Confessions of a Carpool Captive
Copyright © 2017 Dawn L. Chiletz
Editing: Holly M. Kothe and Murphy Rae of Indie Solutions
Cover Designer: Murphy Rae
www.murphyrae.net
Formatting by JT Formatting
All rights reserved.
Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products, bands, and/or restaurants referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
License Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
To my parents
for teaching me everything I know about carpooling
and
to James Corden
for making carpools cool again.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Other Titles by Dawn
I’m guilty. As guilty as the rest of the drivers on the highway this morning. As much as I don’t want to be a gaper, I can’t help myself.
There’s something about a police car with lights flashing that calls out to me, especially when that police car is in the carpool lane. I hate the carpool lane, mostly because I can’t use it, but more than that, I feel like the drivers shoot me taunting, dirty looks as they pass me by. See, in L.A., the only way you can drive on the left is if you have more than one passenger in your car, and I prefer the silent company of me, myself, and I.
Sure, it would probably shorten my long drive to work each way and it would be nice to put on my makeup at home rather than in the car for once. But if driving in that lane means I have to make conversation with another human being before I’m being paid to, then no thank you. I’d rather drive slower than have to talk. I’m a loner by nature. Always have been, always will be. My mom blames herself for my introversion, claiming my growing up an only child to older parents caused it. She might be partially right. I grew up doing a lot of listening. Truth be told, I think I was simply born to be alone.
I am as single as a tire on a unicycle, a sock with no mate, a nose on a person’s face, or a dollar bill. I’m one and done, one in a million, and numero uno. Some of the best things in life come in singles. Twinkies are individually wrapped because you only need one. Hmm…Twinkies.
My stomach growls and I shift uncomfortably in my seat. I forgot to grab a granola bar this morning and I may have to dig into my lunch a little early. I never seem to have enough time to get ready in the morning, but I have plenty of “me” time in the evening. Enough time to truly appreciate the benefits of going solo, including coming home to a nice, quiet apartment. I smile to myself.
The real truth seeps into my brain and my smile fades. I’m extra single these days because my boyfriend and I broke up three months ago. I shake my head at my choice of words. I need to stop calling him that. He was never really my boyfriend or even mine. I found out six months in that he was married with a kid. I should have realized something was wrong when we were always staying in at my place and he could rarely ever spend the night. I’m such a fool.
After I tried to break it off with him, he convinced me that he was on the verge of a divorce and that he loved me. I was an idiot for buying that load of garbage even for a second. I should have trusted my instincts. After another two months of the same old story and a lot of online research, I realized he was a player. He never intended to leave her and I was just one of many girls on the side. I dumped his sorry ass and spent the next few months mending what was left of my broken heart. I remind myself daily that I deserve better and I’ve vowed to be more careful about the people I choose to let into my life. I’m good being alone—happier even. Better to be alone than with a liar.
So, at the ripe old age of twenty-five, I’ve hypothetically hung up my dating thongs and gone back to granny panties, where I’m comfortable. I have no desire to be anyone’s fool ever again.
The blinding beams of flashing lights make me quickly refocus my attention. I stretch my neck in an attempt to see five cars ahead. We’re moving at a snail’s pace as usual and I’m certain I’ll get an eye-full of whatever shenanigans are going on today once I get closer. I’m not afraid to admit that I take great pleasure in other people’s driving woes. It’s like watching bad porn; you can’t look away because your eyes are glued open in horror and you’re secretly afraid of missing something. Watching people get pulled over is my one pleasure on this long-ass drive every day. There’s usually at least one good scene a day.
As I inch closer, I can’t help but speculate what happened this time. Once, I swear I saw ten people climb out of a Ford Focus. The only thing that would have made watching them all fall out over each other even more hysterical would have been if they were dressed as clowns.
The officer walks around the side of the shiny, expensive-looking, black SUV just as I inch closer. He curls his finger and the driver steps out. I can only see the back of his head, but he’s wearing a tailored suit and he’s tall, slender, and sculpted. The officer motions to his passenger before rubbing his hand over his face. The driver leans back into the car, I suppose to say something to her. She’s wearing what seems to be a scarf over her head and is completely immobile. I wonder if it’s an old woman. Maybe she’s in shock. What did he do to get pulled over? My mind works overtime trying to decipher his faux pas.
I glance over at the blue notebook on my passenger seat. I love inventing stories. It’s my f
avorite pastime while I drive. Actually, in general. As I pass people on my commute, I try to decide who they are, where they are going, and what their story is. Maybe someday I’ll get the courage to write a book. But for now, I just keep a notebook of all my favorite highway adventures and journal anything interesting in my day.
