really think I would have let you drive?"
Becky blinks. Not understanding or too frightened to comment, or both. Her eyeliner has begun to smudge with teary eyes, "Please... Mister..."
"Save it," he throws up a palm dismissively, "Let's not pretend. If we get down to business we can both get out of here before Monday. Yes. Monday. That's all the time I have to deal with you. After Monday, I go home. You do not. Clear?"
"Mister, please! I don't..." she begins to cry.
"Okay. We'll play it your way. Listen up," he stares, "Listening?"
"Please! What do you..." He moves quickly, unexpectedly. His palm leaves her face red and smarting.
"Listening?" he cups her jaw.
"...yes."
"The Grays Document. Name the actionables. All three people. Do it."
"What?"
He exhales, and repeats, "The Grays Document. Name the actionables. All three people. Do it."
"Mister I don't know what you're talking about this is some kind of mistake why am I here why are you doing this I want to leave..." Becky trails into a run-on sob and her face contorts flushed and wet.
The man stands erect and stares, more disgust than confusion, "Okey dokey, then. Not 'my way' or 'your way,' but he 'hard way.'"
Becky bounces a little in frustration and cries out, "Let me go! LET ME GO!" then she screams as loud as she can.
He turns to the dresser, shaking his head. Amused. "That's good. That's real good. Do you think anyone can hear you? These old places are really thick walled. Cinder block. Then you got the noisy AC in every fucking room. I paid for the next three adjoining rooms. And I paid the night manager... in crap Budweiser, if you can believe it. And, of course there's old State Road 4 out there which died when they put in new Route 31. Ghosts and three year old roadkill jerky, is all you'll find out there at this time of the early morning," he chuckles, "So how about we shit can the damsel in distress routine?" Then he mocks her lightly with hands fluttering, "Help me! Oh help!"
Becky coughs and sputters on tears, "What are you going to do with me?"
He leans on the dresser again.
"Not 'with you,' ...'to you.' I'm going to ask you again and if you don't answer, I'm going to do things 'to you.'"
"I don't understand! Who are you? Why me? I don't know you at..."
"Me? You might say I'm a freelancer. The folks who want that information hired me. I've been tailing you for three weeks. You even smiled at me passingly in the supermarket. But this is neither here nor there," he glances at his watch, perturbed, "The Grays Document. Name the actionables. All three people. Do it."
Becky shakes her head from side to side and begins to wail uncontrollably. The man hangs his head and starts for the door. Becky calls disparately, "Wait! Don't leave me here!"
The man turns, bemused.
"I'm not going to leave you here. I'm gonna get my things. And when I come back, I'm going to start torturing you."
— To be continued
