I tossed my suitcase on the stand and surveyed my home for the week. It was exactly like every other motel I had spent previous weeks in. One large room, separated by a room divider into a bedroom, and a tiny kitchenette. A small desk was against the wall, the through-the-wall heater/air conditioner, the big television across from a reasonably comfortable recliner.
Absolutely generic.
So I called home and checked in. Told the kids to be good. Told the wife I loved her.
Another evening for a road warrior.
I actually had to stop and think about what state I was in. Oh, yes, Kentucky. Over the next four days, I would visit eight little stores (Dollar General if it matters) and coach the store manager. The way we were growing, managers needed a LOT of coaching. I enjoy that part of the job. I just wish I wasn't on the road four days a week.
Well, if we're being honest here, I didn't mind the break from the kids and my bitchy wife.
So I did my little bit of unpacking, took a quick shower, put on my hunting clothes, and got ready to head out.
I checked myself in the full-length mirror mounted to the back of the closet door. Not bad. I had survived the Big 4-Oh last year and still cleaned up good. No grey in my dark brown hair (thank you Lanette (the woman who touched me up every week when I had my hair done)), no sags around my eyes or under my chin, no beer belly, and good posture. In my Oxford cloth, pinstriped, button-down shirt, white cotton denim Levi's, bright socks, and black loafers I thought I looked good. I could easily pass for 30, maybe a graduate student. It usually works in the college bars and I do like my pussy young.
So I called an Uber and headed downstairs.
I was glad that the driver was a young man. I could be straight with him.
"Take me to a college bar," I said, "I need to get laid."
He laughed and said, "I know just the place."
So I relaxed to enjoy the ride. I just looked around, trying to get a feel for the city. I had absolutely no idea where we were in relation to the motel or, well, anything.
The bar was like every other college bar on the planet. A sound system was playing too loud, the bar was long with a bartender who looked to be about 18. There were booths, a few tables, a pool table, a jukebox, and what I had hoped to see, three dart boards across the back wall.
I got a pitcher of beer, worked my way through the crowd without spilling any, and took a seat at a table near the dartboards. I poured myself a beer and made a big production of getting my darts out of my pocket and assembling them, the tail to the tube and then the flights to the tail. They are very good darts, titanium, probably $200 at retail. I had won them from their previous owner using bar darts. I'm very good at darts.
So I started shooting, warming up. I wasn't going to try to hustle or anything so I made no secret of just how good I am. I casually put two darts in the triple ring of the 20 pie, the third nicking the wire in a miss. Then hit the double ring on the 20, the 19, and the 18. I laid out a Cricket game on the chalkboard and sat to wait.
I didn't have long to wait. Since college girls outnumber college boys these days, college bars tend to be a target-rich environment for someone who looks just older enough to be interesting and maybe a little dangerous.
"You're really good," she said as she sat opposite me, "show me how."
I looked at her and liked what I saw. She was a brunette, cute rather than pretty, a little button of a nose, a sprinkling of freckles, a small mouth, and very blue eyes, a nice surprise given her hair color and the kind of tan shade of her skin.
"Sure," I said, standing, offering my hand, and then moving to the line.
"I'm Dave," I said, extending my hand. She took it with a warm, firm handshake and said, "Carla."
She looked good standing too. She was short, maybe 5'4", and very curvy. I guessed her bra size at 36E. Short shorts showed off good legs, heavy at the top but tapering to nice, almost delicate, ankles.
"The trick," I said, "is to not think about it. Just pull the mental trigger and let your muscle memory take over. Of course," and I chuckled my best, endearing chuckle, "you need to practice a lot to develop that memory."
Then I demonstrated. I held my arm out straight, used the flights of the dart, not to aim, but to focus, and then pulled the mental trigger. For me, that involves moving my forearm through 90 degrees until it points straight up, and then forward, releasing the dart at the proper time. Doing that, my theory was, I limited the number of muscle groups involved. The dart hit the bullseye. Then, to emphasize, I held my arm out a second time, focused, turned to look into her eyes, and let fly. It wasn't a bullseye of course, but it was reasonably near the middle of the board.
I grinned.
"Muscle memory," I said.
"Now you," I said, pointing to the line. She moved to it and I laid my hands on her hips, enjoying the softness I found there, and liking that she didn't seem bothered. I adjusted her until she stood facing 90 degrees away from the board. Then I put a dart in her hand, showing her how I hold it, and moved her arm until it was straight out, pointing at the board. I used two hands to get her arm into the proper position, said, "focus, look right where you want the dart to hit."
I waited a few seconds and then said, "shoot."
She giggled when she managed to hit the board inside of the double ring.
"You're a natural," I said.
I looked over at the table and saw a blonde sitting there. She was the exact opposite of Carla. She was thin to the point you thought, "anorexia." She was blonde and tall and very pretty in that stark way of some very thin girls.
"And what do we have here?" I asked, back at the table after telling Carla to practice for a while.
She smiled, a very good smile, all white teeth. Her eyes got involved. One of THOSE smiles that made you want to make her smile again.
"I'm Lindy," she said, still smiling, "Carla and I kind of watch out for each other."
"I see," I said, sitting, "and do you think she needs watching out for?"
The smile turned into a grin. "You have a functioning Y chromosome, don't you?" she asked.
I thought about saying something like "you shouldn't answer a question with a question but decided to let that pass."
"I do," I said.
"Then, yes," she said, "she needs to be watched out for."
I flashed my own grin, my BEST boyish grin, well-practiced in the mirror, took a big drink of my beer, and thought, "oh boy oh boy, a twofer."
Looking back, I guess I noticed an odd, bitter aftertaste from the beer, but I wasn't focusing on taste right then.
We talked for a while, I don't really remember much of the detail. I watched Carla, looking very fetching, as she walked back and forth from the line to the board. I listened to Lindy but my concentration was off. I was a lot drunker than I should have been after my first beer.
"I think he's ready," Carla said, and I couldn't find the will to say something like, "Hey, I'm right here."
Lindy reached over and patted my cheek.
"Yep," she said and stood.
"Come with us, sweety," she said and it seemed like the best idea I had ever heard.
They had a car, an older model Chevy Caprice. It looked like a giant whale.
Lindy moved right to the trunk and opened it.
Carla guided me to the back of the car and said, "get in."
I knew, way down deep, that I had been drugged. I knew also, that I might be in some serious trouble here. But I got into the trunk. I had to bring my knees up to fit but I didn't mind.
The lid shut and I was in dark. I realized I was crying but even that seemed okay.
I slept.
I woke, feeling something at my neck. I was still weak and groggy, having trouble focusing my thoughts.
"Oh, Jesus Christ," I heard a voice I vaguely recognized, "the fucking smell. He pissed and shit."
"Come on, boy," I heard as strong hands pulled at me.
I managed to get my hands under me before my cheek was torn on the edge of the trunk, and got out.
I almost fell when my feet hit the ground.
"Get those nasty pants off," Carla said, "it's not like you'll be needing them, and Christ, you stink."
When I hesitated it felt like my head was being blown off, like my throat was being torn out, like I was on fire from the shoulders up.