The man seems to be tugging on the woman’s arm.
I gasp loudly. He literally pulls her out the driver’s side door as I arrive at his bumper. After my initial shock passes, I almost piss myself laughing. His passenger is a woman, but she’s full of hot air. Her dress blows open in the breeze and I see her perky plastic boobs. What kind of man has a blow-up doll? Maybe he takes her everywhere in case he needs to get off. I picture him curled up next to her at night, stroking her hair.
He positions her next to him as if she’s standing and places his arm around her. I’m laughing so hard, I feel tears in my eyes. This is going to be the beginning of a great story, I can feel it.
Maybe he’s crazy. Perhaps he takes her everywhere with him because he thinks she’s a real person. Maybe it’s like that one movie I saw on cable. I wonder if he’s lonely and suddenly, I feel sorry for him, but just a little bit. As I move into position directly across from his car, traffic comes to a halt. It’s perfect timing.
I roll down my window ever so slightly to see if I can hear anything. It’s chilly this December morning—only fifty-four degrees. I turn up the heat a bit to make up for the cool air.
The driver’s back is still to me, but the frustrated officer is facing me.
“I’ve seen it all before,” the officer states as he writes in his notepad. “You’re not the first one to try it. I can recognize one from a mile away. You know I’m going to have to give you a ticket.”
“I apologize for my ignorance, sir. It really was a bad move on my part. I know you’re just doing your job.”
“I like you, kid. You made me laugh, which isn’t an easy thing to do. And, while I appreciate your honesty, by law I must remind you you’re only allowed to drive in this lane with a living, breathing, human passenger. Not a dog. Not a mannequin. Not a blow-up doll. I’d like to let you off, since this is your first offense and especially since your uncle is a cop, but I already started the ticket and it’s too late.”
The officer is heavyset and seems to be in his early fifties. I imagine him as being near retirement and planning a well-deserved trip to Florida with his wife. He’s got two kids. I picture boys. One wants to be a cop like his dad and the other one is in college. He had to put off retirement for a few years to help pay for his education, but he wants his son to have everything he never had. He’s a good dad, the kind who tosses the ball around with his kids while they tell him about their dreams. He likes watching football on Sundays and drinking beer. He’s probably tired of writing tickets. He’s seen it all.
“I completely understand,” the driver states as he shrugs. “I deserve it. I wish I knew someone at work to commute with, but I just started a new job and I don’t know anyone yet. This drive is brutal.”
He folds the doll under his arm to get a better grip on her. I’m straining to hear what they’re saying and extremely focused on their every movement. The officer pulls the ticket off his pad and hands him his license just as a horn blares from behind me, letting me know I have room to move forward. Lucky for me, L.A. drivers aren’t shy about keeping you on track. I guess I should be thankful I didn’t hear any obscenities today. As I embarrassingly roll forward, I glance over in time to make eye contact with the driver. Holy mother of mercy.
I know him. Oh shit. I. Know. Him. He’s the new guy from work that I met briefly during his employee orientation. I can’t recall his name, but I’m hoping he doesn’t remember our brief introduction from his tour of the building. I attempt to act unaffected by his growing smile. Maybe he’s one of those people who always smiles. Then, he waves. Damn it all to hell. My head jerks forward abruptly and I refocus on my driving. If I act like I don’t know him, maybe he’ll think he made a mistake.
I’m thankful traffic has moved me out of his line of vision and I attempt to steady myself. I guess I could have smiled or waved back, but my gut instinct is always avoidance. Glancing back in the rearview mirror, I notice him carefully deflating his doll all while having what appears to be a conversation with an old friend. He seems so carefree and easygoing. I would freak the fuck out if I got a ticket. I’m living check to check as it is. A traffic ticket would probably mean peanut butter and jelly for a month and no more cable. He acted like it wasn’t a big deal. Maybe he has money to burn. I guess if you have the money for a blow-up doll, you probably have the money for a ticket.
I relax back into my seat. I’m lucky we work in such a big company. Even if I was familiar to him, we will probably never see each other again. As a matter of fact, we could work there for twenty years and never see each other. No one ventures into accounting, fortunately for me. I prefer working with numbers rather than people. I remind myself how happy I am as I push his face out of my head. Out of sight, out of mind.
“Right this way.”
