Going South: Panic (episode 19)

The music is playing, the sun has gone down and I am standing at the rail of Chris' second-floor deck, hoping to keep out of the center of activity. Having kept this spot for over an hour, sipping my drink, I feel certain I can manage to stay here for the remainder of the night.

Their open flirtation, hip gyrating and spit swapping is enough to drive me crazy. I've never been with people like this, people so... Hollywood cliché. I feel like I'm in a nighttime soap opera, the OC or some other ridiculous series.

Chris sidles up next to Ashley, drapes his arm across her shoulders and swallows her whole. Jeez. Get a room. He releases her and wraps his arms around one of the single girls, nuzzling into her neck. My eyes go straight to Ashley, and I'm surprised to discover she has moved on too. Then again... no, I'm not surprised. It's just what I expected. It's exactly what I was worried about, coming here.

Having my theory confirmed, I look around for some distraction, something that will help me escape when 'my turn' comes around, since I know I can't really keep out of it all night. I spot a pitcher of water sitting on the table across the deck. Every time the group shifts towards me, I contemplate making a move - away. What am I doing here?

Chris loosens his grip on the girl, and a sick feeling comes over me. I can feel it. I'm next. It occurs to me that he's been waiting all night – weeks maybe – to make his move. I head straight for the water, turning my back to the group to hide my apprehension, my breath hitched in my throat.

Chris' body presses into my back and, instantly, his warm, wet mouth is gently sucking my neck, just below my ear. The cup slips from my hand, clinking as it crashes to the table and spills.

“Oh my god, I'm sorry!” I say, flustered, not sure why I'm apologizing. I twist around, push him away and head for the door to get a towel ...to escape.

“It's okay. It's just water,” Chris says, stopping me with his hand on my upper arm.

I turn around to meet his smiling face, drink in one hand, me in the other.

“Relax,” he says, pulling me closer.

I free myself, glance at the others over his shoulder then back at him. “I should go.”

“Don't be stupid. It's still early.” He steps towards me again, reaching for my waist.

I side-step him and back into the table. He grabs my forearm and tugs me forcefully towards him, a bit of irritation showing on his face. The feel of his hand around my arm, the force of his pull, sends me back to my living room, Bosley's hand on my arm, a gun in my face. My heart pounds furiously as fear surges through me. I shove Chris hard. He fumbles backwards into his friends and I make a run for the stairs, heading down to the sand. I keep running a few hundred yards towards the water, sobbing, afraid and embarrassed.

I drop down at the edge of the dry sand and bury my face in my hands, still crying. The last few days I spent at home with Bosley come whirling through my mind like a tornado. For the first time since it happened, I am gripped with fear, shaking internally. The gun in my face, Bosley's forcefulness, imprisoned in my own house, followed to Wethersfield... Denial has vanished. Reality is set in. I am on the run for my life.

“Hey,” Chris says, walking up next to where I sit. I hadn't heard him approach over the sound of the waves, and, being on edge, I'm startled to my feet.

Backing away, I wipe the tears from my face. I wish he would just leave me alone.

“Relax,” he says, holding up his hands. “I won't touch you.”

This is awful. I don't want him to see me like this. I don't want him to know me like this. I turn away and cry silently while trying to regain my composure.

“I didn't know,” Chris said from very close behind me.

I stiffen up, then turn to face him. “You didn't know what?”

“I didn't know you'd react like that. I was just ...kissing you.”

I scowl in confusion, Bosley still on my mind. Then I realize he knows nothing about Bosley. He's here about the kiss.

“Everyone here is like this,” he explains.

“Cheaters?” I say.

“It was just a kiss.”

“You're married.”

“So?” He turns toward the water and sits down, propping his beer up in the sand next to him.

I remain standing, looking down at him, brows still deep in a scowl.

“Look, Mollie, -” He looks up at me and sighs. “Will you sit down for a minute?”

I do, facing him to keep a distance between us and to keep my eye on him.

“Ashley and I are confident in our marriage. We just like to have a little fun.”

