Takeaway

By Vanessa Kant

Button, Jelli and Merle, all newly graduated from high school, save for college tuition by working at a rural fastfood restaurant. On a routine weekend shift, they are subject to a horrific late-night robbery at the hands of psychopathic and sadistic thugs. What appears to be a murderous massacre in the making takes a most unexpected turn.

Pursued on-foot into the night, the three coworkers escape through desolate cornfields and backwoods, finding safety and refuge in a remote hunting camp. Recognizing their once-in-a-lifetime circumstances, they explore and share themselves, establishing an emotional and physical bond that serves each as a lifeline in years ahead.

As each independently experiences failed, trying and abusively bizarre relationships, the threesome would like nothing better than to reconnect -- with grateful appreciation for the love they shared with one another.

This edition includes an afterword by the author, her beginnings and growth into the world of published erotica.

(Please note this narrative contains explicit and graphic descriptions of sexual situations, behavior and interaction. Should you be offended by such material, please carefully consider your decision to read this novel. If, however, you enjoy thoughtful and reflective erotica, proceed at full haste. Best served up while indulging on one's favorite wine or beer with a bowl of snacks at the standby).

• Language: English
• Publisher: Vanessa Kant
• Release date: Mar 30, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301790340

Book preview

Takeaway

by

Vanessa Kant

Copyright 2011 by Vanessa Kant & Doll House Press, LLC

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Smashwords Edition

This story is a work of fiction.

All characters, incidents, names and places

are the fictitious products of Miss Kant's imagination.

Any resemblance to commercial establishments, events, locations

and/or actual persons (living or deceased) is entirely coincidental.

Table of Contents

Foreword

Chapter One ... Intruders at Midnight

Chapter Two ... Race into Darkness

Chapter Three ... Curiosity at Camp Welcome

Chapter Four ... Break Up

Chapter Five ... Off-the-Field Lessons

Chapter Six ... Disaster Averted

Chapter Seven ... A Blissful Light

Chapter Eight ... Paying the Rent

Chapter Nine ... The Luckiest Alive

Chapter Ten ... Epilogue

Afterword

Foreword

Hello dear reader -

My sincere thanks for purchasing this book, the third erotica novel I have written. This volume differs from my first two titles in some significant ways, while retaining the installment feature chronicling my personal interest in the erotica genre. The latter is found in this publication's Afterword.

The obvious distinction of this volume is its greater word count, being approximately 96,000 words or the equivalent of a 350-page paperback novel. My first effort came in at 22,400 words (approximately 80 printed pages) and the second at 40,200 words (140 printed pages, give or take). You are perhaps thinking, That's all well and good, Vanessa, to quantify such data, but why should I find it important? The answer, friend, requires travel to the literary switchyard where Takeaway was assembled. Please join me for this explanation.

Originally outlined to come in at less than half its finished length, the inspiration for this story is drawn from a true crime event that occurred ten-plus years ago. A fast-food restaurant was targeted for a late night armed robbery by a gang of amateur thugs, resulting in a bloodletting that saw all six employees sadistically tortured and brutally slain. Of the six innocent victims, four were high school friends and classmates working as part-time employees to earn money for college.

Just a thirteen-year-old, I was horrified and grief-stricken to read the accounts of this gruesome crime in the newspapers. In fact, I dare say the morbid details traumatized me in the unique way occurring when one first recognizes the world as a randomly cold, dangerous and deadly place.

How could somebody do such things to another human being?

I would retreat alone to my bedroom and cry for the victims, whom I did not know, as well as their families. I suffered nightmarish panic attacks envisioning the suffering, pleading and final moments of life for these young adults, all only a few years older than myself. Yet, I persevered in clipping the articles and tucking them safely away in a small notebook which served as one of my early writing journals. At the time I was uncertain what I would do with the information, but felt it important to collect and preserve. I made a few attempts at describing the victims and their lives outside of work, amounting to nothing more than incoherent paragraphs of abstract character studies.

Three years later I made what I consider a valid and valiant attempt at writing the narrative from which this story is drawn. At the time I was happily unaware of my clunky, cumbersome writing style -- too many adjectives, numerous digressions, dangling participles, etc. -- and plowed ahead to complete the rudimentary handwritten manuscript (I dared not to make a word-processing record of such an effort on the commonly-shared family computer located in the den).

