Going South: New In Town

I follow Chris to his Wrangler, a step behind and a bit apprehensive. Why couldn't one of the girls be going out to pick up supplies? As I climb into the red Jeep, I'm embarrassed by my own insecurities. Just last night I felt I could conquer the world. Just because I haven't made any new male friends since I met Bosley, doesn't mean I can't now.

The wind whips my hair furiously as we drive along the main strip. I wrap it into a twist and hold it with my hand, watching gas stations and stores pass by.

“So where you from?” Chris says, shifting his weight, switching which hand is on the wheel.

“Up North.” I look out the side of the vehicle, hoping it'll keep him from asking more. At the sound of his voice, I feel an attraction to him but shake it off. I'm married. ...sort of.

“What brings you down here?”

I look at the road ahead now while I think of how to answer. “I just needed a change.” ...not a very social way to start our relationship. After a silence, I turn to him and smile. Trying to guess his age, I put him around 30. “Have you lived here long?”

Sunlight glints off his wedding band. I'm not sure if I'm disappointed or relieved.

“Yeah, most of my life,” he says, pulling into the middle lane and flicking on his blinker. “I love it here. Have you had a chance to look around yet?”

“No. I just got here yesterday and I -”

“Yesterday? Serious?” He looks at me wide-eyed – I assume - behind his sunglasses.

“Yeah.” I drop my gaze to my lap as traffic holds us there on the highway, waiting to turn.

“You didn't waste any time getting a job, did you?” he says and laughs.

“No.”

“Where you staying?” He watches the traffic for a break.

“In a motel for now,” I say, hoping he notice my vagueness.

An opening in the traffic comes and he takes it, shifting me against the door as he speeds into the parking lot.

“Sorry,” he says. “I hate Croaton. It's a mess this time of day.”

“No problem. Thanks again for the ride.” I'm ready to jump ship before he even comes to a stop.

“Hey,” he says when I'm half out the door. “There's a party on the beach tonight at Kill Devil Hills near the pier. You want to go?”

A party? I haven't been to a party since I was eighteen. “John's got me on 'til closing. Thanks anyway though.” Thank God I have an excuse. What would I do at a party? I can't even make conversation with one person.

“Me too. It doesn't get going until eleven anyway. I'll be going after closing.”

Crud. I stand looking at him with my hand on the door.

“You can ride with me from work if you want,” he says when I don't respond.

“Maybe.” I feel like I should be more thankful. He's offering me a new start, an easy way to get to know people and a night of fun on the beach. But all I can think of is how awkward I'll feel.

Inside the store, I load up my basket with whatever basics I think I can fit in my motel refrigerator. In the produce aisle, a pint of blueberries screams for my attention. At the deli, I pick up a quarter pound of roast beef and a few slices of American cheese for sandwiches. On an end cap hangs freezer bags. I stop to consider how long it will take me to walk four or five miles back to the motel in eighty degree weather and toss one in the basket. Hopefully it will do the job. I grab buns to complete the sandwiches. In the cereal aisle, I browse colorful boxes, spot Lucky Charms – on sale! - and grab a box for Bosley. He'll be happy.

Delivery stops midway from the shelf to the basket as a flash flood of realization hits me. The colors on the box hold my surprised gaze. I don't need cereal for Bosley. Will I ever? I miss him so much. My eyes well up and my breathing grows shallow. If only I could snap my fingers and make it all go back to the way it was. I want his arms around me. I want to say good morning with a hug in the kitchen while we wait for the coffee to percolate. I want dinner at the Kostas no matter how annoying they are. I want Damian to be flirty Damian again, not dangerous ...whatever he is now.

The sound of tears dropping onto the cardboard box brings me back to my current location – Food Lion, Outer Banks, North Carolina ...far away from Bosley. My free hand wipes the tears off my hot face while the other returns the now-stained box to the shelf.

“Tough decision. Isn't it?” I hear a man say behind me.

I ignore him and wipe my tears again. I can't even fake a smile.

“Lucky Charms?” he continues. “Or Fruity Pebbles?”