It’s normally quiet in our office except for the usual mumbling of people on the phone, but I hear Gloria three cubicles up to my right and I can tell right away she’s excited by something. She’s usually monotone and humorless, like the rest of us, but by her inflection, I can tell she’s almost enthusiastic.
She and I are sort of friends, I guess. We sit in silence at the lunch table together every day while she plays on her phone and I read my book. That’s the extent of my “friendships” with people. I say good morning and goodnight. I smile forcibly on occasion when someone comes to my cubicle with a question, but other than that I keep to myself. I’ve been told I have RBF, or resting bitch face. If it keeps me from having to make conversation then it’s probably one of my best qualities.
Anyway, sitting with and near Gloria every day, I’ve gotten to know her sounds and their meanings. She’s only ever fake-bubbly if there’s a bigwig or attractive man around. Otherwise, she’s all business and dry, like most number crunchers I know. We’re a weird, quiet group. We are perfect for me.
I focus on the stack of receipts in front of me as I prepare my quarterly expenditure report for the research department. People think working at Seamore Productions is all glitz and glam. Not so much in accounting, although I have seen expenses run into six and seven figures. It’s crazy to think that kind of money exists and that someone feels comfortable spending it on the history of zombies in film. I have to admit, all the money they spent on their last TV show was worth it. The Fabulist got rave reviews.
“There she is,” Gloria says as her heels stop clicking on the floor. Raising my head to the sound of her voice and taking a small sip from my water bottle, I almost spit it out when I see her standing next to blow-up-doll man from this morning. They’re both smiling and staring at me expectantly. I cover my mouth to avoid spraying and stare blankly, managing to swallow it down.
“Liz Foley, this is Finnigan Walsh. He’s new here.”
I cringe out of horror and nod once at the same time. He holds out his hand and I reluctantly shake it.
“We’ve met before. Last week, when I was on my tour of the company,” he states with a perfect smile, still holding my hand in his. He places his other hand on top of mine, and my fingers feel like a caged animal. My instinct is to pull away and hide under my desk. I manage a small, fake smile and gently pull my hand from his, even though I want to jerk it away in protest.
“Is there something I can help you with?” I ask.
“I wondered if you might be available for lunch today. My treat. I’d like to discuss something with you.”
I glance between Gloria and blow-up-doll man, feeling every muscle in my body tighten in fight-or-flight mode. Gloria steps back behind him and motions toward him with a smirk before backing away out of sight. It’s the biggest reaction I’ve ever seen from her.
“Umm…yeah. Thanks, but I don�
��t do lunch,” I reply.
His head jerks to the side in confusion. “You don’t eat lunch?”
“No, I do. I just don’t like to… I like to eat alone,” I respond abruptly.
He attempts to hold back a grin and scratches the side of his face. “I see. Well, it would be just this one time and it’s on me. I found this great little café down the street. Have you been to—”
“If you have something to ask me, why not just do it now? I’m very busy, as you can see,” I interrupt, motioning to the large stack of papers on my desk. I cross my legs in my pencil skirt and his eyes follow my movement, lingering a second on my calves. It’s unnerving.
“I was hoping to charm you at lunch, but if you insist, I guess I can try to be fetching and persuasive in thirty seconds or less here.”
He smirks and the confidence oozes off of him. I study him for a moment, wondering how some people seem to radiate fearlessness. He’s so different from me.
I say nothing as I wait for him to get to it. Crossing my arms in frustration, I sigh quietly. I need him to go away.
“Right,” he continues after pausing for what I assume was an expected, positive reaction. He won’t get that from me on a good day. He must usually illicit smiles and affection from most people. I’m not most people.
“I saw you today on the highway.”
I feel my face flush and I swivel my chair away from his gaze to avoid him. “I have no idea to what you’re referring.”
“It’s sweet of you to try to make me feel less embarrassed.” He steps forward to regain my attention.
Him, embarrassed? He certainly didn’t seem to be and I was the one caught staring. I continue to focus on my papers, hating that I can’t hide the color in my cheeks.
He waits for me to speak. When I say nothing, he pulls at the material on his thighs and crouches down next me. My mouth gapes as I stare at him in horror. He’s too close. He’s in my space and my anxiety just went through the roof.
His blue eyes pierce mine. He obviously doesn’t take my fear into account as he continues to smile. He pushes his hand through his wavy, reddish-brown hair and my eyes follow briefly. His hair doesn’t budge. It’s perma-glued into a fixed wave. He must use some strong goop to keep it looking that way. My eyes widen in hope he’ll notice I’m uncomfortable with his proximity. He doesn’t appear to care.
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