The process was cathartic in that I exorcised the Takeaway storyline from my head and onto paper, while also permitting me to call on my budding personal experiences to create what I considered sophisticated and tasteful sexual scenarios. Using the power of imagination, I had reversed a tragedy and simultaneously authored erotica.

As mighty as this accomplishment felt at the time, the clippings, notebook and story languished in a memory box stored at the home of my folks until I came across it during a visit in July 2011. What I had written years ago in blue Bic ballpoint pen was perhaps 25,000 words long. In reading this narrative as told by an earnest and well-intentioned sixteen-year-old high school junior, I decided to ramp up the story and deliver an expanded ending for the hero and heroines.

Does this story perversely exploit the pain and suffering of murder victims? It is a question I asked myself several times. I suppose one could adopt such a viewpoint, though what I have characterized is vastly dissimilar from that reported as fact.

I would rather prefer to offer this book as a tribute to those who died young, huddled with one another in the face of godless violence, and who -- from every account provided -- spared no effort to protect each other from the deviant impulses of bloodthirsty sadists and killers.

This time, in Takeaway, evil does not overcome innocence.

Finally, the love these characters share with one another is indeed expressed in part using graphic sexual terms. These young adults, like us, led lives which included intimate physical experiences. Erotica is one of the threads woven into my stories. I find it not offensive, but instead both a reality and manifestation of our humanity. Responsible sensuality should be celebrated, not condemned, particularly in literature and the arts.

Should you be offended by descriptive passages of lovemaking and sexual interaction, it would be best to forego reading Takeaway. If, however, you have a curiosity as to the unspoken carnal experiences of others, please proceed. It would bring me great joy to know you were entertained, enlightened and aroused.

Please forgive any typos and grammatical errors you might find. I have doubtlessly brought permanent damage to my retinas proofreading this manuscript front-to-back many times. Should there be shortcomings in its text, the responsibility resides solely with me. A note of correction from you, dear reader, will help improve a project to which I have given my best. Thank you again.

Warmly, V.K.

Also by Vanessa Kant

Sappho Surprise

A Camper's Tale in Two Parts

Secret Corridor to Love

Takeaway

Chapter One

Intruders at Midnight

The intersection of Route 52 and 45 on Saturday night was like any other night, quiet and unassuming. In fact, not much would indicate that a weekend evening varied at all from those preceding it. Traffic was about the same, with perhaps the exception of a handful of tour buses and summer vacationers adding to the predictable mix of local farmers, families and teenagers going about their routines.

Taking the Five-Two for six miles west brought a traveler into Plateville, not that anyone desired to go there. But considering the monotonous desolation to the east, the battered streets of Plateville looked as attractive to the casual passersby as much as it did to the homegrown natives.

If one were to head north on the Four-Five, it was best to obey the fifty mile-per-hour speed limit as, technically, the intersection itself fell inside the municipal limits of Rocktown and the Four-Five eventually became Rocktown's Main Street a little over three miles away. Drivers unable to contain themselves were sure to meet the town's enthusiastic police department, known for killing time by measuring speed at both ends of the highway.

The familiar scenery had not changed in years at the four corners, pretty much the way the scattering of inhabitants liked their progress. A rusted yellow and black Dangerous Intersection Ahead sign, sometimes used as a target by frustrated hunters, stood in front of a faded billboard advertisement touting the great taste of ice-cold Budweiser. Both served as reliable landmarks for two generations and were now heading into their third.

Had it not been for a Burgher Dawn restaurant located adjacent to the intersection's northwest corner, the nondescript crossroads would have served as just another way of entering -- or, more likely, leaving -- Plateville and Rocktown. Burgher Dawn's excessively large neon sign depicting a red sun rising over a brown burger patty lit up its enormous gravel parking lot, which was ringed by a dozen or so picnic tables painted in various shades of green. The building itself, a concrete block structure built not long after World War II, bore a glossy whitewash coat of paint accented by brilliant red trim around the entranceways and windows.