Does he really think I'm upset over which cereal to choose. I turn to look at him indignantly over my shoulder. He smiles. I realize it was a joke and smile too, lowering my head in embarrassment. Out of the corner of my eye, I can still see his white shirt and dark blue jeans. But my focus returns to the cereal boxes.

“Are you okay?” he says, his voice indicating a change of tone.

“Oh, yeah,” I say, shooing the thought away. “I'm fine.” I have to turn my back to him as I say it or he'll see that I've begun to cry again. “I just can't find Special K.” I pretend to focus on my search and hope he doesn't hear the quivering in my voice.

“You mean this?” He stands a few feet away, holding up the white box with a red K on it.

“Yes.” For a moment, I hesitate to step forward and take it from him. “Thanks,” I say, tossing it in my basket.

“Wesley,” he says, presenting his hand to me.

“An-...d I'm Mollie.” I get a good look at him now, long hair pulled back into a ponytail, several days stubble, a hemp necklace with one shark's tooth around his neck.

“You going to be alright now or do you need help finding the milk?”

I laugh. “I'll be okay. Thanks.”

He remains in my thoughts throughout the remainder of the store. Around each corner, I worry about running into him again. I could not be more embarrassed.

The cold items just barely fit into the freezer bag. The rest of my items are tossed into two plastic bags. The heat hits me as the automatic doors separate. Crossing four lanes to get across the main strip almost kills me. Between the heat and the stress, I drip with sweat.

I figure it'll take me half an hour or longer to walk back to the motel. That will give me about two hours or so before I need to go to DuneBurger. Then... the party. A list of pros and cons occupies my thoughts on my long walk back. I'm not feeling very social. I'm not cool enough to fit in down here. Up north, snobby was cool. Being an anti-social artist was cool. Staying in and reading was cool. Down here, it's beaches and parties, burgers and grease, summer fun and meeting new people. I'll have to adapt eventually if I'm going to stay here – and I'm not planning on going anywhere soon. But walking towards a beach party at midnight will be harder than walking into the lunchroom on the first day of school.

~~ Should Ana go to the party? ~~

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Going South: The Dip

I peel my clothes off, drop them in a pile on the floor and grab a towel from the bathroom. Unlike a beach towel, this white motel towel barely wraps around me and comes down just over my back side. I lower it a bit on the top to cover more of the bottom, checking myself in the mirror to ensure all the important bits are covered.

My heart races as I reach for the doorknob. I already feel exposed and I haven't even stepped out of my room yet. Something inside me, something unlike anything I experienced before, urges me on. I tip toe out the door onto the shore-side boardwalk lit by one orange light, then jump two steps down to the sand and escape into the darkness, towards the crashing of the waves. My eyes scan the shore one way and then the next over and over until the water laps onto my feet. It feels chilly at first, and I stop to look down at the water swirling around my ankles. I feel instantly cooled to my core, but still sticky, sweaty and aching.

I toss my towel onto the dry sand after one last check in each direction then run into the black water with foaming white breakers. It splashes up my thighs as my feet pound down then break free to advance further and deeper into the cool. A wave crashes against my bare stomach, flowing forcefully between my legs, touching me like the ocean has never touched me before. Another wave builds in front of me. I dive head first through the base of it and surface on the other side where it is calmer, blacker.

Cold water, salt and sand whirl around my body, invading me, caressing me. The chill exhilarates me. I feel invincible ...almost invisible. Me against the great big black ocean. Me against the strip of twinkling lights that represent Nags Head. Me against Bosley. Me against the world. And, at the moment, I'm sure I'll come out on top.

After a few minutes bobbing and dipping between waves, I push the water behind me and head for the shore. My feet touch the sandy bottom as I check both ways again. Still clear. I press my feet into the sand and push against the pull of a growing wave. The water drops around me to my hips, then plasters me from behind with a wall of water, throwing me to my knees, grating my skin with sand and rocks. I relax and let the wave pass, holding my breath under the force of the water. When it passes, I get to my feet again and run. A second wave crashes into my calves but I'm prepared this time. I run free of the water, the skin of my whole body prickling into goose bumps from the breeze. I pick up the towel, shake out the sand and cover what I can, shivering as I run through the dry sand back to the motel, to the only room with the light still on.