I sit quietly though my heart is still pounding. I don't have time for this. I have a new life to figure out. And, thinking back to Damian and Myra, I know for sure I never would have ...traded. I loved Bosley too much to risk it, even if I was confident he felt the same about me.

A breeze picks up, forming goose bumps on my arms. I dare not rub them or Chris might get closer.

“Haven't you ever kissed anyone besides your husband?” he says, looking sideways at me.

“No.” Not of my own will anyway.

“Are you serious?”

I stare at him. Is he serious?

He stares back for a moment, his brain working on ...something. “Where is your husband anyway?” he says.

What? My pulse explodes once again. Rising tension threatens to blow me to bits. My body stands up of its own accord. I hear myself speak but don't know where it's coming from. “I need to go. It's late.”

The sand seems to fall away from my feet, making it impossible to walk away. I can't get away fast enough. I feel like he knows, like he's aware of my past, knows my real name, knows my husband is after me. My chest tightens, my face tingles and I begin to sink, gasping for air. I'm aware of Chris' hands on me, holding me up at first, then fully supporting me, carrying me in fact. All I can do is hang on.

Beyond the blur, when the world stops spinning, I see Ashley going in and out of silhouette, the kitchen light bright behind her. My face is wet and she's shifting a cloth over my forehead. I feel heavy.

“Are you okay?” she says, squatting down next to me.

I realize I'm on the living room sofa.

“Chris?” Ashley yells towards the hallway. Chris enters a moment later.

“Feeling better?” he says, standing over me. “I've never seen anyone go so pail before.”

“What happened?” I manage to say, realizing my throat is extremely dry.

“I was going to ask you that,” Chris says. “You scared the crap out of me.”

I've never experienced anything like it. I swing my legs to one side and attempt to sit up. My head feels like there's an elephant sitting on it. It wobbles on my neck until I slouch back, falling to one side.

“Whoa,” Ashley says, grabbing my shoulders to steady me.

“Just lay down,” Chris says, placing my feet back up on the sofa. “Ashley, get her a pillow from the spare room and a blanket.” He looks back at me, one hand on my thigh. “You're not going anywhere.”

What? No. I can't stay here. I can't. Adrenaline kicks in and I'm upright again in an instant.

“I need to go,” I say, though I'm certain I can't ride my bike like this.

“No, you need to lay down,” Chris says, pressing my shoulders to keep me from standing up.

“No, really, Chris. I need to go.” My pulse is racing again, face tingling like it did before. My eyes can't seem to focus on anything. I'm so weak but I must get out! I feel trapped.

“Mollie, relax. You're not going anywhere.”

~~ Should Ana/Mollie stay the night or press him to bring her home? ~~

The official tally will be taken from the poll which closes midnight Thursday your local time. NOTE: We're back to the old poll again. If you have issues with it, say so along with your vote in a comment.

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.

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: Party Time (episode 18)

Wesley and I agree on a restaurant. As soon as the plans are made, I already feel guilty. He knows I’m married… I think.

The next day, I search the internet on the age-old dial-up connection in the motel lobby for a bicycle. It’s the next best thing to a car. The nearest one I can find is a vintage banana seat bicycle, pink with a white seat, decorated with retro daisies. I hate pink. The woman asks $100 for it. I offer $75 and we have a deal. I ride my new bike back to the motel, surprised at how smooth the ride is and how comfortable the banana seat is.

Saturday night, I ride my bike to Chris’s house, a tiny home on stilts at the water’s edge. I prop my make-shift vehicle against the garage door which is under the house, straighten my yellow shirt and khaki capri’s and head towards the stairs. I have to walk through the eerie, dark stilts to reach the them. I’m not pleased. I wonder how the house stays up, and I can easily imagine it being knocked over with the force of one wave.

Standing at the front door, I see a distant glow inside and hear the chatter of a small group of people in the distance. Four cars are parked in the driveway so I estimate about eight people. The door bell echoes through the house and sifts out the open windows. Ashley answers the door, looking appropriate for the season in a short cotton summer dress.