Entering the glass doors, under a bank of bright lights, customers lined up to one of two order stations laid out on a well-polished wooden countertop. Dinner selections were relayed to the kitchen -- its glittering stainless steel appliances and prep surfaces located directly behind the order-takers -- over an intercom system. Within moments, hot food and cold drinks would be set upon the chutes of the pickup area, waiting to be placed on a tray or in a bag and cheerfully delivered with a smile. Those who preferred to eat indoors had their choice of seating at one of the two dozen tables and booths in the nostalgically decorated dining room.

All in all, Burgher Dawn operated precisely as designed by the Burgher family. In terms of wearing a corporate public face, the chain of fourteen Burgher Dawn restaurants were the cornerstone of the sprawling Burgher empire. Six hardware stores, nine self-serve coin-operated laundries and a beer distributorship stretched out over a four county area. Yet it was the fast-food restaurant -- the first of the businesses opened by the Burghers decades ago -- at the junction of 52 and 45 that served as the official headquarters for the prosperous entrepreneurs.

For as unassuming as the Burgher Dawn seemed, it sat at the edge of thousands of acres owned and farmed by the Burghers. Fields of corn, soybeans and wheat ran for miles in all directions, while the restaurant parking lot was shared by the seasonal Burgher Christmas tree plantation located directly next door. Over ten thousand species of spruce, pine and balsam fir were grown and harvested in methodical scientific fashion, serving holiday customers soon after Burgher Dawn first opened. Geographically, the location was considered in the middle of nowhere, but for the Burgher clan it was the epicenter of a generational fortune-making enterprise.

And like every Saturday night, very few people knew the daily deposits from the other thirteen Burgher Dawn locations were brought to Rocktown headquarters for processing. Even fewer people were aware these deposits were tallied and then combined with those from the hardware and laundry businesses. And only a handful had knowledge that the receipts -- cash, checks and credit card slips -- were banded and stored until Monday morning in a massive gray combination safe located in the manager's office.

Despite the comfort found in monotonous routine, on Saturday the thirty-first of July a daunting energy filled the evening air. Each of the six Burgher Dawn employees working the night shift sensed a negative intangible, yet kept their concerns silent from one another. It was minutes after the midnight closing when each realized the night would end vastly different from those they had previously known.

***

It has to be the blue moon.

Jerry shook the moneybag, its significant weight floundering in his hands like an oversized trout freshly plucked from the deepest current in Lake Eveil. Fifteen minutes to lockdown and the final deposit was just arriving. In his six years as restaurant manager, he had never known the courier -- a retired police officer and security guard -- to be so late. The second full moon of the month, the fourth of the quarter!

I'm going to hustle to get this one counted, Sue, he said to the obese counter clerk as he passed through the lobby. When you have a chance, reduce your till down to fifty dollars. Let me know when it's ready.

Yes, boss, Sue replied with a hint of sarcasm, tucking a roll of short curly dark hair behind one ear with her chubby fingers. Whereas Jerry married into the family -- to the daughter of the current CEO, no less -- she was true Burgher blood, great-grand niece to the founder himself. Unlike him, I'm bona fide legitimate to run this place. Make sure to you use the desk calculator this time.

Jerry stopped in his tracks, staring down the flippant employee his store was stuck with, ostensibly to groom her as management material. You take care of your end, I'll do mine. The sooner we're finished, the quicker we'll be home. He approached the counter where a young woman scrubbed the delivery chutes with a cloth and cleanser. Jelli, go out back and help Merle with the closing list. Sue's not so busy here that she can't finish cleaning the front end.

Sue waited until Jerry had rounded the corner, then stuck out her tongue and crossed her eyes. We'll see about that.

Here you go, Jelli said timidly, shoving the bottle and cloth in Sue's direction. She was relieved to be removed from the presence of the big girl, whose behavior made her uncomfortable on a number of levels.

I'll have to show you my new tattoo sometime, Sue said, winking at Jelli. It's at the top of my left boob.