Panic sets in as I leap up onto the boardwalk and realize I didn't bring the key. Standing by the door bathed in orange light, I look left then right. What am I going to do? I'll have to go to the main office and ask them to let me in. I look down at my barely covered body and sand-covered feet, look around one more time as if a better solution will miraculously appear then resign myself to the first solution. I walk along the boardwalk lining the ocean side of the motel until I get to the end where another boardwalk half buried in the sand leads the way around the front.

The lot is well lit, unfortunately. I scurry as quickly as I can across the front of the building, holding my towel closed where it joins. I pray it's the same girl at the front desk, not someone else – especially a man.

“I locked myself out of my room,” I say, shrugging, attempting to make myself smaller.

She pulls her feet off the counter and stands up then looks me up and down. “Your legs are bleeding,” she says with no expression.

I look down. They are. Before I can respond, she's asking my name.

“Mollie Bar.” Doesn't she remember me from earlier?

“Oh right. You owe the $50.” She reaches over a counter to a pin board and pulls down a key.

“I have that payment for you now,” I say as we walk together towards my room, almost forgetting to hold my towel closed.

After she lets me in, I rummage through my pants pocket and retrieve $50 from my tips.

“Thanks,” she says and I notice her name tag - Ali.

I expect her to leave but she lingers, eying my legs again.

“Don't get blood on the towels,” she says, gaze dropping from my knees to my feet. “And rinse your feet in the showers out back before you come in next time.”

“Yes, ma'am,” I say, fidgeting. “I will. Sorry about that. Thanks.”

She leaves. I let out a sigh. With key in hand, I head out the back door again to the showers out back that I hadn't noticed before.

Two showers are open to the air, one is surrounded by a tall fence-like structure. I step into that one, hang my towel up on the hook and rinse down. The water is colder than the ocean and it seems the breeze has picked up.

Wrapping the towel around me once more, I scoot back to my room, grab a clean towel to dry myself and collapse onto the bed, face up so my skinned knees won't stain the sheets.

I meet with John at 11:00 sharp the next day, wearing shorts and a plain t-shirt rather than the Dune Burger shirt I soiled with sweat last night. If he wants me to work tonight, he'll give me a new shirt. He ushers me past the kitchen and into his office, a small greasy room not much larger than a walk-in closet.

I wait to sit until I'm sure it's what he wants me to do.

“What happened?” he asks, catching me by surprise. I follow his gaze to my knees.

“Oh, nothing. I fell,” I say, shooing his concern away with a wave of my hand.

“Oh. Hm.” He takes a seat behind a desk that occupies most of the room.

I take my cue and sit in the chair tucked into a corner. He writes my info on an employee index card and shoves it in a box. We agree on a schedule and pay, and he tosses me a second t-shirt.

“Welcome to the Dune Burger,” he says, holding his hand out for an official shake. Soon we're walking together towards the front.

“Could you tell me where the nearest grocery store is?” I ask over my shoulder as we pass the kitchen.

“Sure. There's a Food Lion about five or six miles up on Croatan.”

“Oh,” I said, thinking of the walk. “Nothing closer? I don't have a car yet.”

“Not a full grocery store, no.”

I stop by the front counter when I realize John has ducked back into the kitchen.

“Chris is going out to pick up some supplies,” he says, returning from the kitchen with one of the cooks in tow. “He's headed that direction. I'll have him drop you off if you can find your way back okay.”

I glance at Chris over John's shoulder. Chris is inches taller than John, about ten years younger, light brown hair hanging down over his ears. I need some staple foods but my trust gauge is still out of wack.

~~ Should Ana accept the ride? ~~

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: New Girl

I take a quick look around the restaurant in search of an excuse to start immediately. That's when I realize there are no waitresses, no bussers, just a long line of customers waiting for their food. In a split second, I've made up my mind.

