Going South: The Traveler

Standing outside the shelter, staring at the door, I contemplate going in. What I envision on the other side scares me – beggars, homeless people in rags in layers, eying me up, encircling me to attack and take all I have. It doesn’t matter if it’s real or just my imagination. I’ll never be able to sleep. I must find some other solution.

I walk on, wandering, hoping my eye will catch on an answer. And then it does. My bank. How stupid could I be? The withdrawal limit is only on the ATM. Why didn’t I just go inside?

Relief! I grab the shiny metal handle on the glass door and walk in with confidence. Maybe I can get enough cash to last a few weeks. How much would I need? A thousand? Two? I go for three just to be safe, handing my withdrawal slip over the counter to the teller with red-orange hair and strong perfume.

Her well manicured nails click against the keys as she begins the transaction. I almost want to laugh, I was so stupid. A smile creeps onto my face instead. How I would love to see Bosley’s face when he realizes I’ve gone.

My confidence is stolen away as the teller says, “I’m sorry, ma’am. This account is frozen.”

I gasp and step back. Already? I look over my shoulder as if Bosley might be right behind me. Leaving my card behind, I head for the exit, the teller yelling after me, “Are you okay, ma’am?”

Does Bosley know I’m in Boston. Has he been following me? Is he here now? I have to get out of here. I pick up my pace and keep checking over my shoulder for him, afraid he’s waiting around every corner or sneaking up on me from behind.

A train station! I duck in and hurry to the ticket booth.

“How much to Hartford?” I ask.

“$31.50 with one stop in Springfield.”

“I’ll take it.” I hand over two twenties. She returns change and a train pass.

I fall into the seat on the train, spent on stress. With the duffel bag snug between my feet and the laptop bag on my lap, I lean my head against the window and fall fast asleep.

Nearly three hours later, in Hartford, I find a bus out of the city going ...anywhere.

“Wethersfield,” the driver tells me and I feed my money into the machine.

Another twenty minutes and I'm left standing alone on a busy street, stores, gas stations and fast food lined up as far as I can see in either direction. I choose the slightly downhill direction, no goal in mind, and begin to calculate my possibilities. One night in a hotel – a cheap hotel – could be about... $50. What will I do tomorrow? I'll need to find a job. Who will hire me without asking any questions … and who will pay me in cash? I can't open a bank account. Where will I keep the cash? No place seems safe. No option reasonable. Panic builds again.

Motel 6 comes into view as I emerge from an underpass. It's got to be the cheapest stay around.

The man behind the counter speaks broken English, though I can understand him just fine. $45.99, one night, one adult, cash.

“Need your credit card for security, ma'am,” he says with a big smile.

I hesitate. “I don't have one.”

His smile fades a bit but not entirely. “Don't have one, ma'am?” Now he's scowling, confused.

“No, sir. Please let me stay. I'll clean for you.” Good God, did I really just say that? “I mean, I need a job.” Shut up. Just shut up.

He seems unsure what to do with me. His smile is gone. “You want to clean?”

Well no I don't want to. “Yes.”

“We not hiring, ma'am. So sorry.”

My eyes water up out of nowhere. He's not my last resort. He just feels like it. “Okay,” I say, mad at myself for giving up so easily. I drop my head, shoulders sunken. “Can I just stay the night?”

He keeps his eyes on me as he obviously contemplates. “Okay. Yes, ma'am. No credit card but you can stay. Tonight.”

“Thank you.” My face contorts as I let the tears fall.

He averts his eyes, concentrating on the computer, or the key register, or the front door. I've made him uncomfortable and for some reason I feel bad about that.

“Room 132, ma'am. Enjoy your stay.” His smile is back but I can tell he can't get rid of me fast enough.

The room is cleaner than I expected for $45.99 although the stench of carpet shampoo is overwhelming. I close the door behind me and lock the dead bolt then head straight for the glass doors on the other side, facing the pool and courtyard. How odd to have sliding glass doors in a hotel room. I pull on it to check the lock and it slides open. No matter what I do with the handle, it won't lock. Nice. Just what I need. I'm about to go back to the service desk when I spot a stick leaning against the wall. I suppose it's better than nothing. I drop it into the track of the door and try opening it again. This time it stays.

With the drapes pulled closed and everything locked down, I begin to feel safe. It's dinner time. I have approximately 18 hours to figure out what to do next.

Pulling the covers back on the bed reveals some unsightly stains near the edge of the cover sheet. My instinct tells me to go complain, ask for another room or just leave. But that was before my options were so slim. Now I just live with it. It's a bed, and I'm safe.

After a restless night, I emerge from my room in search of food. I locate the continental breakfast bar and begin to collect fruit, a bagel, a small box of cereal... I stop by the coffee machine, place my breakfast down on the table and pour myself some hot coffee.

“Ana?” I hear from behind me, in a clear no-accent voice and my heart jumps into my throat.

~~ Should Ana throw her hot coffee at the person behind her or make a run for it? ~~

Vote by the poll. The official tally will be taken from the poll above which closes midnight Thursday (your local time).

In addition, leave comments below if you’d like to expand on your vote. Click on the word ‘comments’ below to open the comments form. Watch next Tuesday for the following episode based on your votes.

Note: Don’t vote according to what you think I want for the story. Vote as if you were Ana or Ana were your friend. What would you do?

If you like this story, please share it with your friends. 

At 50 readers, I'll give away a free copy of Livid.

Going South: In the City

A ride sounds great. I am so tempted to accept. But my gut tells me not to. Damn Bosley for putting me in this situation!

“No, thanks, Henry. I’d rather walk.” Walking away will put an end to this conversation.

“Okay, if you’re sure.” He drives alongside me. “But why didn’t you just go to Loco-mat? It’s practically on your block.”

My heart races as I come to a standstill. … “I told you I want the exercise,” I say, injecting cheeriness.

He looks doubtful as we both watch each other, waiting for the next move.

“Is everything okay at home, Ana?”