“Hi Mollie! Come on in.” She makes room for me to pass her. “Everyone’s out back on the deck. Go ahead out. I’ve just got to get a few more drinks.”

I feel like a fool walking into this crowd even before I’m halfway there. We pass through the small living room towards the kitchen at the back. “Let me help you with the drinks,” I practically beg.

“Oh, sure,” she says with a bright smile. “I need three beers from the fridge, and I’ll grab this pitcher.” With the pitcher in one hand and a stack of fancy plastic cups in the other, she pushes the back door open and lets me pass.

“Hey, you made it,” Chris says, standing up to empty my hands of the three beers then distribute them to the guys.

I stand next to the glass table while Chris introduces me – two couples, a single guy and two single girls. No way I’ll remember their names.

“Do you like pina colada?” Ashley asks me, pouring some of the white fluid from the pitcher into a cup.

“Sure,” I say, looking for a seat without appearing to look for a seat. There aren’t any except for the cooler behind me against the outside wall of the house. I take the drink from Ashley and make a swift move back to sit down.

“Oh, Chris, go get Mollie a chair. I thought I had enough,” Ashley says.

“My fault,” one of the girls says, shrugging. “I crashed. Sorry, Mollie. I took your seat.”

“It’s okay,” Chris says, grinning. “She can sit right here.” He patted his thigh and the guys bellowed with laughter.

“I’m fine here,” I say, tipping the cup up to hide behind its brim.

“Come on, Chris. Go get a chair,” Ashley says, stretching over the gap between them to swat his arm.

“Fine,” he says, getting up. Then points a finger at me and says, “But you owe me,” and laughs.

Ugh. I hate every minute of this. It’s not funny. I don’t like him. I don’t want to drink. I don’t want to be social. I want to go home and slip into Bosley’s arms and –

Crud. I have to stop doing that.

Chris returns with a flimsy chair, opens it roughly and plops it down next to himself at the table.

“Thanks,” I say and transfer seats.

An hour later, after the best grilled brats and sauerkraut I’ve ever eaten, the girls stand together at the far rail of the deck, bobbing slightly to the music playing in the open window. The guys chill out at the table, lighting cigs and tipping back beers. I wonder if it’s safe to leave yet. Have I put in enough time here? If I stay good and long, will it make it okay to decline next time? I don’t exactly fit in with the girls but the guys… ugh. I slip into the house, using the bathroom as an excuse to escape.

Taking my time, I make note of their décor, pics, furniture. Passing through the micro kitchen and towards the hall, I stop to check out the living room. An open frame sofa with cream cushions and light wood sits against the left wall. A flat panel TV hangs on the opposite wall, sleek and almost unnoticeable. The coffee table is expertly decorated with a stack of three books lying on their side, each getting smaller as they go up. An electronics cabinet is tucked into the corner by the sofa and is loaded with equipment. I notice at least five machines. What could they all be for? Here and there on small tables and window sills are average beach decorations; shells, fish, etc. The hardwood floor is mostly covered by a white shag throw rug.

As I head down the short hallway, I peak into each door I pass. A bedroom. Looks like a spare. Light décor just like the living room. Across is … the basement. Yuck. Dark and musty. And the bathroom. I step ahead to peak into the last room, which I assume is their bedroom. I’ve never been more driven to snoop in anyone else’s house. Before I get a peak, I hear the back door creak open, and I scoot quickly into the bathroom.

After leaving what I think is plenty of time to rid the house of its recent guest, I head out towards the back again, but I’m surprised to find Chris waiting in the kitchen, leaning against the counter in the dim light, arms crossed over his chest.

“Hi,” I say with a fake smile, heading for the door.

He meets me midway, throwing his arm around my neck and tugging me into his chest. “How’s it going?” he says. “Enjoying yourself?”

“Yeah,” I say, wondering why he always has to touch me and when he’s going to let go. My gaze shoots toward the back deck to check Ashley’s location.

“Good. I knew you would.”