“You look like you could use the help now. I'll work until closing without pay. If you think it will work out for both of us, I'll come back tomorrow morning to settle the details.” I'll worry about the money tomorrow. Tonight, I need to secure a job.

Both John and the young cashier stare at me, my mind still whirling to find a place for me here – right now without training ...or trust. In the few minutes I've been here, I understand the system. Take the order, submit to kitchen, take payment, call number, hand over food. Simple.

“I'll take orders while she handles the register,” I say with a nod towards the girl after what feels like a five minute stare-down and before I remember I don't know the menu.

“Liz, the register will be easier for her. You take the orders and let her cash.”

A sigh of relief is not enough to express my delight. I am elated ...and in disbelief. Without waiting for further instruction, I step behind the counter. John is already back in the kitchen. Liz is taking the next order.

“4.95, .99, 1.50,” she says with each item the customer orders.

After a momentary setback, she points out that I need to hit the food button after each amount. After that, I'm good to go. Total, payment method, count back change. Easy. The line begins to move again – a family, eight teens, a couple, a mother and her young daughter.

John returns to check on me, tossing a t-shirt at me. “Put it on over your clothes. You need to look like you work here.”

I slip it on quickly, ignoring how hot I already am with just one shirt on. John sticks around for a moment, watching, assessing me. It should make me nervous but I am surprised to discover my own confidence. I am doing well, sweating bullets but doing well. His absence after inspection almost goes unnoticed.

“Special, side cheese,” Liz yelled to the kitchen, shoving the order slip into the spinning stand.

“66.95,” I say to the tall guy who is overdressed in a collared shirt and suit pants, smiling at me with a dimple in his chin. Then I realize I've made an error. I immediately blush, searching the register for a cancel or void button. Nothing.

“I've only got twenty,” he says, obviously trying to relax me with a joke.

“Sorry. It's only 6.95,” I say, shrugging. I can't find any way to cancel the order and Liz is busy with the next customer. So I hit the cash button and give him 13.05 in exchange for his twenty. “Sorry, we're out of tens,” I say, handing him two fives instead. Could this transaction go any worse?

He hands a five back to me. I look up, confused.

“For you,” he says, perfect teeth revealed through full lips. “You look like you need it.”

Five dollars closer to paying the motel... I think about it as I hold it suspended over the pooled tips bin – the pooled tips I gave up for tonight.

“I'm sorry. Tips are pooled here,” I say, making up rules I'm not sure exist just to cover my butt. “Do you still want to leave it?”

His gaze drops to the bucket below my hand. “Yes. Keep it.”

I drop it in and turn towards Liz to see where we're at. She'd been watching me, curious to see what I'd do, I'm sure. Tall guy is still in ear shot so I can't discuss it with her. We move on.

I have no idea when closing is but a couple of hours into working, when the line has dwindled down, I pause to stretch my back and realize it is almost 10:30. Helping Liz seems silly now as people trickle in two at a time. The other two girls working in front near the register are wiping down the counter and reloading the napkins. Some tables inside the restaurant are littered with trash, plastic trays, cardboard french fry boats, spilled ketchup.

“Should I clean up those tables?” I ask Liz. She has become my unofficial manager.

“Sure,” she says, without much expression. Is she happy I offered? Or is she laughing behind my back now? Either way, I'll keep working until John says to go home.

Using the scattered trays, I pile up the trash and dump it in the garbage can. The larger trash on the floor I pick up with my hands and toss onto another tray. I'm sure there's a broom around somewhere. I walk past the register and past the kitchen for the first time. Beyond the kitchen stands a mop, two brooms and some rags. I head straight for it, pulling a rag out of a bucket of soapy water and ringing it out.

I pass the kitchen again on my way back out, peek across the grills at John and two other guys. They nod as if they know me, as if I've worked there for months and I momentarily have a flashback to my teens when I waitressed in downtown Boston. It was a different kind of restaurant, different menu, different prices, but the atmosphere behind the front counter seemed just the same – hot sweaty workers flipping meat on a grill, metal tools clanging, sizzling, spattering, frying.