All I have to do is walk away. Say yes and walk away. But confession kicks up inside me, whirling about, flipping my stomach, stealing my breath. He seems so sincere. Maybe he can take me away from here. Maybe he can save me.

The pause goes on too long, only confirming his suspicion, I’m sure. I mean to tell him everything but instead I say, “Everything’s fine,” and then wonder why my instinct is working so hard against accepting help from him. “I’m gonna get going now, Henry. Thanks so much for stopping to offer a ride.” This time I walk away more briskly, with purpose, with a goal. When I’ve walked a few steps, he rides off, shouting a goodbye out the open window, holding one hand up in a motionless wave.

I wonder as he disappears around a corner whether it was crazy of me to pass him up. He could have been my only chance at survival. He could’ve been my death.

The strange heat of the mid-April sun steals my attention. A breeze blows, giving me relief for a moment. As I wander in search of a bus stop, sidewalks lead me in and out of thin Spring shade. My feet hurt. My neck is one big knot.

At last! I spot a bus stop – a measly little sign indicating a bus may stop here at some time today. I’ll wait all day if I must. It’s my only way out of here. Thankful to ditch the bags, I take a seat on the curb and shade my face with my hand.

An hour and a half later, I’m melting, parched and losing hope. I check my phone for the time. Almost noon. Surely a bus will come around soon. After tossing my phone back into my purse, I decide to check my wallet for cash, suddenly afraid he’s taken that too.

When I see a twenty, I let out a sigh of relief. Perhaps he didn’t think I’d get this far. Maybe he thought I’d have no need for cash - or credit cards - if I couldn’t leave the house. Twenty isn’t much but at least it’ll get me out of here so I can figure out what to do.

The hum of the bus engine grows louder as it approaches. In a moment, I’m on my feet, the duffle and laptop bags strung across my chest and over my shoulder. It slows to a stop, the doors pop open and I step in, what-if’s clouding my thoughts.

The air inside is cool, almost cold, sending a shiver through me. The doors close briskly behind me and I struggle to find my balance as the bus moves on. Two other riders sit silently, staring out opposite windows, ignoring each other. I fumble for my cash, eyeing the strange machine while trying to stay on my feet.

“How much?” I say. Then without waiting for an answer, “Where are we going?”

The driver gives me a look, then points to the machine. “Two fifty. Downtown.”

Not my first choice but how many do I have really? I feed my only twenty to the machine and wait for it to spit out my change.

Still trying to make sense of things, I gaze out the front window, the world outside a blur. Details seem lost as I try to remember the events that led me here, in denial that Bosley could do all the things he’s done. Did he do it alone? Or did Damian help him? Is it the first time Bosley’s done something like this or just the first time I discovered it?

Twenty minutes later, I and the other two passengers are dumped downtown. An ATM is the first thing to catch my eye, drawing me to it like a magnet. Get all the cash you can, I tell myself, before he discovers you’re gone. What is the limit? How much can I get? I close my eyes in a silent prayer before inserting my card. I try $1000, anxious about carrying that much cash in the city but worried it’s all I’ll have for …who knows how long.

A receipt delivers my rejection. I push the card back in and try $500, holding my breath while I wait for the verdict. Inside, I hear it beating out the twenties and my heart races, thankful to be getting something.

I grab the wad of bills and shove them into my purse, clutching it tightly under my arm until I can hide them better. In the stall in a restroom at the back of a convenience store, I split the wad up into smaller chunks, shove a few in my pocket, split some more between duffle bag pockets, slip three into my bra, put several in my wallet until the entire amount is all split up and concealed.

Sitting at a greasy table in fast food joint crammed between two skyscrapers, I contemplate my next move. Am I safe here in Boston? Will he find me? Will he come after me? I could get a hotel for the night. But could he trace my card? Damn, if he can, then he can trace my withdrawal. Should I move on? Get further away? I can’t go far with only $500. Can’t even afford to stay in a hotel. I just know I must get further away. I feel the city closing in on me, eyes on every corner and in every window, watching me.

A taxi delivers me to the nearest bus station where I discover I can get to Hartford for only $15 but will have to wait three days until Friday when it runs next. I’ll be caught and killed before then. Back at the curb, I hale another taxi.

“What is the fare to Hartford?” I ask.

The woman looks at me over her shoulder as if to confirm I really just asked a taxi driver to take me to Hartford. “Hartford, CT?”

“Yes. Hartford, CT.”

She pulls out a spiral bound book from the console arm rest and flips through. “$300.”

Crud. That’s way too much. My options are dwindling and with each failure my pulse picks up speed and my stomach tightens a notch. What can I do? Where will I go?

“Where to ma’am?” the taxi driver calls, apparently not her first attempt to get my attention.

“Sorry,” I say and get out. Alone on the street of a massive city with loads of people, transportation and lodging, I am lost. I just want to hide, want to curl up in a safe place until it’s all over. I begin to pace slowly down the sidewalk, passing store fronts, busy people rushing in and out through glass doors, car horns honking, walk signs buzzing, sun shining, heart racing, mind numb.

My body twists abruptly as someone bumps my shoulder, calling out an apology as he retreats. My fingers automatically tighten around the straps of my bags and I scowl. Has he pick-pocketed me? I can’t check now, out in the open. A woman emerges from a plain white door and smiles at me on her way by. The smile is unexpected and soothes me for a moment.

Then I notice the sign over the door – Shelter. I glance quickly down the street where the woman was headed to get another look at her. She looked much like me. Does she stay here or does she work here? Could I go in there? Could I stay for the night? Would they let me? If not as a guest, then maybe as a worker.

~~ Should Ana stay at the shelter? ~~

Vote by the poll. The official tally will be taken from the poll which closes midnight Thursday (your local time).

In addition, leave comments below if you’d like to expand on your vote. Click on the word ‘comments’ below to open the comments form. Watch next Tuesday for the following episode based on your votes.

Note: Don’t vote according to what you think I want for the story. Vote as if you were Ana or Ana were your friend. What would you do?

If you like this story, please share it with your friends. 

At 50 readers, I'll give away a free copy of Livid.