He keeps me in a headlock hug, holding my gaze. It’s definitely awkward. I’m not sure what he wants. A kiss? Please don’t kiss me, I think.

With his arm still around me, he walks me outside where the guys are now sitting on the railing by the girls, whooping and yelling, laughing and playing. One of them is now in the middle of the girls, shaking his money maker.

“Alright,” Chris says, getting everyone’s attention, and I blush. “Let’s show Mollie how to party.”

Party? What does he mean? I thought we were partying.

He finally releases me, smacking my ass as he whoops and hip butts one of the girls. In shock, I stand still for a moment, trying to determine what will happen next. Is it just a bit of wild dancing? Or is it more?

  ~~ Should Ana/Mollie try to leave or stick it out? ~~

The official tally will be taken from the poll which closes midnight Thursday your local time. NOTE: We're back to the old poll again. If you have issues with it, say so along with your vote in a comment.

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.

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: Lonely (episode 17)

Chris and Ashley – I finally discovered his wife's name – drove away with a wave, leaving me standing in front of my shabby motel room door, feeling rather stupid, like High School all over again. Why am I trying so hard to fit in? I don't. And when did I start caring? Myra used to try to make me fit in with her make-up and style lessons, but I never let her get to me. Why am I letting Chris get to me now?

Because I'm lonely.

It takes several hours the next night, working with Chris, to put the beach party out of my mind and act normal. Every time I turn towards the kitchen to call in an order, I'm reminded of it. But Chris acts like it was nothing. So I act that way too. Nothing could ever happen between us whether I wanted it to or not ...which I'm still not sure exactly what I want. It's just simpler if I avoid him.

A few nights later, he invites me to his house for a barbeque, and I decline. The following weekend he invites me out on a friend's boat for the evening, and I decline. The very next day, he corners me in the freezer.

“Hey,” he says casually, pretending to retrieve beef patties. “When do you want to go see that place where the Dave Matthews Band started?”

“Oh,” I say, stretching out my task so as to avoid him. “I don't really like Dave Matthews, but thanks.” There. I said it. I expect him to tackle me to the ground for such heresy.

He stops fiddling with the beef patties and turns to face me head on, blocking the exit even more. “You said you liked them when I -”

“No I didn't.”

I close the box I've just retrieved two ketchup bottles from and walk towards him, head lowered, hoping he'll move out of my way without a fuss.

He doesn't. “What's your problem?” he says.

My heart pounds. Why am I so nervous? I've stood up to worse before.

I stop in front of him, unable to move on until he does. “What do you mean?”

“Did I do something to offend you? Why are you such a bitch lately?”

Ouch. I look him in the eye, a bit shocked. I have been a bitch. “I'm sorry,” I say, letting out a breath. “I'm just... trying to find my place here.”

“Well that's not the way to do it,” he says.

We stand facing each other without a word for a moment. I could almost crawl into his arms. I feel stupid. I need reassurance.

“If you don't like Dave Matthews, you can come to my house instead.”

His house? Hm. “Why are you being so nice to me? You never ask the other girls.”

“They're kids. You're not.”

Oh. I take a deep breath, still trying to define our relationship. I tell myself he just wants to be my friend but my instinct is telling me it's more. “Will you let me out? I'm freezing.”

“Will you come over my house Saturday night?”

“Yes,” I say just to get out.

He shifts slightly, and I slip past him.

“Where were you?” Liz asks when I return to the front. “We had like twenty people come in at once.”

“Sorry. I was getting supplies.” I whisk past her towards the booth to replace the empty ketchup bottles with the full ones. Through the open screen windows, laughter and chatter pour in from the group outside that Liz just mentioned.

The group stays the remaining hour until closing, finally breaking up and hugging their goodbyes under the lone spotlight from the gable. While Liz and the others clean up inside, I head out, stack trays and collect trash. A few of the party still remain.

I use a dry rag to brush crumbs and food off the picnic tables, forcing the morning birds to eat their breakfast off the ground. The last three guests apologize for getting in my way and keeping us open late.