Yeah, sure, Jelli replied, not bothering to turn around. She pushed her way through the swinging door into the corridor leading to the kitchen area, stopping to adjust her barrettes beneath her official Burgher Dawn red-and-gold baseball cap. Just then another series of cramps rocketed through her midsection, nearly causing her to fall back against the wall. In two hours, I will be soaking in a hot tub at Grandma's trailer. All I gotta do is finish out this shift.

Norman, what on earth are you doing? Jerry sighed, entering the kitchen from the dining room. Did Merle tell you to spray out the freezer?

Who does he think he is? Gordon fuckin' Ramsay? Merle's not the boss of me.

Merle's running the kitchen tonight. His shift, got it? He wanted you to finish cleaning the deep fryers. Come on, now, look alive! The manager grimaced as he strode to the office. A freakin' summer Saturday night and they schedule Sue and four eighteen year olds. On top of a blue moon! Jerry glanced at his watch, calculating a rough estimate as to when he would start driving north to home on the Four-Five.

Norman checked the time as well, waiting for Merle to reappear from the sink area in the hallway. That dumbass should've told me to pick up and clean the dining room at eleven thirty. If he doesn't do it in the next five minutes, I'll just go out there on my own. Had he been cleaning the lard from the deep fryers as instructed, Norman would have missed being in the booth next to the corner window at the appointed time. The Barton brothers had been in earlier that night and, presumably, left the flashlight and pistol taped beneath the seat as planned. Now the pressure was on Norman and, if he screwed up, the most merciful thing he could expect from the Bartons was a savage beating. Should the brothers be in a real bad mood, he might end up in the Plateville sandpit with a .22 barrel pressed behind his ear.

Excuse me, Norman, where's Merle? Button wiped her hands on a towel and tucked a clipboard under one arm. She preferred not to interact with the strange boy, yet under the circumstances of wanting to get home as early as possible, she decided to speak with her erstwhile classmate with whom she graduated high school only six weeks earlier.

How the hell would I know? He glared at the short blond with melon-sized tits and a full, round ass. She was not a fatty, but instead carried the meat on her bones in a solid sexy way. She's still virgin, bet on it! The thought added spice to his immediate agenda. He's off somewhere trying to manage himself.

The words no sooner left Norman's mouth when Merle appeared at the corner of the portable freezer. His arrival brought with it an immediate peace of mind to Button, as Merle too was a fellow member of the recent Rocktown High graduating class. Though she had little contact with him through their school years, Merle was always respectful to Button and his fellow students. As far as she knew he received good grades and, though not involved in extra-curricular activities like she had been, he was an outstanding football player who at his size -- six-foot three, trim and muscular with dark features -- possessed an understated yet intimidating bearing.

I was finishing your work for you, Norman. The fryers, remember? Merle was clearly peeved, evidenced by the numerous grease stains on his red-and-gold Burgher Dawn jersey. He gestured for the towel from Button, who gave it to him without hesitation.

Good. I'll check on your work when I have a second, alright? The contempt in Norman's voice mixed with his obvious nervousness.

I'm sure you will. Merle did not want to waste time verbal jousting. He considered the buzz-cut, tattooed wiseacre the laziest person he ever worked alongside, consistently shirking his duties at the expense of his coworkers. A pile of horse manure has more value than he does. Button, let's see the list.

I got the prep boards cleaned and the veggie bins have been pulled. Button smiled as she flipped the top page over to show her checkmarks. Merle, towering over her shoulder, ran a finger down the right-hand column.

Jerry says I'm to help, Merle, Jelli announced, emerging from the corridor and joining the periphery of the group.

You can give me a hand right here --

Watch your mouth, Merle snapped, keenly aware of Norman's lewd obsession with the petite yet shapely girl. Though she attended Plateville Regional, Merle was smitten with Jelli -- a shortened version of her given name Angelica -- from working with her for over two years at Burgher Dawn. Jelli was the most beautiful girl Merle had met and he treasured every moment they spent side-by-side in their cartoonish restaurant uniforms. Even with their sustained contact, Merle found himself too shy and tongue-tied to strike up meaningful conversation with her. Jelli's aloof and indifferent attitude, unchanging since the first day they were introduced, made him feel invisible. Away from the restaurant his fantasy of romance was nonexistent, suffering death from improbability a thousand times over. It's one of those secrets best kept between my very own ears. Merle resigned himself to believe Jelli would never learn of or acknowledge his interest in her. His affection would someday dwindle to naught, like the rise and fall of the wind. We need to hit the dining room hard. Tables scrubbed, all remaining trays collected and washed, and the floor mopped. I'll see about --

I'll do it.