Going South: Escape

Sometime later, the stairs creak and my body stiffens as I lay pseudo-secure, wrapped up in the corner of the comforter. I don’t want to see anyone at the moment, but if I must, I hope it’s Bosley, not Matt.

A strange calm settles over me as I watch the handle turn. As soon as Bosley appears, I wish it is Matt instead. Too mad to face Bosley, I roll over, close my eyes and hide my face.

“Why are you home so early?” he demands from somewhere behind me.

My eyes open to face the wall. Why am I home early? Me?

“Ana!” He tugs my shoulder to make me face him.

Being treated like a child isn’t helping.

“Leave me alone.” I toss his hand away and climb off the far side of the bed, walking around it to leave the room.

He blocks me. “What are you doing here?”

“I wasn’t feeling well,” I say, pushing him out of my way and heading for the door. There are so many questions in my mind but I’m too irritated to ask. Ignoring his calls, I go downstairs to the kitchen where there is plenty of cleaning to busy me.

“Hey,” he says from the doorway behind me after half the dishes have been thrown into cabinets.

I can’t face him. I’m not sure whether I’ll punch him or cry. Neither sound appealing. Both are likely.

“Didn’t you hear me calling you?” he says.

“Yes.” I toss a stack of clean plastic containers into the cabinet, keeping my back to him.

“Why did you walk away?”

I don’t know why. Perhaps it was childish. Slamming the cabinet door, I turn around to face him and feel the verbal vomit about to escape.

“You want to know why I’m home early? You’re the one making some …sort of …deal here that’s obviously …” My hands flail as I try to form thoughts into sentences. “What are you doing home early… with that guy… who had a gun?”

“I told you not to mention it again.” He moves closer, one hand poking a finger at my chest. “Just forget you ever saw it.”

“How can I?” My mouth hangs open as I stare at him in disbelief.

“You just have to,” he says, his upper body leaning towards me, brow low, eyes locked on mine.

“Well, I can’t!” My body trembles as I yell, a rare thing for me. I can’t ever remember a time Bosley and I shouted at each other before this.

Bosley grabs me by both arms and tugs me closer. “Well you have to.”

My heart pounds from the strength of his force. I can’t ever remember a time when Bosley hurt me…

As he glares at me, he adds, “Ana, you don’t understand but you need to trust me.” My arms hurt and my eyes well up. “If you know what’s best for you, you’ll keep your mouth shut and let it pass. Do you understand?”

Tears are my answer since I can’t form words.

“Don’t,” he says, releasing me with irritation and I fall back against the counter.

Don’t what? Cry? The idea of it releases a torrent of tears. I have to restrain myself from literally attacking him - pounding my fists into him. I’ve never known such rage in me, especially towards him.

“If you’re not feeling well, you should stay home tomorrow,” he says, turning away from me as if to say the conversation is finished.

“I think I can determine for myself –“

He spins around to face me. “Just. stay. home. …Unless you’re not really sick.”

What the…? The tears stop – the calm before a storm of defiance brewing inside me. He walks away, leaving me alone in the kitchen with no outlet for my anger. I begin to think up methods of revenge, how I can hurt him, how I can teach him a lesson about how not to treat me.

The moment he’s gone in the morning, I hop out of bed, get dressed and begin my reprisal. I pull several outfits out of my dresser and toss them onto the bed, add some essentials and head to the closet for my suitcase. I’ll spend the week away … at a hotel if I have to. We’ll see how he reacts then, when he doesn’t know where I am, when he thinks I’ve left him ...or have been killed.

I spot my suitcase buried in the back of the closet. I forgot how massive it is, almost too heavy for me when it’s full. Perhaps there’s another bag that will do for the week. It’s not like I need a lot. Shoes, bins of out of season clothing and winter coats get tossed aside in my search. When I spot Bosley’s old duffle bag, I grab it and head for the bed, shoving my clothes into it with force.

Tossing the duffle bag strap over my shoulder, I head downstairs, collect my laptop and purse and am out the door. The warm air hits me, surprising me. It feels like summer but it’s only April. I toss the bags in the back seat, hop in, belt up and turn the key.

It doesn’t start.

I try again. It makes a turning noise but still nothing. I stare at the dashboard as if I can intimidate it into working. That’s when I notice the tank is empty. Empty? Really? That’s weird.

It was fine yesterday on my way home, I thought. My gaze is glued to the “E” as I try to remember when I last stopped for gas - yesterday morning on my way to work. My pulse picks up. Would Bosley have siphoned the gas? I can’t even imagine! It’s too impossible to believe. I won’t believe it. A call to roadside service should fix it. Since I will have to wait for them to arrive, I retrieve my bags and head back to the house.

My mind goes into overdrive. Everything seems foreign now - my husband, my car, my house, my life. Even the phone seems different as I hit the talk button and hold it to my ear for a dial tone.  Digging through my purse for my account number, it takes me a minute to realize there’s no dial tone. My heart gives a kick to my ribs. I refuse to believe it, holding the phone away to inspect the status screen. NO LINE.

Okay, I tell myself. Don’t panic. Bosley wouldn’t have cut the phone line. It’s just coincidence. I search through my purse with one hand for my cell phone but can’t find it. Irritated, I drop the bag on the counter and dig through with both hands. It’s not in there. Where could it be? It never leaves my purse unless it’s charging. I spot the charger cord on the counter empty-ended. Too many things are now out of place. I feel lost and scared.

His laptop catches my eye and instinct tells me to try the internet. My body breaks into a sweat as I wait for the computer to wake up. I bounce my leg and dry my palms on my thighs. When the computer is up and running, I click to open the browser. PAGE NOT FOUND.

My attention shifts immediately to the five gray bars in the upper corner. No internet. My hand comes to my mouth in disbelief. I can hardly breathe, my face and chest tingling with adrenaline. I have to get out of here. I have to leave. I feel trapped, claustrophobic.

I throw the duffle bag over my shoulder, grab my laptop and purse and run out of the house. Walking as fast as I can, without knowing where I’m going, I feel I can’t get away fast enough. The warm air and added weight leave me feeling lightheaded before I’ve walked a mile.

