- Home
- Carmen Kemp
Participant
Participant Read online
Copyright
www.EvolvedPub.com
~~~
PARTICIPANT
Copyright © 2018 Carmen Kemp
Cover Art Copyright © 2018 D. Robert Pease
~~~
ISBN (EPUB Version): 1622530063
ISBN-13 (EPUB Version): 978-1-62253-006-9
~~~
Editor: Jessica West
Interior Designer: Lane Diamond
~~~
PUBLISHER’S NOTE:
At the end of this novel of approximately 86,735 words, you will find two Special Sneak Previews: 1) ALL THE TOMORROWS by Nillu Nasser, and; 2) WHITE CHALK by P.K. Tyler. Both of these books are award-winning women’s fiction that we think you’ll enjoy. We provide these as a FREE extra service, and you should in no way consider it a part of the price you paid for this book. We hope you will both appreciate and enjoy the opportunity. Thank you.
~~~
eBook License Notes:
You may not use, reproduce or transmit in any manner, any part of this book without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations used in critical articles and reviews, or in accordance with federal Fair Use laws. All rights are reserved.
This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only; it may not be resold 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, please return to your eBook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
~~~
Disclaimer:
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination, or the author has used them fictitiously.
What Others Are Saying About PARTICIPANT:
Feathered Quill Book Awards – 2019 – Women’s Fiction
~~~
“I loved the story line of Participant but I loved the characters even more. The young women in this book are so relatable.” ~ Tami
~~~
“Participant is well written and relatable, especially if you are at a stage of life where you are floundering and trying to find yourself.” ~ x
~~~
“This was an extremely engaging, enjoyable read. I immediately found myself rooting for the main character, Alexis, which drew me into the book. It was easy to relate to, fast moving, enjoyable, funny, and inspiring.” ~ LIR
~~~
“It’s a story of a woman that has allowed herself to be bogged down by life at a young age, but learns to find and fight for her own happiness in life!” ~ Janna
BONUS CONTENT
We’re pleased to offer you not one, but two Special Sneak Previews at the end of this book.
~~~
In the first preview, you’ll enjoy the First 2 Chapters of Nillu Nasser’s critically acclaimed and top selling ALL THE TOMORROWS.
~~~
~~~
OR GRAB THE FULL EBOOK TODAY!
FIND LINKS TO YOUR FAVORITE RETAILER HERE:
NILLU NASSER’S BOOKS at Evolved Publishing
In the second preview, you’ll enjoy the First Chapter of P.K. Tyler’s powerful, emotional, award-winning WHITE CHALK.
~~~
~~~
OR GRAB THE FULL EBOOK TODAY!
FIND LINKS TO YOUR FAVORITE RETAILER HERE:
P.K. TYLER’S BOOKS at Evolved Publishing
Table of Contents
Copyright
What Others Are Saying
BONUS CONTENT
Table of Contents
Dedication
PARTICIPANT
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Acknowledgements
About the Author
What’s Next?
More from Evolved Publishing
Special Sneak Preview: ALL THE TOMORROWS by Nillu Nasser
Special Sneak Preview: WHITE CHALK by P.K. Tyler
Dedication
For all the dreamers,
You are worthy, capable, and a lot stronger than you think.
Prologue
When people say they are depressed, I always wonder what they really mean. Sad. Bummed out. Distraught. Destroyed. The word is thrown around so casually. They didn’t have my size in that dress. I’m so depressed. My car broke down. I’m so depressed. I lost my wedding ring. I’m so depressed. The word depression can mean so many things. Is there clinically something wrong with your brain, or are you just having a bad day? Then again, I throw that word around too. I haven’t been properly diagnosed with anything, but a dark memory I’d rather forget leads me to believe I should be. When I say the word depressed, I think it means more than just a bad day.
When I was fourteen, my mother found me in my bedroom closet under a mound of clothing. It was really cold, for California anyway, and I’d spent much of the school day shivering from place to place. Rather than unmake my tidily made bed with the perfect corners, I haphazardly tugged on a section of sweaters until enough of them slid off the cheap wire hangers to cover me. Something I’d never ordinarily do, because even the closet equipped with sliding doors to hide the mess should always be neat as a pin. I made a nest in the safety of darkness near the corner that still housed my first pair of roller skates. There, I swallowed what was left in the bottle of pills and waited for what would come next. Sleep? Nothingness? I waited in fear and longing until my eyelids became heavy and the blurry edges took front and center, plunging me into darkness.