You? Merle looked quizzically at Norman, aware that Jelli had moved, placing Button between her and the offensive smart mouth. The guy who walks away from the fryers after he starts cleaning them.

The smell was making me sick. Really. He flashed a brief sneer. Besides, I want out of this shit hole quicker than any of you tonight, believe it. Let me do the dining room.

Have at it, then, Merle replied halfheartedly, but get it done. Right.

Oh, you won't have any complaints. Norman grabbed a pile of rags and a squirt bottle of cleaner, disappearing into the dining room before another word could be said.

Holy mackerel, Merle muttered, raising his eyebrows at the grinning Button. Jelli's expression remained downcast. The three of us can do the kitchen a lot easier without him, anyway. Button, wrap up the condiments and extras. If the tomatoes look flimsy, send them down the disposal. Jelli, you get the microwaves on both sides of the boards, then hit the drink station. I'll shut down the broiler and finish the fryers. There won't be anyone else in tonight.

Sshh, Merle, Button teasingly admonished him. You know saying that brings us bad luck.

I don't think we're going to see another three buses of Japanese sightseers arriving in the next five minutes, Merle laughed, referring to the deluge of customers who streamed into the restaurant earlier in the evening. You did a great job processing them through, Jelli.

I tried, she answered, turning to walk away. Sue was rude to them.

What? She showed them her new tattoo?

Merle! Button snatched the towel out of his hands and pretended snap him with it. Ramping up her outgoing personality a notch, she felt optimistic there was light at the end of the tunnel. Her time of the month had thankfully waned through the day and into the evening, yet her breasts were exceedingly tender and sore. One more day, maybe not even that, and it'll be gone. Church tomorrow morning at nine, then the rest of the day is mine. The thought of a hot shower, cup of tea and the crisp, freshly-washed sheets her mother promised to make her bed with provided more than enough incentive for her to finish out the night with a smile on her face. Who cares if it's a full moon and the werewolves are out? Come on, we've got work to do.

The kitchen fell silent as the threesome worked their assignments, each lost in thought of completing the task at hand and heading home. For Merle, he would be punch-in again tomorrow at noon and clock out at six, grabbing all the extra hours the restaurant offered. I've saved over seven thousand dollars for college. Can't let up now, even though I'm leaving in less than a month. He had been fortunate that the Burghers took a shine to him, allowing beaucoup overtime at the restaurant in the summer, as well as all the hours he wanted working the Christmas tree stand during the holidays. As an added bonus, Old Man Burgher permitted him hunting rights on the family properties, including the stand of forest up past the Nekoosa & Northern Railroad Line. He had brought down a buck two of the past three years not too far from the tracks. Merle smiled at the memory of personally delivering freshly butchered venison to a grateful Mr. Burgher at his stylish country estate last fall.

Something tickling your funny bone, Merle? Jerry asked good-naturedly as he emerged from the office, rattling a fistful of keys in his right hand.

Just thinking about that buck I shot last year, is all.

You mean that little fella the Boone and Crockett Club honored you for?

Yeah, Merle laughed, that would be the one.

Congratulations, folks, Jerry announced to the kitchen at large, lockdown time is here. Merle, shut off the outside lights. He was in an especially exuberant mood, having secured over three hundred thousand dollars in the office safe.

Yay! Button cheered, returning from her final trip to the walk-in refrigerators.

Hear that, Jelli? Merle asked, hoping to include her in the mini-celebration.

Yup, came her monosyllabic reply from behind him.

You should try singing that sometime, Jelli, Jerry smiled and stepped out into the dining room, pausing in the doorway to observe a stationary Norman. What exactly are you doing?

Found this, Norman said, kneeling with one leg on a booth seat while holding up a small black flashlight. Wanted to see if it's working.

Just put the thing in your pocket and get back to cleaning. We all want to get out of here before sun up!