I use the wet rag to wipe off the empty tables and smile at a boy entirely too young to be out past 10:30.

“What's she doing?” the boy says to his mother while he watches me.

“She's cleaning,” mom answers in a pampering voice.

He continues to watch me.

“That's some ice-cream sundae you got there,” I say, a subtle reminder to eat instead of watch while making a friendly gesture.

Reminded, he looks down at his ice-cream which is half melted and mostly chocolate sauce. “It's my present,” he says.

I move one table closer and wipe it clean. “Ah.”

“I was a good boy today,” he says, quite proud of himself.

Mom gets nervous and ushers his attention back to her. “Eat your ice-cream now. It's late.”

I sense there's more to the story than she'd like me to know so I move away, heading back through the kitchen to get the broom.

At 11:20, when the last guests leave, John peeks out from the kitchen and says, “Clean up,” to Liz who is leaning against the register grooming her cuticles with her teeth. Liz looks sideways at me across the room. John's gaze follows.

“Oh,” he says, making a full appearance by the counter. “You did that?” he asks me, gesturing to the clean restaurant.

“Yes. I hope that was okay.” For a moment, I think he'll be mad I cleaned while customers were still here.

“Yes, it's okay.” He looks back at Liz as if he's about to ask her something. Then he looks back at me. “How'd it go tonight?”

I join him on the opposite side of the counter. “Good,” I say with surety. My lower back has a piercing pain and my mouth is dry as cotton.

“Great,” he says.

“Oh,” I'm reluctant to add. “There was one thing.”

“What?”

“I rang up an order wrong but Liz was busy so I left it and just counted the change back.”

“Oh.” He moves to the register. Liz reluctantly moves out of his way, dumps the tip jug over and begins counting it. “Tell me what happened,” he says, eyes on the register. I can't tell if he's angry or not.

“It should have rung up as 6.95 but came up as 66.95.”

“So what did you do?” He pushes several buttons now.

“I hit the cash button, took his twenty and gave him change.”

“Okay,” he says, hitting one last button which begins a long printout. “No problem.”

No problem? Really? “I hope it was alright. There was a long line and I wanted to keep it moving.”

“It's fine. You handled it well.” He waits for what I assume is an end of night report from the register. “What's the total?” he asks Liz as she finishes counting the tips.

“523,” she says. He makes a note on a paper log.

“Give Mollie a hundred. Split the rest between you three.”

Her eyes widen in disbelief. My heart leaps in my chest.

“She cleaned, Liz. So you're getting out of here half an hour early with less work. Give her a hundred.”

Liz counts out a hundred and hands it to me.

“Thank you,” I say to Liz modestly and then to John, “I really appreciate it.”

“Come back tomorrow morning at 11:00 so we can make this official.”

“Great,” I say, my stomach flickering with hope.

It's almost midnight when I get back to the motel. I'm exhausted and need to cool down. A hot bath would sooth my aching muscles but a dip in the ocean would be refreshing and therapeutic. I pick up my duffel bag from where I left it earlier and drop it on the bed. Unfortunately, I failed to pack a swimsuit during my escape. There's always the birthday suit.

I go to the back window, pull the drapes back and peer out at the ocean just hundreds of feet away. It's dark and looks deserted. I’ve never skinny dipped but I feel… empowered.   

~~ Should Ana go skinny dipping? ~~

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: Settling In

I need a quick story, some explanation for leaving half the application form blank.

“I just moved here and haven’t found an apartment yet,” I explain as we sit together in her quiet office, the door closed.

She slides the application back across her desk to me. “I will need your social and references.”

Damn. I need this job. I won’t survive without it. My name is already on the form so what difference would it make to add my social? But the references… How can I get around that? I could use my waitressing job from ten years ago. But she might be suspicious of the gap.

“I haven’t worked in ten years,” I say, averting my eyes, afraid it’s the last straw. “My husband worked so I didn’t have to but… we just separated.”