I need to find a bus. Surely there are buses around here so close to Boston. I know I’ve seen them. I’ve seen lots of them. I just never used one. Where do they stop? What time? How much do they cost? Where will they take me? Where will I go?

None of that matters. One step at a time – one large step at a time. A glance over my shoulder does nothing to calm me. Two miles distance between my new foreign life and me does nothing to calm me. I’m sweating now, part from the sun and part from my nerves.

A car pulls up alongside me and startles me. I breathe a sigh of relief when I realize it’s Henry, our neighbor down the street. We hardly ever speak to him but he always seems friendly, waving and smiling when we pass.

He rolls down the passenger window and leans over to talk to me.

“You okay, Ana?” he says.

Hearing my name from his mouth unnerves me although I’m not sure why.

“Yeah,” I say, faking a smile. “I’m fine. How are you?” My mind works up an explanation for my own strange behavior.

“Where you headed?”

“Oh…” I say. I haven’t formulated a good story yet. My grip tightens on the duffle bag strap. “I’m just heading out to do some laundry.” Yes, good one. “Our machine broke.” Even better.

“Oh,” he says, looks out the front window and back at me. “Why are you walking?”

Crud. I can’t say my car’s broken. Too many broken things for one story. “Just trying to get some exercise.” I let out a weak laugh. I’m sure he can see right through me. I’m sure he knows all about Bosley and me.

“That’s a long walk.”

He’s onto me. I can feel it.

“Want a ride?”

~~ Should Ana accept a ride from Henry? ~~

Vote by the poll. The official tally will be taken from the poll which closes midnight Thursday (your local time).

In addition, leave comments below if you’d like to expand on your vote. Click on the word ‘comments’ below to open the comments form. Watch next Tuesday for the following episode based on your votes.

Note: Don’t vote according to what you think I want for the story. Vote as if you were Ana or Ana were your friend. What would you do?

If you like this story, please share it with your friends. 

At 50 readers, I'll give away a free copy of Livid.

Going South: A Visitor

It’s just past noon and the roads are packed with lunchtime traffic as I head home ‘sick.’ The sun is shining, heating up my car, calming me. I’m barely aware of the steps I take to get home. My heart is racing just thinking about calling Damian. What will I say? Will I need to say anything? Perhaps he’ll just understand and explain everything.

Without warning, I’m in tears, longing for someone’s arms around me, not sure whose, just someone’s. There’s no holding back, knowing I’m alone and will be all afternoon. No need to wipe them away or cool my blotchy face. So I let it out, the road blurring as my eyes fill up.

The sight of a foreign car in the driveway next to Bosley’s causes my breath to hitch in my throat. My hand unconsciously wipes my face dry although more tears are mounting. I’m afraid of what I will walk in on. I can’t help but think the worst, imagining him in bed with another woman. Pain shoots through my chest, piercing my heart. I don’t want to think of how my life will change if that’s the case. I don’t want to think about life without Bosley.

With gripping fear, I push the door open and step in. Bosley, Damian and another guy are standing in the living room. Mystery man – hefty build with a bushy red beard - reaches behind him quicker than I can blink and retrieves a gun. My heart stops beating. I hold my breath. I can’t move.

“No!” Bosley shouts, knocking mystery-man’s arm down. Damian swears and goes pale, standing as frozen as I am.

Mystery man tosses Bosley aside and raises the gun to me.

“No, Matt!” Bosley shouts again, coming back at him, gripping his arm to try to shove it down. “It’s my wife!”

Matt keeps the gun aimed at me but looks at Bosley. Tension builds in the seconds that follow as they glare at each other. Finally, Matt lowers the gun. “What’s she doing here?” he demands.

“I don’t know.” Bosley looks back and forth from Matt to me as if he can’t decide which one of us to address first. “Just…” he says to Matt, “put that away.” Bosley straightens his clothing, takes a step back and glares at Matt.

For the first time since I’ve known him, Damian looks lost, shocked …scared. The realization makes my skin tingle, the hair on my neck prickling as it stands. What the heck did I walk into? Just when I feel myself about to break, tears gushing, Bosley turns on his heel and comes straight at me. I back up, without thinking, until I hit the wall, wide-eyed and tight jawed. Bosley grabs me by my forearm and pulls me upstairs. I follow. What else can I do? I don’t know this man anymore - this once mild, quiet and laid back man who now hurts my arm with his tight grip, shouts and meets a man with a gun at noon in my house.

“Listen,” he says with a firm voice as he closes the bedroom door behind us. “Forget what you saw down there, ok?” He’s not asking. He’s demanding.

I open my mouth to protest.

“No, Ana!” he says, pressing his fingers to my mouth. Then he continues, pacing back and forth in the small area by the door while I stand, petrified, next to the bed. “Just forget it. You should have never seen it. You shouldn’t be here.” He stops pacing and approaches me. “Forget about everything. Don’t ever mention it to anyone.” I can feel his breath on my face now, he’s so close. “Don’t ever bring it up. Don’t go investigating. Forget it! Do you understand?”

No. I don’t. My eyes well up with tears. My throat is too tight to speak. All I have to do is nod – yes, I understand. But I don’t. How can he say these things to me? How can he expect me to be ok with it? Who is this beast in front of me?

 “Ana,” he says, closing his eyes and forcing a deep breath, “promise me you’ll let it go.”

Promise? Like he did when he said he would honor and protect me forever? Fine.

I nod my head.

He lets out his breath, shoulders sinking. “I have to finish up with these guys. Stay here until they’re gone.”

With that, he leaves, closing me into this makeshift prison. The sound of the door closing echoes in my mind as I stare at it. A moment of panic strikes me and I stand there, hyperventilating until my knees give out and I sit down on the bed. Then the tears flow and all I want to do is run away and hide. I lay down on top of the bedding and curl up, crying, soaking the comforter.