Sure thing, asshole, Norman muttered under his breath, his heart rate spiking with anticipation. As Jerry walked past him, Norman pressed the flashlight lens against the center of the window pane and clicked the switch three times. The signal having been given, he dropped the torch on the seat cushion and picked up the handgun. Now for order in the kitchen. Sometime during the course of the early morning hours, Norman planned to make the snotty little virgin plead for her life.

I forgot about your till, Jerry said, crossing the lobby while fingering the key to the exterior double doors. I'll grab it on the way back.

Knew you would. Sue had already sorted the paper currency, placing four hundred dollars into a green plastic bank bag. Her protests widely heard in the past, she was certain Jerry would let her leave immediately, knowing she loathed participating in the cleanup. If I'm a big enough pain in the ass, I'll get out of anything. In twenty minutes, I'll be home. She bagged the three leftover double-cheeseburgers and two large orders of onion rings she had mistakenly ordered earlier, which would be consumed while watching a marathon of Jerseylicious episodes she had TiVoed all week. Her mind was busy unwrapping the first of the sandwiches when the inexplicable began unfolding before her.

***

Jerry had just raised his hands to secure the top deadbolt when both swinging doors came back on his face and torso with such force that he at first thought a car was plowing into the front of the restaurant.

But how? Why?

The momentum sent him tumbling through the interior set of doors, triggering his feet to fly out from underneath him and he landed squarely on his tailbone. In a split second the horrifying realization that two men, charging at him with long sticks, were the source of his stunning predicament.

A robbery!

In slow-motion detail Jerry followed the blurry figure of a hooded man bounding over the countertop, causing Sue to loose a shrieking scream which reverberated through the speaker system. An explosion of pain filled the left side of his face, driving him into the floor. Groggy but without hesitation, he forced himself upward while still trying to comprehend exactly who had entered the building. Another blinding shot to the right side of his head, followed by a forceful kick to his abdomen from a worn-out steel-toed boot forced his attention away from the distraught counter clerk.

Up, asshole! This time the boot landed squarely on Jerry's thigh, pushing him toward the entrance. Lock them fucking doors now!

Disoriented from the assault, Jerry struggled to his knees and grasped the oblong door handle, lifting himself to where he had stood less than a minute before contemplating what were now trivial concerns. Feeling the end of the stick jabbing against the base of his bruised spine, he staggered to the exterior doors and finished the job of securing the store.

***

Merle was initially bewildered. Why is Jerry letting customers in when we're no longer serving? Glancing through the service port and seeing the roughhousing taking place, he then thought friends of Jerry had stormed the door as a practical joke, trying to frighten him as part of some foolish gag. But what's wrong with Sue. She shouldn't be scared. At the exact moment a hooded man wielding a shotgun passed directly in his sightline, Merle heard Norman's voice call out from the sink area behind him.

Come on, you three, nice and easy like.

Jelli -- oblivious to the disruption -- stared straight ahead at the drink dispenser to Merle's right, while underneath the stainless steel shelf he could see Button's hands, palms down, frozen on the prep counter. Why isn't Norman doing something to stop this? Sue's scream resounding over the intercom compounded the shock of something very wrong taking place.

Move it, Merle. Bring the little bitches back here and no one gets hurt.

A flood of perspiration filled Merle's armpits as his stomach instantly wound into a knot of anxiety. The pounding in his ears made him wonder if he misunderstood Norman or even if Norman had spoken. Merle turned around and looked curiously at his peer standing in front of the sink.

I said move it, dickhead! Norman pointed the barrel of a handgun at the suspended ceiling and discharged a round, shattering a plastic tile. Move your fucking asses now!

Alright, alright, Merle said, his mind cleared of any immediate uncertainty. This is a hold up. Do what he says. Protect everyone. Live. He felt his senses sharpen and reflexes heighten, as though the situation would conclude in a matter of moments with everyone allowed to return to their original plans. Not taking Norman seriously, yet not wanting to provoke him, Merle grabbed Jelli by the arm and started past the idle broiler. Button, come down here, he said, peering up the opposite aisle to see the girl had turned pasty white. Come on. It's fine. Keeping a firm grip on Jelli, Merle took a few steps to