Chapter 1
“You’re listening to Jim and Dani in the morning on Channel ninety-four point two.” I jab the snooze button to silence the cheery morning jingle of the local radio station. I’m probably the only person on the planet who still uses a traditional alarm clock, but I can’t get out of bed this early without Jim and Dani. I hit snooze three more times with my phone an inch from my face, scrolling through Instagram between the third and fourth, living vicariously through the people of Instagram and their neverending vacations. Work is about as enticing as a prison sentence, but it has to be done, so I put aside my phone to get ready. Our plain bedroom comes into focus when I shove my glasses on my face. Dragging my heavy legs over the side of the bed to stand up, I stare sleepily into my side of the closet at a tightly packed jumble of clothing that all looks the same to my half-closed eyes. Another yawn stretches my face, making my head throb.
My morning routine is sluggish but turns into a lively race against the clock when I realize how much time I’ve wasted, and I almost forget to yank a frozen entrée out of the freezer in my hurried dash out the door. Squinting against the blinding sun, I climb into my car, apathetic towards the splendor of another sunny San Diego day. I make the short drive, clenching my jaw against a multitude of yawns.
I try to get our insured on the phone to do a recorded statement about an accident that happened six months ago. I leave another long-winded message about how important it is for her to call us back. It’s a condition of her policy... blah, blah, blah. The claimant, Mr. Reeves, is going to call me like he does every day to ask if I got ahold of my insured and when can he take his car in for repairs.
The phone immediately rings again as soon as I hang up, as if on cue. “Claims, this is Alexis. Can I help you?
“No, Mr. Reeves, I was unable to reach the insured party. No, Mr. Reeves, I don’t know when you’ll be able to repair your car.”
Mr. Reeves sputters on about incompetence and the worse experience he has ever had before demanding to speak to my supervisor.
I transfer him, staring stonily at my phone that once again demands answering.
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Daniels, but your rental car insurance only extends for up to five days after you’ve received an offer on your total loss.” I’m a robot who looks like a person and repeats the same words over and over again, all day long. I’m programmed to know all forthcoming objections, and my mouth is already formulating the response. “We apologize, but we are unable to extend your rental for the length of time it takes you to find a new car. Your policy indicates that we are only obligated to...” Click. She hung up.
Within seconds, it rings again.
“Hey, Alexis, what do you want to do for lunch?” my cubicle mate, Sarah, asks in a loud whisper. I hold up my index finger, pointing it at my head to indicate I’m on the phone. I spend the next twenty minutes explaining to a policyholder what to expect after he fell asleep at the wheel and rear-ended another car on the freeway, causing it to flip. He’s lucky the other party isn’t claiming any injuries. The people who get tapped in the rear at five miles per hour in the parking lot are always injured, while the ones who were in the roll over’s say they are “just fine.” By the time I finish with my phone conversation, Sarah is in the middle of a heated debate with someone who can’t understand why we won’t buy him a brand-new car.
It’s payday, so we get an hour lunch instead of the usual forty-five minutes. As soon as 12:30 p.m. rolls around, I bolt from my desk, ringing phone be damned, because every minute counts as we try to make the most of our hour away from the office.
Sarah and I are so predictable that we end up at the same place every time, even though we often talk about going elsewhere. Right now, it’s Black Angus. They have lunch specials, and we can get a sit-down meal because they’re quick.
We rush off in my car and arrive knowing exactly what we want. By the time the waitress comes over to take our drink orders, we tell her we’re ready. I order diet soda, but Sarah can’t stand any diet stuff so she orders the real thing.
“I’ll have a grilled chicken sandwich with fries.”
Sarah orders an Au Jus open face sandwich.
Everyone likes Sarah with her bubbly personality and perpetually pleasant smile that goes all the way to her eyes. Her trusting face inspires people to talk, so she finds out information before anyone else without even trying and is always up on the latest drama of the day.
“So, what’s new?” A long sip of ice cold soda chills my throat.
“Did you hear about supervisor George? Who just got a divorce?”
Of course I haven’t. “No.”
“Well, guess who he’s dating? Never mind, you’ll never guess. Red, from clerical.”
Her name isn’t Red. We just call her that because of her flaming red pageboy haircut nobody understands.
“Really? I think she’s about a foot taller than him and at least ten years older. Oddest pairing ever.” I shake my head.
I can hardly believe she’s talking about the same dismal place I trudge off to for work each day. The place she talks about is exciting and filled with the requisite intrigue and mystery you would expect from a steamy soap opera, but all I see when I look around is green carpet, drab walls, rows of cubicles, and stressed out drones. Sometimes, I’m convinced she must be making it all up until someone gets fired and I realize that person was the subject of some sort of controversy she was telling me all about months ago.
“Oh, and about Angela. You know, from Trevor’s unit? Rumor has it that she faked a pregnancy to steal her husband away from his first wife. She had a ‘miscarriage’ but the damage was done. He’d already broken the news to his wife and moved her out of her parents’ house and into her own apartment.”
