Eclectic Mix Tape

Chapter 2

Chapter 2When Beau awakened, he wondered if he had arrived in heaven. No, there were no angels strumming harps, clouds underfoot, or St. Peter standing at the Pearly Gates.

But what was before his eyes was something unexpected and something, well, plush beyond Beau’s wildest imaginings. He sat up slightly in the large bed he was lying in. Rich, thick sheets slithered to his waist; a fluffy white down comforter was folded up at the foot of the bed. He surveyed the room he was in, despite the pain such movement caused to rise up in his head. It felt like a little man with an ice pick was wielding it behind his eyes, rhythmically striking again and again and again.

Through a wave of nausea and vision that went from clear to blurry with no warning, he managed to take in a gorgeous, sun-dappled bedroom. He lay in a sleigh bed of rich mahogany wood, carved at the top corners with a delicate oak leaf pattern. Light streamed in through plantation shutters at each of the two windows. The floor was highly polished hardwood, stained black, a wonderful contrast to the faded parchment color of the walls. Across from the bed was a little sitting area, with a loveseat, small table, and two overstuffed chairs, all covered in a deep velvet, the cushions so fluffy they begged to be sat upon. The table was piled with books, leather-bound.

On the walls were black and white framed photos of Seattle—the famous elephant of the Pink Elephant car wash, the Needle, a neon sign in the window of a bar called the Five Point where someone had blocked out the words “cook on duty” to read “c**k on duty,” the Crittenden locks in Ballard, Gas Works Park, Mt. Rainier, sunrise over the Cascade mountains. Yet, Beau noted there were no mirrors on any of the walls.

He was curious to see how he looked. Was he bruised? Did he have one or two black eyes? He gingerly touched his head, which pounded, and felt layers of gauze.

How bad off was he?

And where was he?

He tried to put his feet to the floor, but that same floor tilted when his feet connected with it and a wave of nausea rose from his belly, bile he imagined as a sickly yellow shooting up the back of his throat, burning.

He lay back down, panting, trying to remember the last several hours of his life, so he could figure out what had brought him here—wherever here was…

But all he could see in his mind’s eye was himself set up on the Elliott Bay waterfront, his art supplies at the ready, should a tourist want to take him up on his offer of a portrait for the bargain-basement price of only ten dollars.

Everything after that was a blank.

Beau tensed as he heard footsteps approaching. His gaze moved to a heavy oak door opposite the bed. The footfalls sounded heavy, indicating someone large drawing closer, closer. Beau felt a sudden flash of irrational fear course through him and he pressed his back against the bed’s headboard, eyes intent on the brass doorknob, waiting for it to turn.

He found it hard to breathe.

Only seconds passed as he listened to the silence created by the footsteps stopping outside his door. As he had imagined, he watched the slow turn of the doorknob. He felt like he was in some kind of horror movie and the notion made him panicky and giddy all at once—the absurdity of it causing him to restrain a hysterical giggle lodged deep in his throat.

Whoever was out there, opening the door—Beau did not want to see. What he wanted, really wanted, was to know where he was and how he had gotten here.

The door opened and a large figure, clothed all in black, stood for a moment, framed in the doorway. His massive shoulders were so broad that Beau wondered if he would have difficulty making his way across the threshold. The man—and Beau was sure it was a man despite not being able to see his face—stood well over six feet tall, perhaps closer to seven. In the form-fitting black jeans and long-sleeved T-shirt, the stranger had a pumped-up body in which the muscles were piled on like slabs. His hands dwarfed the silver tray he clutched, a tray containing a ceramic teapot and several bowls and plates.

Breakfast? Dinner? What time was it anyway?

And—more importantly—was he a prisoner?

The last thought came unbidden, but bolstered by the logic of the most mysterious and disconcerting aspect of the man standing before him—his face was completely covered.

And it wasn’t merely covered, but covered in a most unusual fashion: with a mask made of rubber that looked surprisingly realistic—the visage of a wolf. The salt and pepper fur crowning the top of the mask blended perfectly with a mane of salt and pepper hair that hung halfway down the man’s back.

“Who are you?” Beau managed to stammer.

His words seemed to propel the man forward, although he offered no response. His silence was equal to his appearance in eeriness.

Beau caught his breath as the man approached the bed, his footfalls echoing on the hardwood. Beau wanted to ask more, but suddenly lost the power to form words. He could only stare.

The man paused at the bed and stooped over, holding the tray with one hand as he outstretched the other. Beau imagined he was going to touch him and recoiled, drawing back.

But all the guy did was push the Tiffany-style lamp on the bedside table over a few inches so he could set down the tray. Once he positioned it just so, he clasped his hands together, staring down at Beau.

Even though Beau could not see his face, he had a certainty that this man, creature, whatever was hiding behind the mask, was smiling.

Beau was struck by the intensity of the eyes peering out from behind the holes in the wolf mask. Not only was the gaze fixed and passionate, but also the eyes themselves were remarkable. They were a pale green, the palest shade of green Beau had ever seen on a person, almost a kind of aqua-marine, and they were rimmed by long black lashes.

They were the kind of eyes, Beau thought, that had inspired that careworn cliché for the eyes: the window to the soul.

Just this connection with the man’s eyes calmed Beau somewhat. Something in those eyes told Beau he was safe and that the man meant no harm.

Beau c****d his head and repeated his original question, “Who are you?”

But the man said nothing. He gently patted Beau’s leg beneath the sheet, then pointed to the tray, nodding. Then, just as silently as he had entered the room, he turned and left it, closing the door with a barely audible click.

Beau’s heart rate and breathing had returned to normal levels and he found he felt marginally better, well enough to at least sit up and look at what the creature had left for him. The tray contained two soft-boiled eggs in cups and a pot of Earl Grey tea that Beau could recognize because of the delicious aroma of bergamot wafting up. There was also a linen napkin in a sterling silver ring, and a plate upon which rested two slices of golden buttered toast, cut into thin strips for dipping. A small silver bowl held a sectioned orange.

This could all be poisoned. He could be trying to kill me or at least put me out so he can do God only knows what kind of unspeakable acts and I won’t fight.

Beau shook his head. The man’s green eyes, the kindness in the way he touched him, reassured Beau—he knew it wasn’t logical, but he felt a kind of warmth and trust for his savior.

The name—savior—had come to him without conscious thought, and suddenly seemed right.

Beau could not recall what had happened to him. But he knew it was bad and something deep within his mind—no, make that his heart—told him with no doubt that the man who had left him breakfast had played a role in his salvation.

Beau breathed easier when he realized he could turn toward the bedside table, placing his feet on the floor.

With a hand trembling only slightly, he poured himself a cup of tea and added a couple of sugar cubes. He then lifted a spoon with which to crack the first egg.

Suddenly, he was ravenous.