A crease appears above her brows.

“Would you like me to fill in the last job I had?”

By the tightness of her lips, I am sure this is goodbye.

“No,” she says. “Why bother? What good is a ten-year-old job reference?” Her pen scratches as she makes a note on a notepad.

My head lowers. Defeat. Who would ever hire me under these circumstances? I feel the weight of her gaze on me and raise my head.

“Where are you staying?” she says in a more motherly tone.

What point is there in lying now? I’ve already ruined my chances. “I’m not sure. I’ve been staying at a hotel. I’m looking for one with a monthly rate for now.” I hadn’t been, but as the idea formulated and then spilled out, I was instantly sold. No contracts. No yearly lease. It’s perfect.

“How long have you been separated?”

A personal question, one too personal for this interview.

“Not long at all.” It’s all I could say. Take it or leave it, I thought.

“I’ll tell you what, come back tomorrow and we’ll give it a go. Let’s say, a week probationary.”

What? Is she serious? By the warm smile radiating from her face, I decide that yes, she is. “Thank you so much,” I say, shaking her hand, trying not to look too thankful, trying not to cry.

A week later, I am settled in at Neva’s Beauty Salon. Washing hair between answering phones and taking payments is a synch. It’s something to distract me, something to keep me busy. Listening to the stories of clients about their kids, their spouses and their annoying bosses is like watching a reality tv show. I can’t help but get sucked in.

“You’re so quiet,” Tony says one day when it is just him, me and Neva left. I shrug. What would I talk about?

A few weeks pass just like the first. I enjoy the routine. I like the busyness of the salon over the stale air of the travel agency back home. I feel creative without being creative.

Memorial Day weekend approaches and I look forward to a day in the warm sun. Neva invited me to her place for a day by the pool. I hesitated at first because I didn’t know anyone who would be there. But I decided to go anyway. I need some fun.

Friday afternoon, out of work early for the weekend, I head to my hotel and collect my dirty clothes, tossing them into the duffel bag and heading to the Laundromat - Friday night routine. On my way to the Laundromat, I make a stop at the bank to have my check cashed. I have managed to save a few dollars to buy some new clothes. The few I brought along with me are looking warn and tired. So tomorrow will be a pleasant day of shopping. I fold the week’s pay into one of the bag pockets.

“I thought for shore I wouldn’t be seein you tonight, girl,” says Jackie, her corn rolls replaced with extensions.

“Yeah, well laundry still needs to be done, even if it is a holiday weekend. Love the new look,” I added before plopping down in front of ‘my’ machine with my laptop and a soda from the vending machine.

She dismisses my compliment with a wave of her hand and returns to her receipts.

When the laundry is done and folded, gently stacked back up in the duffel bag, I head back to the hotel, enjoying the walk more than usual. The weather is finally feeling like summer and I’m in heaven.

Stacey smiles at me from behind the front desk.

“Oh!” she says as I’m about to turn the corner. “Your husband is here.”

My heart kicks at my ribs. “What?” I step back towards the front desk, eyes darting around the area, looking for him.

“I wasn’t sure if I should give him a key or not.”

“Did you?” I say carefully.

“Yes. Should I not have?” Her pleasant smile is gone and she looks concerned, probably because my face has lost color.

“Oh, no, it’s okay,” I lie, softening my expression, glancing towards the front door. “Is he here now?”

“I think so, ma’am. I haven’t seen him come back down.”

“Oh. Okay…” I creep towards the door.

“Is something wrong, Ms Knighton? If I handled that wrong, I can get the manager to compensate you.” Her eyes are pleading with me now – please don’t get me fired.

“No. Don’t worry about it. It’s okay.” I’ll be gone tomorrow. “I’m gonna go pick up some dinner for us. I’ll see you soon.”

Goodbye to my savings in the room safe. Goodbye to my job. Goodbye to my new life.

A bus is stopped a few yards down the street and I take off running to catch it. It drops me off in the next town where I catch another bus into the city.

“When’s the next bus out of state?” I say to the ticket lady at the bus station in Hartford.