“Wow.” I’m shocked. Well, just shocked in general but not shocked that Angela would do something like this. I get a devilish ‘hanger on’ vibe from her and there’s nothing genuine about the way she’s overly friendly to Sarah while acting as if I don’t exist.
“Yep. Mainly, I just feel sorry for the girl, if that’s true. Enough work gossip. How is Will? You haven’t said a thing about him in a while.”
“He’s fine. Tell me what’s going on with your cousin.” My sly reply successfully derails a discussion about my fiancé.
Our food arrives just as Sarah finishes the story about her twenty-year-old cousin Isabel who has just announced she’s getting married to a man twice her age with three DUI’s under his belt and four kids by two different women. Sarah pulls her shoulder-length, thick, brown hair into a messy bun and digs into her sandwich while I go straight for the steaming fries, careful not to burn my tongue in my impatience. Every time we go out, I tell myself I’m going to substitute vegetables for the fries, but when I open my mouth to give my order, it has a mind of its own. “Fries” always comes out. I savor each bite while Sarah continues to recap the rise and fall of Cousin Blanca’s turbulent marriage. The divorce will be finalized soon if he agrees with her ridiculous alimony demands. I swipe the last French fry on my plate through a smear of catsup and guzzle the last of my water.
The supervisors watch Sarah like a hawk. She doesn’t have the luxury of being even a few minutes late, so I drop her off in front of the building before finding a parking spot. I plop myself down at my cube, already in the throes of a carbohydrate-induced crash. I want to crawl under my desk and fall asleep. Instead, I position my headset and pick up the phone to retrieve my messages so I can get on with the rest of my day and get out of there.
At 3:45 p.m. on the dot, I’m out the door. Sarah remains at her desk, surrounded by piles and piles of files. She missed work yesterday to attend her brother’s child custody court hearing, so now she has to play catch up. If I’m the golden child of the office, then Sarah is the black sheep. She’s terribly behind in her file reviews, but so is almost everybody else. I don’t know why she bothers, but I need what is left of my sanity way too much.
I walk out to my trusty little Toyota and settle into the sun-warmed leather seats for my short commute home. It is just one of the perks of living in the centrally-located and much-sought after San Diego community of North Park. It takes me ten minutes to get anywhere I need to go, and I never tire of admiring the charming bungalows neatly lining the streets. Will and I used to stroll around the neighborhood on foot, wandering in and out of eclectic shops and trying new restaurants back in the days when spending time together mattered. Before he decided he hates California.
A sad sigh escapes my lips when I catch sight of his car in our parking space. I drive up and down the street until I find a spot two blocks down.
At about seven hundred fifty square feet, this is the biggest apartment we have ever lived in. “One whole bedroom and a hallway?” I marveled when we moved in. We joked that we were finally moving up in the world and really, we were—considering we started out in a studio the size of a postage stamp. Our décor could be described as drab industria
l brown carpet, meets concrete cinder block walls. The kitchen and bathroom are straight out of the 1960s, but it was within our price range. When you live in California, you pay a Sun tax. It’s not an official deduction on my paycheck, but everyone knows we don’t get all this sunshine and blue skies for free.
I exchange my too-snug work pants and uncomfortable button up top for a pair of sweats so faded I can barely make out the triple row of pink stripes running down the sides and my favorite, oversized t-shirt. Finally comfortable, I rock my head from side to side, trying to shake out the days’ worth of constriction in my neck and shoulders—an unwelcome side effect of sitting hunched over a desk every day. The tension in my neck extends to my demeanor.
“Hello,” I say in a clipped tone, walking past Will.
“Hey,” he replies from his usual spot on the couch, without averting his eyes from the TV. He asks how my day was without listening for answer.
In the kitchen, I try not to look too hard at the yellow linoleum, potholed with grooves and crannies caked with dirt from tenants past, that I can’t get clean no matter how hard I scrub. I also try not to look at the growing pile of magazines in the dining room chair. Will gets five magazines a month from his magazine club, only reads half, then leaves them all on the kitchen table along with the rest of his mail and other various items. In an attempt to remove the mess from my line of sight, I stacked the magazines on the chair, but that plan apparently isn’t going to work anymore. The pile is growing higher than the table.
I take a personal size frozen pepperoni pizza out of the freezer and the party size bag of tortilla chips off the tiny shelf that doubles as the pantry to snack on while I wait for the oven to heat up. My mom gave up on teaching me to cook long ago and added it to her list of ways she failed me as a mother. Maybe if I had a kitchen from the same century I lived in, I might be more inspired, but for now, the frozen food aisle keeps us fed. Besides, I already do everything else around the house. I’m not adding personal chef to the list.
Participant