I can’t imagine what is happening. I can’t figure out the change in Bosley. I don’t understand why Damian has taken a back seat. I don’t know why there’s a man downstairs with a gun. I can’t imagine how Bosley knows him. Or how Damian knows him. What could I have walked into that would find me at gunpoint? Matt could have shot me. I could be dead right now. I could be dead soon if he comes upstairs and shoots me. My life is in danger.

I sit up to find a tissue on the nightstand. My head throbs and I feel cold suddenly. I wish I could hear them downstairs but I can’t. I blow my nose, grab another tissue to dry my tears and stand up. For a moment I stare at the door. My pulse begins to race as I contemplate cracking the door open to listen. Surely they won’t hear me open it.

I step towards it and the floor creaks. I pause and shrug my shoulders. Then take a deep breath. I’m allowed to walk around the room after all. I haven’t done anything wrong …yet.

I close the gap between me and the door, place my hand on the knob and stop to listen. I hear nothing. Slowly, I turn the knob, pressing the door closed tight with my other hand to avoid friction. When the knob is fully turned, I pull to open it just a crack and press my ear to the opening. Downstairs and in the distance, I barely make out their voices.

“She doesn’t know anything,” Bosley says. “Leave her out of this.”

“ … doesn’t matter … It’s too risky,” Matt says. I’m irritated I can’t hear every word. I open the door a bit more, slowly release the handle and lean my head out the opening.

“Look, Matt,” Damian says. “We don’t have …  …”

I squint as if it will help me hear.

“…not a game,” Matt says. “… have her telling all her friends.”

“So what are you gonna do? Kill her?” Bosley says quite loud and clear. I draw my head back into the room, afraid to hear the answer. Kill? Was he being sarcastic? The man has a gun. Why would he make such a suggestion?

I close the door, paying no attention to being quiet now, and return to the bed to lay down. I reach over the side of the bed and pull the corner of the comforter around me. I feel safer all wrapped up. As I lay there, I notice the telephone on the nightstand. Bosley’s words keep echoing in my mind. “Forget it.” “Never mention it.” But I’m scared. I want to call Tania and let her fix it. But it seems too dangerous to get her involved now. I begin to shake from the inside as if I’m cold but I’m not.    

~~ Should Ana call Tania for help? ~~

NEW: Vote by the poll. The official tally will be taken from the poll which closes midnight Thursday (your local time).

In addition, leave comments below if you’d like to expand on your vote. Click on the word ‘comments’ below to open the comments form. Watch next Tuesday for the following episode based on your votes.

Note: Don’t vote according to what you think I want for the story. Vote as if you were Ana or Ana were your friend. What would you do?

Going South: Sick of It

I pull into Chili’s Restaurant and find a place to park. I need Tania to keep me sane, talk me down, find a reasonable explanation for all this. Ten minutes later, she joins me, the first time in years she’s not ‘late.’

“What’s going on?” she says before she even makes it across the parking lot.

“Nothing,” I say without thinking then shake my head. “Well, something. I just don’t know what.”

We head inside and choose the bar over waiting for a booth. The place is packed. We squeeze through the tall tables and settle into the only two empty stools. The noise and commotion drown my thoughts for a moment. Then I’m distracted by the drink menu and the smell of frying tortilla.

“So?” she says, eyes on me, ignoring the bartender as he slides our drinks to us. “Speak.”

I sigh and twist my martini glass by the stem, trying to think where to begin and what will be ‘ok’ to tell her.

“What?! Come on,” she says, my time apparently up.

“Alright. Bosley has been acting weird …”

“I know. You already said that this morning.”

“Just let me finish.”

She sits back in her stool and sighs. Patience is not her strong point.

“I told you Bosley was …. in a mood. Well Damian showed up at our house this afternoon.” I pause to consider mentioning the kiss and decide against it. “After I got back from the library, he and Bosley were going at it, yelling.”

“Really? Bosley?”

Chips are served and I take one to nibble on even though the salt will kill me.

“Yes, Bosley. I asked what was going on and he wouldn’t tell me.”

“Well that’s no surprise.” She scoops a chip through the salsa and inhales it.

 “I know. But there’s more.” I hesitate, knowing she will distort what I say. “He shouted at me too, told me to stay out of it.” I can’t look at her, knowing she’s about to blow it out of proportion.

Leaning towards me, she says in a lower voice, “Did he hit you?”

“No! God, no. He just yelled.” Was I stupid to think something was wrong? I hear myself speak and it sounds so lame. He yelled.

“Well, if he hits you, I swear to God I’ll kill him.” She sips her margarita.

“Shhh.” I glance around to see if anyone heard.

“What? I will.” Leaning on her elbows, drink propped up in one hand, chip in the other, she tosses the idea around like it’s nothing.

“Stop. It’s not like that.” I have second thoughts about getting Tania involved. “Look, I think Damian was about to tell me what’s been going on but Bosley told him to shut his mouth before he could.”

“Really? He really said that to Damian?”

 “Yes.”

“Damian has always been ‘in charge.’ I can’t believe Damian would let Bosley speak to him like that. I wouldn’t be surprised if Damian punched him.”

“Well he didn’t. He shut up. And he wouldn’t look at me straight after.”

“Are you serious?” She stops mid- salsa dip to think. Finally she continues. “And you have no idea what it could be?”

“No. I thought at first it was the whole swinging thing like you said because…” Crud. I didn’t want to mention that.

“Because what?”

“Because… I was alone when Damian showed up.”

The waitress comes to take our order and I pray Tania will forget what I just mentioned. Instead, she’s on the edge of her stool, waiting for the good part.

“Why were you alone? Where was Bosley?”

“He went to work.”

“On a Saturday?”

“Yes. Something with inventory. But anyway, I really don’t think Bosley would agree to swing. It’s just not like him. So it must be something else.”

“Yelling is not like him either.”

She’s right. “But swinging? And he told me to stay out of it,” I am glad to remember.

“Oh right. Yes that would be hard to do. Maybe you should just ask Damian.”

The thought hadn’t occurred to me. Ask Damian? Like… call him? He’d just love that.