As I give their table a brush down, I say, “Don't worry about it. Enjoy.” Then look up into familiar eyes. My face burns with embarrassment, my pulse racing. Damn, he looks good.

“Hey,” Wesley says. “You're not going to cry, are you?” His face lights up with a grin while I stand, staring at him, unsure what to say.

“No.”

His two friends say goodbye and head off into the gravel parking lot. He comes around the table to my side. God, he smells good too. Fresh, like soap and shaving cream. I busy myself brushing off the rest of the table.

“Relax,” he says, pauses, then continues. “You look … better.”

I let out a huff, stand up straight and face him. “Yes. I'm sure I look just great.” I smooth my sweaty hair back off my face.

“Actually, you do.”

His compliment surprises me. I hadn't had my guard up, wasn't protecting myself from emotional invasion. My pulse explodes and I feel uglier than before.

He removes his hands from deep in the pockets of his blue and white plaid shorts and flips his key around one finger. I wring my hands a bit. The only thing on my mind now is what it would be like to have his arms around me - What's wrong with me? - and... does he really think I look nice? Impossible. But for some reason, just hearing him say it makes me feel like a touch prettier.

His gaze drops to my hands as he opens his mouth to speak, then hesitates, and I realize he just spotted my ring. I drop my hands to my sides and shift my weight to one foot.

“So -” I begin to say.

“Do you want to go out to breakfast with me sometime?” he says, cutting me off.

“Breakfast?” I say without thinking. Is he asking me out?

“Yeah. Breakfast.”

A moth dives into my forehead, and I swat it away. The silence makes it seem like someone turned up the crickets.

“No pressure. Just a meal.”

Breakfast sounds less formal than dinner. Not like a real date. And there wouldn't be the same expectation for after dinner. It's probably safe. I hesitate to say, “Sure.”

“Great,” he says before it's barely out of my mouth. “Sunday?”

“Okay.”

“I'll pick you up,” he says.

“Great cause I don’t have a car yet.” Did I really just say that?

“Where should I pick you up?”

Ugh. Not the motel issue again. I gotta get out of there. “Uh... I live in kind of a strange place. I -”

“So do I.” He drops his head and laughs.

Uh oh. What does that mean? If he doesn't ask me about mine, I can't ask him about his.

“We can meet at a restaurant if you want. …Or I could make you breakfast at my place.”

~~ Which should Ana/Mollie choose, the restaurant or his place? ~~

The official tally will be taken from the poll which closes midnight Thursday your local time. NOTE: We're back to the old poll again. If you have issues with it, say so along with your vote in a comment.

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.

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 Line-Up (episode 16)

The walk home in the middle of the night seems daunting. Still I hesitate to accept Chris's invitation.

“Come on,” he says, throwing his arm around my neck playfully.

He leads me back towards the blanket where his wife lay gazing at the night sky.

I stop at the edge of the blanket, his arm still around me. “I'm not quite ready to sleep yet though.”

“Whenever you're ready, darling,” he says, smiling. His arm slides off my shoulders and down my back before he hops onto the blanket and cuddles up to his wife.

This is too weird. I need to walk it off.

I head back down to the water, taking note of how empty the beach is. Only a few people remain, cuddled on blankets like Chris and his girl. I wonder how long they've been married, what kind of marriage they have and if they're happy. Bosley and I were happy ...I think. When I stop to reflect, I miss him. So we must have been happy.

My hand goes to my chest where I feel a physical pain from the memory of him. The uncertainty of our situation is wearing. The scene around me, the distance I've traveled, the home and husband I left all seem so surreal. Will I ever see Bosley again? My right thumb and forefinger twist the wedding ring around my finger as I walk. I stop and sit on the hard, dry sand that separates the beach from the lapping waves.

I have to find a way to let go of my past life. I can't get it back. Even if I could, it wouldn't be the same. Bosley put my life in danger. He was violent with me. I must move on.