“Where do you want to go?”

“Anywhere. Whatever is leaving next.”

Through a series of buses and trains, and after over a day of travel, I end up in the Outer Banks, North Carolina. The bus stops at the hospital and I exit to the warm night, salty air and ocean breeze. I have no idea what this place is like though I’ve arranged travel plans here for so many clients. I have no idea if I’m safe yet. But how far can I run? I used half my money just to get here.

I take a road away from the highway, towards the water. The line of condos and beach homes is backed by only the ocean. I close my eyes and ‘breathe’ summer.

The Sandspur Motel is small and old. I assume it will be just what I can afford.

“Your name, ma’am?” the woman says. Her tank top reveals two tattoo sleeves that I can’t take my eyes off. Her blonde scraggly hair is tied into a messy knot high on her head, skin tanned, flip-flops revealing several toe rings.

“Mollie.” I visually explore the foyer, stopping to drool over a plate of cookies set out on a food bar at one side.

“Mollie what?”

“Bar,” I say, without thinking, still staring at the food bar. I’d spent hours coming up with Mollie, but hadn’t even considered a last name. How foolish.

“Okay, Mollie. It’ll be $367 for the week.”

I dig out all the cash I have left and lay it out on the counter.

“You’re fifty short.”

“Can I pay it later?”

She looks at me like I just asked to stay free. “Pay by tomorrow.”

Tomorrow? How will I manage that? “Okay. Thanks.”

She hands me a normal key on a ring, not a card that slides into a magnetic reader. I snatch three cookies from the bar on my way out. My room is three doors down from the main office. The handle jiggles as I slide the key in and turn it. The place smells moldy and stale. I open the sliding window towards the ocean and drop my stuff by the bed. There is no time to waste. I must find a job tonight.

I head south from the hotel, happy to have lightened the load. While I walk in the now chilly night air, the smell of fried food wafts towards me. Dune Burger, a red fast food shack with road side picnic table dining, glows from within. All the outdoor tables are loaded, a line is formed out the door and I can see workers through the window, hustling around in the kitchen.

It’s bad timing to ask for a job. But then… maybe it’s good timing. Maybe they’ll take me on the spot because they’re so busy.

I squeeze by the line at the door and sheepishly make my way to the register. A teen girl wipes her forehead with her arm while punching keys on the register.

“Excuse me?” I say, leaning over the counter towards her, as if it’ll stop everyone else from hearing me.

“Can I help you?” she says curtly while passing change back to a customer.

“Are you hiring?”

“John!” she yells over her shoulder.

Why do I feel so stupid?

A middle-aged man appears from the kitchen, sweat dripping down his face, thick brown hair matted slightly at his temples.

“She wants a job,” the girl says and he lets out a laugh.

“Bad timing, hun. Can you come back tomorrow morning?”

If I can start tonight – now – I might earn some tips to pay for the hotel. I have the experience, even if it is ten years old. And he can use me now. I’m sure of it.  

~~ Should Ana push to start now or come back tomorrow? ~~

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: The Inquiry

The coffee in my hand lands on the neck and shoulder of a man twice my size – an officer. I am just as shocked as he is. He gasps and pulls at his crisp blue shirt, pealing it away from his skin, mouth open in shock. I back into the breakfast table while the reception guy comes running with a towel. I shouldn’t be afraid but I am. How does he know my name? Am I in trouble for not leaving a security deposit? If not for that, surely for assaulting an officer. I want to run but I'm frozen, watching the two men fumble over each other.

“Ms Knighton?” the officer says, still toweling off, irritation in his voice.

“Yes. I'm sorry, sir.” I wish the table would disappear so I could back up further. I wish he didn't know my name. I wish I weren't so freakin petrified.

The reception guy skedaddles as soon as possible, tossing me a nod before disappearing.

“I'm Officer Joe Hayes.” He presents his hand for a shake and I take it. “What is the nature of your stay here?”

My breath hitches in my throat. The nature of my stay? Escape. Survival.