We are unable to come with any better idea. We stay late, I drink more than I ever have and find Bosley asleep when I get home. I crawl into bed next to him, wanting to cuddle into him but too irritated to make the effort.

I wake up late Sunday morning, my mouth dry, head throbbing. I can’t believe it’s after 11. My body is like dead weight as I roll out of bed and head for the bathroom. My eyes are puffy and dark. I can hardly open them to the light over the mirror. I close them and stand there for a moment then realize the house is quiet. Do I even care where Bosley is? No, I don’t think I do.

While sitting at the kitchen table, nibbling on toast, I spot Bosley in the back yard, picking through the garden. It’s way too early for gardening. I put the toast down and watch him for a minute. He rips out dead plants, loosens up the soil and straightens the stakes. I realize hours later, when he’s still at it, that he’s avoiding me.

Fine. Avoid me. See if I care.

…but I do. It breaks my heart that Bosley is pulling away. What could possibly be so important …and why won’t he tell me? My stomach turns at the thought of it. The remainder of the day is spent apart even when we’re together.

I head to work on Monday feeling defeated. Not a word from Bosley since Saturday afternoon. I greet George and Roseanne with a smile even if I don’t feel it. Roseanne, my work mom, throws her arms around me for a hug I have come to expect. She’s wearing the usual polyester pants and matching cardigan/v-neck.

The work on my desk stares back at me while I try to get my head together.

“Coffee, dear?” Roseanne asks on her way to the kitchenette.

“That would be great.”

She returns, placing my mug on my desk.

“Thanks, hun. You’re a sweetheart,” I say, shifting papers around to appear busy.

She takes her seat at the desk across from me and watches, glasses tipped down.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” I look up and smile. “How are you?”

“You look …tired,” she says, avoiding my attempt at diversion.

“Yes. I am. So what do we have today?” I try again.

She hesitates. “The Millers’ payment arrived so send them their package. The tickets and hotel information are in their file. We haven’t heard from Demby in over a week so you need to call him to see if he still wants the cruise.” She goes on with the list which I only half hear. My mind is on Bosley.

By noon I have managed to accomplish two of the long list of things to be done. I just want to sleep. My stomach is unsettled and my hands are shaky.

“You want lunch first today or shall I go?” Roseanne says from her desk across from me.

“Go ahead and eat. I don’t feel much like eating.”

“You didn’t eat breakfast either. What’s wrong?”

“Not sure. My stomach’s bothering me.”

“Well, maybe you should go home then.”

I hadn’t thought of that. But then, I’m not really sick. Getting the afternoon off would be great. …or would it? Sitting home thinking about Bosley could be torturous. But trying to concentrate on work seems just as bad. Maybe I should go home and think about calling Damian.

     

~~ Should Ana go home ‘sick?’ ~~

NEW: Vote by the poll. The official tally will be taken from the poll which closes midnight Thursday (EST).

In addition, leave comments below if you’d like to expand on your vote. Click on the word ‘comments’ below to open the comments form. Watch next Tuesday for the following episode based on your votes.

Note: Don’t vote according to what you think I want for the story. Vote as if you were Ana or Ana were your friend. What would you do?

Going South: Pushy

With my arms pinned between us, I try to push him away. He latches around me and pulls me closer, quick enough so our lips never part. Stunned, I hesitate. When his tongue meets my teeth, I shove him hard and he stumbles backwards, catching himself with one hand on a chair.

Wide-eyed, unsure of what to do next, I wait motionless, watching him recover. He stands tall, straightens his shirt and returns a deadly glare.

“You should leave,” I manage to say, still unable to move.

He steps towards me, his expression softening. “Come on, Ana.”

“Stop.” I hold my hand up to block him, averting my eyes. “Leave.”

We both remain motionless for a moment, my heart pounding in my ears.

He shifts, opening his arms to me as if I might climb in for a hug. “Ana, I –“

Another shove to his chest and I slip away. Stopped by a yank on my arm, I turn to face him again. His grip tightens when I try to pull away.

“Don’t walk away from me,” he says, his eyes locked with mine, his hand squeezing my upper arm.

Twisting does not help me break free. “Get out!” I yell. Yelling is all I have left. “Now!”

Our staring match goes on.

“It was just a kiss,” he says, releasing my arm. The sudden freedom leaves me shaky.

He takes a seat at the table as if nothing significant has happened. “I need to talk to Bosley. I’m not going anywhere.” He flips through the paper.

Infuriated yet unnerved, I am speechless. What can I do? I can’t make him leave. Am I in danger? Would Damian really hurt me? I never thought so until now. I rub my arm where it stings, glaring at the back of his head as he browses the news. Loyalty to Bosley’s ‘friend’ battles with personal safety. If he won’t go, I must. Bosley might not like me leaving him here alone but would he prefer I stay? I don’t think so. I make a judgment call and grab my purse.

“Bosley should be home soon. I’m going out.”

He stops reading and raises his head. I’m out the door before he has a chance to speak.

The keys jingle as my shaky hand attempts to get them in their place. I back out and take off down the street. When I’m clear of my neighborhood, I pull into an empty parking lot, put the car in park and stare straight ahead until my surroundings blur. Silence while I contemplate. Breathe while I regain composure. Could Bosley have planned it? How convenient that he had to go out… How interesting that Damian appeared only minutes after Bosley left. Did Bosley even go to work? Or did he visit Myra while Damian was attacking me? Tempted to confirm Bosley’s whereabouts, I take out my phone and hold it. The time display mocks me. I can’t make the call.

I must be losing my mind. Bosley wouldn’t agree to swing, I’m sure. It’s just a misunderstanding, coincidence that Damian appeared when I was alone, just like Damian to come on to me the second the opportunity arose. No, Bosley didn’t set me up. I am sure.

Nearly half an hour has passed and I feel settled again. To make sure I don’t go home until Bosley is there, I head to the library, my sanctuary.

The art section greets me with open arms. The scent of molding books soothes me. I browse the stack, my eye skimming the titles yet not reading them at all. I wrack my brain to come up with some reasonable explanation for Bosley and Damian’s behavior but can’t come up with one thing. My stomach turns.