I slide the ring off my finger, inspect it in the dark, holding it up to catch the orange lights from the boardwalk far behind me. At the thought of getting rid of it, my stomach knots up and my chest tightens. I can't let go of him. I love him.

I slide the ring back onto my left hand.

Brushing the sand off my shorts, I walk back to the blanket where Chris and … whatever-her-name-is are fast asleep in each others' arms. I sit on the edge and stretch out beside them, wide awake, heart pounding, stuck in limbo ...still.

A bright light wakes me, and I peer into white oblivion against a black sky. Trying to sit up, my body is heavier than usual. I'm completely lost. The warmth of a body along my back and legs registers with my brain, sending my pulse reeling. It's the girl, I think I'm relieved to discover, although both her and his arms are draped over my stomach.

“Let's go,” the man behind the white light says. “Get up.”

I can't see a thing. Chris and his wife stir. I remove their arms from me and attempt to stand up, the soft sand making the task more difficult.

A hand grips my upper arm as I stumble to my feet, heavy with deep sleep. How long was I here? What time is it? What's going on?

The light leaves me for a moment and moves to Chris and the girl. I finally am able to see that it's an officer who has me by the arm and is shoving me around.

“Stand up,” another officer growls at Chris. “In a line. Come on.” He shoves Chris towards me and the girl.

The three of us stand in a row. A gentle kick to the inside of my right leg forces me to spread my feet. Two hands land on my shoulders, pat and frisk every inch of me down to my feet.

I am wide awake.

What are they looking for? What have we done? Are they going to arrest us? I can't do this now. My identity could be blown. They could send me home if there's a search out for me. Then I wonder... is there a search out for me? If Bosley's mixed up in the wrong crowd, he wouldn't be attracting police attention. So... no. There's not a search out for me.

“Have you had any alcohol tonight?” one officer asks Chris.

“Yes,” he answers.

“Drugs?”

Oh god. I pray Chris is clean.

“No.”

“What are you doing here then?”

Chris looks at his wife. Please don't get sarcastic. Please.

“Sleeping,” he says to the officer. “Would you rather we drive drunk?”

The officer, who surely would have grabbed him by his shirt if he were wearing one, pokes his finger into Chris's chest.

“Don't be a smart ass. The beaches are closed between 3 and 5.”

“Sorry,” Chris says, not sounding very sorry at all. “We didn't know.”

“Don't give me that bullshit,” the officer says, getting close to Chris. “There's signs every ten feet up there.” His arm points abruptly behind him towards the road.

Chris is quiet. His silence makes me more nervous.

The officer holds his gaze for another minute then shoos us away. “Get out of here!”

Chris's wife gathers the blanket into a ball and ushers him forward with a nudge of his arm. I follow silently.

At the Jeep, I fold myself into the back seat and hug my arms to warm them. As soon as we're on the road, the girl turns around to face me.

“Sorry about that. We usually don't sleep that long.”

“It's okay,” I say, even though it isn't.

“Where do you live?” Chris asks, looking at me in the rear view mirror.

Oh crud. Not only do I not trust him to know, I'm embarrassed that I live in a motel.

~~ Should Ana give him her real address or a fake one? ~~

The official tally will be taken from the poll which closes midnight Thursday your local time. NOTE: We're back to the old poll again. If you have issues with it, say so along with your vote in a comment.

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.

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: Beach Party

The walk home from the store takes me almost an hour. I am sure, as I sniff the open milk carton, that I've lost half my food to the heat. The sniff proves scentless so I shrug and put the milk in the mini fridge. It's just big enough to hold the milk, yogurt, cold cuts, berries and a couple bottles of water. The rest of the food goes on the counter.

An hour later when I'm finished with my shower and standing before the mirror, I see that the sun has created unsightly tan – or should I say burn - lines across my upper arm and mid thigh. Next time I make a trip to the store, I'll have to remember the sun block.

Grabbing my shorts, I regret to think of the party tonight. If I decide to go, how would I work the outfit issue? I refuse to arrive at my first event wearing my DuneBurger shirt. But where would I change? I could change in the bathrooms at work but then I'd have to bring a bag with me and keep track of it all night. I don't have a swimsuit so at least there's no issue there. I simply won't swim tonight.

