"I knew I'd find you," Lang said as he bent and looked inside the chicken coop where Moira was huddled.
She'd shaved her hair and was bald and she and Harry were alone in the coop. No chickens. Only a bucket of Kentucky Fried.
"Leave it to you to find someplace like this to live," Lang sneered.
"I like it here," she insisted.
"Yeah right. Look at you. You're covered in chicken shit."
So she was. Funny, she couldn't smell it.
"You left me to go live in a chicken coop? What were you thinking, anyway? I knew you couldn't make it without me." His expression softened and he held out a hand. "Come on, babe. Come back home. We'll forget this ever happened."
Harry came out first and snaked around Lang's legs and Lang bent to pet him. "See? Harry knows what's good. Come back. Everything will be perfect."
Out she came, and the next thing she knew she and Lang were in a small rowboat out on the open sea with no other living being around them, not even a bird in the air, and Harry was nowhere to be seen. She had hair again, tons of it piled high on her head like pictures she'd seen of Marie Antoinette, but she was dressed in rags, like Cinderella.
Panic crashed over her like a giant wave. "Why are we here?"
"Because this is where you want to be. You like the beach so we're at the beach."
There was no beach. There was no land in sight.
Lang leaned toward her and he eyes narrowed. "It's just you and me now."
She pushed herself against the bow of the boat, trying to distance herself from him. "Where's Harry?"
"I'm Harry," he said, and then, like some cartoon character he began to change shape, his arms turning into legs covered in black fur. His face turned into Harry's face and his whiskers twitched. He grew in size until he towered over her. "Meow, baby," he said. Then he hissed and took a swipe at her with a giant paw, claws unsheathed and she let out a screech and nearly fell out of the boat in her effort to dodge him.
"Did I scare you?" He bent his giant kitty face to hers and began to rub her cheek. His fur was so soft. He meowed in her ear and began licking her face with his sandpaper tongue.
And then he sat on her chest.
Her eyes popped open and she found herself lying in a strange bed with Harry sitting on her chest, staring at her, purring. A dream. She'd been dreaming. She took a deep breath, willing her heart to settle down.
She wasn't with Lang, thank God. And she wasn't stuck living in a chicken coop. She was in Moonlight Harbor, tucked safely away in a room at the Driftwood Inn.
But was she safe? Would Lang find her here?
Of course not. He had no idea where she was. He'd soon give up looking for her and find some other woman to terrorize.
There was an awful thought - Lang starting that whole cycle all over again with a new woman. Some unsuspecting, insecure woman who'd be taken in by his charm, who'd think he was so cool. Then the put-downs would surface, the angry outbursts, followed by the hitting. And, worst of all, the heartfelt, teary-eyed apologies. "I'll never do it again." After a while he'd stop saying that and it would be, "When are you going to learn not to disrespect me? … make me so mad … be so stupid." Take your choice. But don't expect any option where it was his fault.
"We did the right thing," she said to Harry, who meowed. "I guess, you're hungry, huh?"
So was she. She wished she'd thought to bring along some food. Or buy some at the grocery store they'd passed coming into town.
At least she'd brought food for Harry. She dug a can of cat food out of her tote bag, along with Harry's dish. She filled the dish with water, broke up his medicine into his food, and then gave him his meal. He fell on it like he'd been starving for days.
"I know how you feel," she said. "What I'd give for a donut." Maybe she'd have time to go to the store. She glanced at the clock on the wall - a funky vintage thing shaped like a miniature sun. "Oh, my gosh! Eight-forty?" How had she slept so late? She was supposed to be at Waves at nine.
She grabbed panties and a bra and dashed for the bathroom. It usually took her fifteen minutes just to do her hair. Now she had that much time to shower, dress, do her hair and make-up. She'd have to bag doing her hair.
She took a quick look in the bathroom mirror. Not an option. She needed to wash her hair.
She didn't have time.
She'd have to take time. She was a hair stylist. She couldn't show up at work looking like a greasy loser.
She showered in fast motion, got out of the shower and accidentally stepped into Harry's litter box. Eew! Back into the shower to wash her foot. Eew, eew, eew! Then into the bra and panties. She pulled on her cuffed skinny jeans and a top, then got out her hair dryer and raced back into the bathroom, willing time to stand still, blowing, brushing, curling, muttering, "Come on, come on!"
Okay, her hair was dry enough. She put on ankle boots and her favorite jacket, a stylin' thrift store find. By that time Harry was by her side, wanting attention.
Even though she was beyond late she took a moment to pet him. "You be a good boy and don't pee anywhere but your cat box," she said to him. Then she stuffed her makeup bag in her purse, grabbed her car keys and dashed out the door. She'd have to put on her makeup as she drove. No problem. She was an expert.
She catapulted into her car, aware of the man in the room next to hers, stepping out of his room. Hot, registered in her brain, but she didn't even take time to acknowledge his polite nod.
Late. Late on her first day at her new job. Not that she had any appointments waiting yet, but it sill made a sucky impression. She squealed out of the parking lot and headed down the main drag. The sky was gray and dribbling a fine mist. She flipped on her windshield wipers, then fumbled in her makeup bag for her foundation.
Late. Late, late, late! Why had she picked today of all days to oversleep? She never overslept. Even after a big fight with Lang she'd always gotten up in time to get to the salon. She'd never even needed an alarm, her internal clock telling her to wake up and start a fresh day.
She slap dashed on her foundation then took out the mascara. She was an expert at putting on mascara in the car.
Maybe she'd have to explain that to the cop in the SUV patrol car behind her, who had his you're-in-trouble lights flashing. Noooo.