I pull a book off the shelf and flip through. Monet. He’s not my favorite so I put it back. Another by Munch catches my eye. I open straight to The Scream. How cliché yet how perfectly fitting for the moment. I stay with it a while longer, exploring the colors and emotion. It speaks to me.

An hour passes like minutes as I continue to browse famous painters, then how-to’s. I decide to get out my acrylics and paint again after this mess is cleared up. It’s been years. My stomach flips …more like rumbles. I realize I haven’t eaten lunch. It’s almost dinner time. Bosley was due home hours ago. I deem it safe to return.

Bosley’s car is in the driveway when I get home. I feel better already. The misunderstanding will be cleared up in no time. Just outside the door, I start at the sound of yelling from inside. Bosley and Damian are going at it though I can’t make out what they’re saying. Does he know Damian kissed me? Does he think I kissed him? I push through the door, unsure of what I’m up against. The yelling stops. Both stand frozen, their heads turned to face me as I stare back.

“What’s going on?” I say.

“Nothing,” Bosley says, obviously irritated. He props his hands on his hips.

I know it’s not nothing. Does he think I’m stupid?

“Look, Ana –“ Damian begins, facing me, but Bosley cuts him off.

“Damian, shut your mouth!” he yells, stabbing his finger at the air in front of him. I am shocked to hear my quiet, mild Bosley shout like this. He turns to face me, his finger stabbing towards me now. “Ana, stay out of it. Go back out until I call you.”

What?! My mouth drops open. Excuse me? Stay out of it? How can I stay out of it when I’m already in it?

Damian steps towards me with an empathetic look on his face and Bosley blocks him, walking towards me himself.

“I’m sorry,” he says with forced patience. “I shouldn’t have yelled.” He holds my arms as if to keep my full attention. “Please give me and Damian some privacy for a bit.” I’m not sure how to react to this …foreign Bosley. I look at Damian. He looks away. I look at Bosley.

“An hour,” he says.

I don’t understand. I don’t want to leave. “Bosley, what’s –“

“Just don’t, Ana. I said stay out of it.” He removes his hands from my arms and slides them into his pockets. His determined expression tells me we won’t be discussing it - not now, not later, not ever maybe. I am hurt. Hurt and irritated.

I slam the door behind me on my way out, a pointless retaliation. I am tempted to leave and never come back, just to spite him. How dare he push me around, keep secrets and expect me to work around them?

I drive with more speed now, sharper, more dangerous. I have no idea where I’m going. I’m just going. This mystery plagues me. I’m determined not to rest until I know what’s going on. Bosley is so private he would wring my neck if I said anything to Tania. But she could help me figure out what to do. Then again she might overreact and do something crazy like confront him about it.

     

~~ Should Ana call her friend Tania for help or go it alone? ~~

          

NOTE: Vote by the poll. The official tally will be taken from the poll which closes midnight Thursday (EST).

In addition, leave comments below to persuade me one way or the other in case there's a tie. Click on the word ‘comments’ below to open the comments form. Watch next Tuesday for the following episode based on your votes.

Note: Don’t vote according to what you think I want for the story. Vote as if you were Ana or Ana were your friend. What would you do?

Going South: Betrayal

My fingers find the keyboard while my eyes are glued to the computer screen. I pause to reconsider what I’m about to do, then type.

       Bosley says…      hey

My breathing grows heavier as I wait for his response.

       Damian says…      hey man wutz flyin

How would Bosley respond?

       Bosley says…      not much

My heart pounds. There’s no turning back.

       Damian says…      no man wutz flyin

His response confuses me. Didn’t we already cover this? Let’s move on.

       Bosley says…      not much

                      what do u want?

I wait for indication that he is typing. Nothing. My eyes burn into the screen, scanning my last line to see if I missed something. Seconds feel like minutes as regret kicks my pulse up another notch. At last Damian types…

       Damian says…      ana?

I jump back in my chair, the sound of my own gasp echoing off the walls in the quiet kitchen. My eyes shift left then right. How does he know? How!? I search for a way out of it, an excuse, some explanation. But my mind goes blank.

       Damian says…      ana i know its u

                      get Bosley

I still can’t move, ashamed of myself for trying to deceive him, embarrassed that he somehow figured it out, afraid Bosley will find out too. My fingers graze the keyboard but refuse to type. What can I say?

       Bosley says…      He’s sleeping

       Damian says…      wake him up

Yeah right. Wake him up. My brows lower into a scowl. Waking Bosley before he’s ready is like taking your life in your hands. On top of that, waking him to come see my incognito chat with Damian? I don’t think so.

       Bosley says…      no

No? What am I saying? No is not enough. What to say?

       Bosley says…      I’ll tell him to call you when he gets up

In a panic, I close the chat window and log off before Damian can post another message.

After shutting the laptop, I sit back in my chair. Silence settles around me. Surely Damian will tell Bosley. Then what? Can I pass it off as a mistake? A misunderstanding? It would depend on exactly what I wrote. But the chat window is closed already. So I wrack my brain to remember the exact words I used. The longer I replay the messages, the more obvious it becomes that I had been deceitful and the more my stomach turns. Why couldn’t I just leave it alone? Do I really distrust Bosley that much?

The air in the kitchen stifles me so I open the back door and close my eyes to the sun, taking deep breaths to calm down. It’s probably not a big deal, I try to tell myself. But myself doesn’t believe me.

“Morning,” Bosley says some time later, making an appearance in his boxer briefs and t-shirt.

“You mean afternoon.” I can’t bring myself to mention Damian's expecting his call though I know it’ll make matters worse later if I don’t. Buying myself another moment to think, I slide my hands around Bosley’s waist and press my face to his t-shirted chest.

He wraps his arms around me and I settle into him. We hold each other for a while. He rubs my back. I kiss his neck, enjoying his just-out-of-bed warmth and scent. He kisses my forehead. I could stay all day with him like this.

“How was brunch?” He slides away and heads towards the fridge.

“Good.”