“Just a little vacation,” I say and smile, my shoulders up by my ears with tension.

“Where are you visiting from?” Now that the coffee has been cleaned up, his hands are on his hips... er his holster ...belt.

“Boston.” Close enough.

He looks around the area where we stand. “Are you traveling alone?”

“Yes, sir.” Please don't ask any more questions.

He looks me up and down. I can't tell if he thinks I'm a suspect or victim. His inspection stops at my waist, which I soon realize is where my left hand rests.

“Your husband’s not with traveling with you?”

I suck in much needed air and avert my eyes. “No. My husband and I are separated.”

With narrowed eyes he asks, “Mrs Brighton, are you in some kind of trouble?”

“No!” I answer too quickly and let out a nervous laugh. At least I'm not a suspect. “Why would you think that?”

“Mr. Domki thought you were... in need of help.”

Damn you, reception guy. Why couldn't you just stay out of it?

“No. I'm fine. That's silly. Honest. I'm alright.” Shut up, Ana. Just shut up.

“Where will you be staying for the remainder of your …vacation?”

Crud. I don't know and, if I did, I wouldn't tell him. “Here.”

He made eye contact with Domki then looked back at me. “Okay, ma'am. If you need anything, you know who to call.”

“Yes. Thank you, sir.” Thank you for leaving.

In my room – without breakfast – I grab my bags and head for the sliding glass door, slip out, checking both ways for …anyone. It's a courtyard, unfortunately, so I must find another door back into the hotel. I walk briskly through the hallway and exit onto a side lot, running as soon as I clear the door. Across the street, I duck behind a convenience store to catch my breath.

The buildings along the busy highway hide me for several miles until I spot a HELP WANTED sign posted out by the road. I have no idea what help is wanted until I circle around the front of the building – a hair salon.

The smell of hairspray and curling irons hits me the second I open the door. Hairdryers drown all other sound. A young girl in ripped jeans and layered tank tops puts on a fake smile and greets me.

“I'm here for a job,” I say.

“Excuse me?” she yells.

“I'd like to apply for the job,” I say a bit louder, pointing towards the road where I saw the sign.

“Oh.” She drops the fake smile. “Hold on.” She leaves me there in a cold sweat. I have no idea what the job is, if I'm qualified or if she'll pay me cash. She returns with a middle-aged woman, slightly heavy set with short funky hair.

“Hi, I'm Neva. And you are?” the woman says, shaking my hand.

“Ana. Hi.”

The hairdryers shut off within minutes of each other, leaving me with a sense of deafness in the quiet.

“You're here for the job?” she says.

“Yes.”

“Are you a stylist?”

I can tell she's skeptical already. I realize my jeans and top are not very trendy.

“No,” I admit. “Is that what you're looking for?”

“No. Actually, we need a shampooer and receptionist.”

Over her shoulder I catch the receptionist rolling her eyes.

“I can do that,” I say with confidence.

“Great! Let me get you an application.” She leaves through the arched door to the salon area and returns a moment later.

Sitting in the thin leather chair of the waiting area, I plop my bags down next to me, smooth the application over a magazine on my lap and begin work on the application.

Name: Ana Knighton

Address: …

Crud. My pulse picks up. How can I fill out an application without an address? I skim down the rest of the page – references, insurance, social security number. My sweaty palm sticks to the paper as I lift my hand to my head.

Don't panic. Maybe there's some way I can explain my situation to her without giving too many details. I stare at the blank form with my name at the top and suddenly remember George and Rosanne, wondering if they miss me yet, wondering if Bosley has called them looking for me. Do they know what's going on? Do they know I won't be coming back to work for … well maybe never? Will they manage okay without me?

I wish I could call them to explain but I can't. I just can't get them involved. And I can't risk Bosley tracing me here. Officer whatever-his-name-is was scare enough. Someday I hope I will have a chance to explain and apologize.

“All set?” Neva says, standing in front of me, breaking my gaze.

“Not quite. Two more minutes.”

~~ Should Ana fill in fake info or come up with some explanation? ~~

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: 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.