She'd shaved her hair and was bald and she and Harry were alone in the coop. No chickens. Only a bucket of Kentucky Fried.
"Leave it to you to find someplace like this to live," Lang sneered.
"I like it here," she insisted.
"Yeah right. Look at you. You're covered in chicken shit."
So she was. Funny, she couldn't smell it.
"You left me to go live in a chicken coop? What were you thinking, anyway? I knew you couldn't make it without me." His expression softened and he held out a hand. "Come on, babe. Come back home. We'll forget this ever happened."
Harry came out first and snaked around Lang's legs and Lang bent to pet him. "See? Harry knows what's good. Come back. Everything will be perfect."
Out she came, and the next thing she knew she and Lang were in a small rowboat out on the open sea with no other living being around them, not even a bird in the air, and Harry was nowhere to be seen. She had hair again, tons of it piled high on her head like pictures she'd seen of Marie Antoinette, but she was dressed in rags, like Cinderella.
Panic crashed over her like a giant wave. "Why are we here?"
"Because this is where you want to be. You like the beach so we're at the beach."
There was no beach. There was no land in sight.
Lang leaned toward her and he eyes narrowed. "It's just you and me now."
She pushed herself against the bow of the boat, trying to distance herself from him. "Where's Harry?"
"I'm Harry," he said, and then, like some cartoon character he began to change shape, his arms turning into legs covered in black fur. His face turned into Harry's face and his whiskers twitched. He grew in size until he towered over her. "Meow, baby," he said. Then he hissed and took a swipe at her with a giant paw, claws unsheathed and she let out a screech and nearly fell out of the boat in her effort to dodge him.
"Did I scare you?" He bent his giant kitty face to hers and began to rub her cheek. His fur was so soft. He meowed in her ear and began licking her face with his sandpaper tongue.
And then he sat on her chest.
Her eyes popped open and she found herself lying in a strange bed with Harry sitting on her chest, staring at her, purring. A dream. She'd been dreaming. She took a deep breath, willing her heart to settle down.
She wasn't with Lang, thank God. And she wasn't stuck living in a chicken coop. She was in Moonlight Harbor, tucked safely away in a room at the Driftwood Inn.
But was she safe? Would Lang find her here?
Of course not. He had no idea where she was. He'd soon give up looking for her and find some other woman to terrorize.
There was an awful thought - Lang starting that whole cycle all over again with a new woman. Some unsuspecting, insecure woman who'd be taken in by his charm, who'd think he was so cool. Then the put-downs would surface, the angry outbursts, followed by the hitting. And, worst of all, the heartfelt, teary-eyed apologies. "I'll never do it again." After a while he'd stop saying that and it would be, "When are you going to learn not to disrespect me? … make me so mad … be so stupid." Take your choice. But don't expect any option where it was his fault.
"We did the right thing," she said to Harry, who meowed. "I guess, you're hungry, huh?"
So was she. She wished she'd thought to bring along some food. Or buy some at the grocery store they'd passed coming into town.
At least she'd brought food for Harry. She dug a can of cat food out of her tote bag, along with Harry's dish. She filled the dish with water, broke up his medicine into his food, and then gave him his meal. He fell on it like he'd been starving for days.
"I know how you feel," she said. "What I'd give for a donut." Maybe she'd have time to go to the store. She glanced at the clock on the wall - a funky vintage thing shaped like a miniature sun. "Oh, my gosh! Eight-forty?" How had she slept so late? She was supposed to be at Waves at nine.
She grabbed panties and a bra and dashed for the bathroom. It usually took her fifteen minutes just to do her hair. Now she had that much time to shower, dress, do her hair and make-up. She'd have to bag doing her hair.
She took a quick look in the bathroom mirror. Not an option. She needed to wash her hair.
She didn't have time.
She'd have to take time. She was a hair stylist. She couldn't show up at work looking like a greasy loser.
She showered in fast motion, got out of the shower and accidentally stepped into Harry's litter box. Eew! Back into the shower to wash her foot. Eew, eew, eew! Then into the bra and panties. She pulled on her cuffed skinny jeans and a top, then got out her hair dryer and raced back into the bathroom, willing time to stand still, blowing, brushing, curling, muttering, "Come on, come on!"
Okay, her hair was dry enough. She put on ankle boots and her favorite jacket, a stylin' thrift store find. By that time Harry was by her side, wanting attention.
Even though she was beyond late she took a moment to pet him. "You be a good boy and don't pee anywhere but your cat box," she said to him. Then she stuffed her makeup bag in her purse, grabbed her car keys and dashed out the door. She'd have to put on her makeup as she drove. No problem. She was an expert.
She catapulted into her car, aware of the man in the room next to hers, stepping out of his room. Hot, registered in her brain, but she didn't even take time to acknowledge his polite nod.
Late. Late on her first day at her new job. Not that she had any appointments waiting yet, but it sill made a sucky impression. She squealed out of the parking lot and headed down the main drag. The sky was gray and dribbling a fine mist. She flipped on her windshield wipers, then fumbled in her makeup bag for her foundation.
Late. Late, late, late! Why had she picked today of all days to oversleep? She never overslept. Even after a big fight with Lang she'd always gotten up in time to get to the salon. She'd never even needed an alarm, her internal clock telling her to wake up and start a fresh day.
She slap dashed on her foundation then took out the mascara. She was an expert at putting on mascara in the car.
Maybe she'd have to explain that to the cop in the SUV patrol car behind her, who had his you're-in-trouble lights flashing. Noooo.
Beachside Beginnings is available online and in local bookstores.
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