A fitted camisole catches my eye – the best solution under the circumstances. I pull it on then cover it with my red DuneBurger tee. I fold a few dollars into my pocket and head out.

Taking orders and reporting them to the kitchen makes it difficult to avoid making eye contact with Chris. Why is it so hard for me to look at him? Is it because he made my heart skip a beat and now I feel guilty? Or maybe that I have him all wrong and that's just embarrassing... Either way, I won't lead him on. I won't even think about him again.

Liz works the register. Clare and Laura, both whom I guess are in their early twenties, bring orders to patrons outside and clear dirty tables when they've gone. The girls don't say much to me but then I don't say much to them either.

“You ready?” Chris says as I return the mop to its place in the back room some time after eleven.

“Yeah.” It's a given that I'm going even though I debated all night up to this moment.

I follow him past the kitchen and around the front counter, ignoring the look I catch Clare and Laura exchanging. I don't care what they're thinking. I don't want to know. I don't even know what to make of it myself, never mind being concerned with them.

Beyond moth territory near the outdoor light and into the dark gravel parking lot, I jump into the wrangler for the second time today. Chris pulls his shirt off and tosses it into the back seat before getting in, leaving him bare-chested in cargo shorts. My pulse explodes and I fret about taking mine off now too or waiting until later when he's not looking. If I wait, it could draw more attention to it. Sitting in the front seat, I lean forward and pull it over my head, casting a glance in his direction when the deed has been accomplished. He watches me, smiles and starts the Jeep, Dave Matthews Band breaking the silence.

My heart races so fast, I feel faint. My hand grips the t-shirt, resting on the seat next to my thigh. I have to remind myself that I do have a camisole on under the t-shirt. I am not sitting bare-chested as he is.

He turns the music down as we approach a stop light.

“They got their start here. Did you know that?” he says, gesturing towards the dashboard.

I assume he's referring to Dave Matthews. “Really? No, I didn't.” I don't really care either. I'm not a fan.

“Yeah, they used to play in a joint down the strip. I'll take you there sometime if you want to see it.”

“Oh, thanks. You don't have to do that.” I move my hands to my lap, taking the shirt with them.

“I wouldn't mind. I go there often.”

He goes there? Not 'we' as in him and his wife? I let it drop without responding.

“You look like you got some sun,” he says, looking at me then back at the road. “Was that from your walk home today?”

I nod. How embarrassing. Yes, I'm a fair-skinned loser without a car. God, help me. I look away from him. If he can see my sunburn, he can probably see me blushing.

“If you need a car, I might be able to help you out.”

“Oh... well eventually. But I don't have the money right now. Thanks anyway.” Why is he being so helpful?

“Alright. Well let me know.”

He turns off the road and pulls up to a wood guardrail along the beach. The glow of bonfires and twinkle of cigarettes butts sets my body on fire. Here goes nothing...

I hadn't thought about my shoes when I got ready earlier. Now I regret it as sand slips into my sneakers. As soon as I'm comfortable here, I'll take them off.

“Hey! Chris!” a girl yells, waving her arm. Three other girls beside her light up with smiles. He advances ahead of me to distribute hugs.

“This is Mollie,” he says, then lists off their names, none of which I will remember. They greet me with a friendly wave of the hand then offer us beer. I decline then regret it. I don't want them to think I'm a priss but I want to keep my senses too. I decide to accept the next offer.

An hour later, I'm sitting on a piece of drift wood by the fire alone. Chris has his arm draped around the shoulder of one of the girls. The others have scattered and two new ones have appeared. I scan the beach. There must be over twenty bonfires on this strip of beach. Several different stereos can he heard, all melding together into some sort of beat and noise. The sweet smell of pot fills the air. I glance at the black ocean and remember my night alone with it longingly.

“Hey, I didn't know you were coming,” I hear from behind me.

