Arrive at work at 7:58
A.M. sharp. Check. Count forty-seven steps to cubicle. Check. Arrange pens in
their red-blue-black-green-purple order of importance. Check. Apply hand
sanitizer before opening email. Double check.
And that’s just the first few minutes of her work day.
Thirty-one-year-old proofreader Bailey Mitchell is a slave
to her tics. She inherited Obsessive Compulsive Disorder from her father, and
it’s done nothing but inhibit her love life. She’s run the gamut of
boyfriends—none of them willing or able to cope with her condition.
Enter 32-year-old Reece Powell, her new coworker at Beach
Elite Marketing Firm. He’s more than willing to cope. He finds her habits cute
and quirky . . . for now. Reece gets the girl, and life coasts along for them
until Bailey experiences a devastating blow. Tragedy exacerbates her OCD, and
Reece realizes her tics aren’t so cute and quirky anymore. Just like all the
others, he has the choice to leave.
But Reece isn’t like all the others.
The Wilmington Saga
Follow the stories of Wilmington, NC residents as they fall
in and out of love, mend and break hearts, grow, change, lose, win, and
experience what it means to truly live in this small coastal community.
Teaser
(This teaser is rated R. Please be mindful of that before you read. Lots of language. Lots.)
“Tell me again why we’ve done our last four beach trips
here?” I said. “I mean, we know everyone in this goddamn town. Isn’t the point
of a trip to get away? So we don’t have to see people?”
“Bailey, tone down the bitchiness, okay?” Erica ordered. She
dug around the inside of her purse for her cell phone. “And you know why. Noah,
God love him, is a moron with our kids. I’ve gotta stay close until they get
older.”
I snorted, then took off towards another club.
“Bailey!” Erica called, running after me.
“I’m not ready to go back to the hotel,” I said, shrugging
off her arm.
“That’s fine. We can hang out, but if you go dark on me . .
.”
“Nobody’s going dark, okay? I just wanna get my dance on,” I
replied.
I spent the rest of the evening getting wasted and looking
like a total slut out on the dance floor. My goal was to erase two recent
painful memories: shaking my ass for Reece and seeing my ex-fiancé on a booty
date.
When Erica and I emerged from the club at 2:30 A.M., a taxi
van was waiting. A group of young men (one carrying a case of beer) cut in
front of us and threw open the van door.
“Oh, well,” Erica said. “Let’s find another.”
The boy toting the beer spotted us. “Oh, my bad. You wanted
this taxi?”
“It’s cool,” Erica replied. “You guys take it. We’ll wait
for another.”
“Well, I’ve got a better idea. Why don’t you come with us?
We’re going to a film screening.”
The others nodded, shuffling around the sidewalk.
A film screening at 2:30 in the morning? Please. I shook my
head. “Thanks, but we’re tired. We’re gonna go home.”
“Nah! Come with us. It’s gonna be a fun time,” Beer Boy
pleaded.
“No no,” I replied. “You all go have a good time.”
He turned to his friend and muttered, “Fucking bitch.” A few
of the boys snickered.
Excuse me?
And then something in my brain snapped. I watched that
little college punk stand there, avoiding my face, gripping his bush-league
beer while the taxi driver yelled at his punk ass posse to make a decision.
“Hey, son!” I called in his direction. “There’s no need for
that. No need for that kind of language.”
He hung his head—literally hung his head—while I chastised
him.
“Bailey, let’s go.” Erica tugged on my arm.
“Now, I’m sorry we turned you down, and I’m sorry if that
embarrassed you, but maybe we don’t feel like ‘screening’ the bullshit home
movie you shot for film class on your bullshit, cheap ass camcorder.”
“Oh my God,” Erica said.
“We got to this cab first. Then you and your dipshit friends
come barreling down the sidewalk and steal it. What you need to be saying to me
is ‘I’m sorry’. And then you need to go brush up on the manners you clearly left
at home when you came to college. Ain’t nobody gonna wanna fuck a little
asshole like you if you can’t be classy,” I said.
“Bailey!” Erica hauled me along.
“Punk ass motherfucker!” I yelled over my shoulder. He
flipped me off. I fought Erica as hard as I could. “Let me at him. One minute
with that little shit! Just one!”
“Bailey Mitchell!” Erica screamed in my face. “He’s a doofus!
All right?! Calm. Down.”
copyright S. Walden, 2014
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