“Good. I’ve got to meet Mike at work in a few minutes. There was an issue with inventory this week that we need to straighten out.” He pours himself a glass of milk and heads toward the pantry. “Did you get my cereal this week? It’s been a while.”

Fruity Pebbles. His guilty pleasure. “Yeah. They were on sale.”

He pulls out the box and pours some in a bowl. All the while I try to come up with a way to mention calling Damian. If I say anything about the chat, he’ll know I was snooping. If I say Damian called, it would add to the lie.

“Damian wants you to call him,” I say and busy myself with the newspapers on the table.

Leaning against the stove, bowl in one hand, spoon in the other, he stops crunching and looks at me. “Really?”

I get vigorous with the newspaper cleanup. “Yeah.”

“Why?” The cereal is still on hold.

“I don’t know. He just wants you to call him.” I pray he stop asking questions while I wipe the counters down …again.

He puts the bowl down. “When did you talk to him?” His full attention is on me.

Talk, chat – same thing, right? “This morning. You were sleeping. It was just for a second. He just wants to talk to you.” I realize I’m saying too much, speaking too fast, avoiding eye contact, but I can’t stop.

“Oh.” He picks up the cereal again. “I’ll call him later.”

Bosley finishes his cereal in deep thought and I’m smart enough to leave him alone. When he's barely gone, the doorbell rings. Expecting Bosley, I instead find myself face to face with Damian – ripped jeans, button-down shirt, a trendy striped sports jacket. He looks anxious. I must look stunned.

“What are you doing here?” is all I can come up with.

He steps past me into the house and turns towards the living room.

“Bosley’s not here,” I tell him with one hand still on the door.

He stops and spins around. “Where is he?”

He comes at me so fast I find myself backed into the now-closed door. “At work.”

He stares me down as if to read me, as if I might be lying… or deceiving him again perhaps. For a moment, I think he might hit me. This sort of frenzy is uncommon for cool, collected Damian. It makes me aware of our aloneness.

I brace myself and bravely slip past him, heading for the kitchen at a casual pace that denies my rattled innards. “You shouldn’t have driven all the way here without making plans with him,” I say to the air ahead of me while fighting the urge to run.

He follows me to the kitchen, slides his hands into his pockets and leans against the fridge. Cool, collected Damian is back.

“Want some coffee?” I say, pulling the pot out before I even have a mug to pour it into.

“How long is he going to be?”

“I don’t know. An hour or so maybe.” I head to the appropriate cabinet.

“Then, yes, I’ll wait. And I’ll take a cup of coffee.”

My hand shakes as I reach for a mug. Hopefully he can’t see it. To let him see he has unnerved me would be disastrous. I can’t remember a time when I was alone with Damian. I mean this alone. What will we say to each other for the next hour? How awkward will it be? How often will I blush? The fear of blushing makes me blush and I want to kick myself. Instead I pour his coffee and hand it to him. He sits in the very chair I sat in when I tried to deceive him. He leans back comfortably, stretches his arm out beside him and lets his fingers glide over Bosley’s closed laptop, a reminder of my indiscretion.

Elbows resting on the back of a chair at the end of the table, I try to think of something else I can do to escape. Laundry, vacuuming…

“Sit,” he says and presses his foot against the very chair I’m leaning on. I’m sure he can hear me swallow. The chair scrapes across the floor as I pull it out. I sit and clasp my hands together in my lap, prepared for a lecture …or something.

“Thanks for having us over last night,” I say, a weak attempt to divert the conversation I know is coming. Stupid. Stupid.

He watches me, analyzes me. “Sure. Any time.”

My eyes stay on his mug and follow it to his mouth as he sips his coffee. A heat rush spreads through me as my gaze meets with his lips. I look down at my hands and wait in silence for his next move.

He stands up to remove his jacket, sending the citrus and clove scent wafting towards me. Can’t he just get it over with? Call me out or let it go? I know he enjoys watching me squirm. I can’t sit still any longer so I stand to dump the grounds from the pot. He backs out of my way as I head for the trash, then he leans against the counter.

Hand-washing it will kill some time so, pushing my sleeves up, I grab the sponge. Damian’s scent grows stronger which tells me he stands behind me. I clean the pot better than I've ever done.

“Why did you pretend to be Bosley this morning?” he says, sending my pulse flying.

I have no answer. Nothing I can think of sounds right. The situation begins to irritate me. Why does it have to be such a big deal? I turn and face him straight on, strong and defiant, ready to defend myself. Except nothing comes. No defense. No explanation.

“I had no idea you were so nosy,” he says then explores me with his eyes. “Unless of course you just wanted to talk to me.” A grin comes to his face. His investigation stops at my mouth.

“No,” I say and turn my back to him then dry the pot.

“No what?”

I sense his grin without even seeing him.

“Nothing. Just…” leave me alone? I can’t say it. For some reason I don’t want him to leave me alone. Something about him has my body doing all kinds of flips and turns although I’d never admit it, especially to him.

“Just what?” His voice is closer now.

My breathing becomes heavy and I pray he can’t see my heaving chest. I feel trapped. “I’m just nosey.” Nosey is better than him thinking I want him. He’d just love that. Nosey is definitely better than --

The room around me blurs as a force on my jaw turns my head, leaving me lost and dizzy. Heat rushes over my body, starting with my lips, and I realize he’s kissing me. I’m horrified to discover I’m too weak to stop it, enjoying it in fact. My arms are limp, legs frozen, insides twisted, skin melting. His hand slides from my jaw to my neck. His tongue presses through my lips.

~~ Should Ana shove Damian away or enjoy the kiss and come up with an excuse later? ~~

Voting is now closed!

               
           

NEW: Vote by the poll. The official tally will be taken from the poll which closes midnight Thursday (EST).

In addition, leave comments below if you’d like to expand on your vote. Click on the word ‘comments’ below to open the comments form. Watch next Tuesday for the following episode based on your votes.

Note: Don’t vote according to what you think I want for the story. Vote as if you were Ana or Ana were your friend. What would you do?