I peer up over my shoulder at John. He steps over the driftwood and sits next to me.

“I didn't know you were coming either,” I say. How lame.

“Who'd you come with?” he says, tossing back the remains of his beer.

I hesitate about telling him. Is there something going on that I don't know about? I feel out of place and out of the loop. Is this an invitation-only party and that's why the girls at the shack exchanged the look? Or is Chris a player and I'm falling into his trap?

“Chris,” I finally say, looking across the fire at him. “He just gave me a ride,” I say, sounding quite guilty.

John grins and gives me the honor of looking away.

“His wife is pretty.” Maybe if I show him I'm not jealous, he'll know I'm not into him. Am I into him? I wonder...

John lets out a laugh which causes Chris and the girls to look up. When they've gone back to their chatting, John leans closer.

“That's not his wife. His wife is over there.” He points to a woman sitting on a blanket with a guy and a girl. I'm so confused.

“Oh,” is all I say.

“Let me get you a beer,” John says and stands up. I don't object. I don't even react. I feel as small as the grains of sand beneath my feet – my bare feet now.

He returns a moment later with an open beer, hands it to me as he stands beside where I sit and says, “Enjoy,” before walking away.

I take the beer with me and walk down to the water. The closer I get to the rushing crash of waves, the more the world around me disappears. I chug the bitter beer, happy for the buzz, and walk through the shallow water towards the pier a few hundred feet away. It's dark and eery under it's stalky legs. For some reason, its danger draws me closer and I wonder why I can face this threat but not the threat of a mass of people I don't know just behind me spread across the sand.

The pier stands at least a full story over my head and reaches a few hundred feet out into the ocean. I stand beneath it, watching the water find its way in a rush around the posts and towards me. Hidden in the darkness, I turn to face the beach, scan it slower, watch the people and analyze them. I see Chris on the blanket, making out with his wife now. Interesting. I can't seem to locate John. But it's dark. Faces are hard to make out.

As I watch people stumble around from blanket to driftwood to bonfire to bare sand, I figure each of them is either drunk or high. I am not. I just want to go home.

I have no idea how far I even am from my motel. Thinking back, I estimate it took us about ten or fifteen minutes to get here from the shack. That's maybe six or seven miles – another hour walk at... who knows what time it is? I'll definitely need a ride. But Chris has had too much to drink. I know. I watched him down one after another when I was sitting by the fire. Besides, I'm not much into interrupting a make-out session to ask for a ride home.

By the time I walk back up the beach, Chris's wife is laying alongside him with her head on his chest. I pass the blanket on my way to my shoes.

“Hey. Mollie,” Chris says, sitting up. “Have you met my wife, Alana, yet?”

She props herself up onto her elbows.

“No,” I say, reluctant to stop walking. “Nice to meet you,” I say pleasantly and move on.

“Hey, wait!” Chris yells, catching up with me. “Where you going?” he says, walking next to me.

“Just getting my shoes. I should be heading back now.”

“Oh.” He stops walking. “How are you getting home?”

I stand and look at him. I don't have an answer.

He seems to be as confused as I am. “We can give you a ride but I'm kinda buzzin. We usually sleep it off a bit first.”

Sleep it off? Like sleep... on the beach?

“We've got a big blanket. You can join us if you want.”

“I was going to see if I could find John actually.”

“I think he already left... a while ago.”

I look past Chris to where his wife lies on the blanket, glance back at Chris then up towards the road where I consider the long walk home in the middle of the night. I don't know the area well enough to be sure of my safety and I dread an hour walk.

~~ Should Ana sleep on the beach or walk home? ~~

The official tally will be taken from the poll which closes midnight Thursday EST time. NOTE: We're back to the old poll again. If you have issues with it, say so along with your vote in a comment.

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.

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 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? ~~

Vote by the poll. NOTE: Due to the fact that some readers reported issues with the poll, I'm trying a new poll which is in the left-hand column (beneath Twitter box). The official tally will be taken from the poll which closes midnight Thursday EST 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.

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 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.