All The Way (The Sarah Kinsely Story - Book #1) Read online

  Contents

  All The Way

  Copyright Notice

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  About The Author

  Free Stories

  All The Way

  A Sarah Kinsely Story Book #1

  C.J. Berry

  CJBerryBooks.com

  Copyright Notice

  Copyright© 2014 By C.J. Berry

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places or events are entirely coincidental.

  Dedication

  For My M.

  Without you there would be no love story to tell.

  Chapter 1

  New job? Check. New place to live? Check. New life? Double check.

  Standing in the front yard of the 1940’s remodeled bungalow that was now officially mine to call home, watching the movers huff and puff my things through the rain, I struggled to fight back the tears. No more planning, no more dreaming, no more hoping. There was only time for healing, growing, changing. There was only time for living now.

  Living and doing.

  “Excuse me ma’am,” One of the movers said, “We just have your couch left to move. Where would you like it?”

  “Could you put it in the back living room please?” I said.

  Now, before you get the wrong idea about me, you should know that I only hired movers because they came as part of my “relocation package”. I’m not the kind of girl who is afraid to lift a few heavy boxes of my own junk and admittedly it was a bit embarrassing having someone else pack up my underwear. True, I didn’t have to hire the College Hunks Moving Junk crew, but since it was my choice I thought I might enjoy the view while the job got done.

  Frankly, I deserved it.

  I don’t want to sound like a bitch but finding my ex boyfriend naked in the arms of another naked man does entitle me to at least not have to haul my own fridge out of our apartment by myself - even if he still does “want to be friends”.

  I stood in the rain waiting for the last of my things to be hauled into my new place. It was going to be an adjustment living alone after spending 3 of my “prime” years living with someone else but I was ready. At least in this house there would be no more lies, no more deceit and no more drama. When I got the ‘thumbs up’ from Jake, one of the hunks moving my junk, I very ceremoniously turned the nob of my front door and entered the labyrinth of boxes and furniture.

  This was my dream home on so many levels. The neighborhood was close-in to the downtown area. I could ride my bike to work if I wanted and just two blocks away was an entire parking lot full of food carts. The hipsters gathered just a few streets down on Hawthorne which meant prime people watching and the house itself was like one giant canvas waiting for me to decorate and adorn.

  For a 25 year old woman like me it was more than I could have ever hoped for.

  The remodeled hardwood floors felt cool and soothing on my sore feet as I stepped out of my rain boots and went sock footed through the place. The kitchen was my favorite part. It had been recently remodeled by a local company that specialized in sustainable design. The counter-tops were made from reclaimed wood that they pulled from an old barn and the kitchen sink was white ceramic. The cupboards alone held more square footage than my entire apartment in New York had and I didn’t have to share it with anyone. It was all mine.

  But again, I don’t want you to get the wrong idea about me. I may sound like this style of living is something normal for me - but it isn’t. If anything, I am shocked that I somehow landed upon such good fortune. If it wasn’t for a good friend who knew someone who knew someone, I never would have landed this new job. If I never would have landed this new job, they would never have given me such a nice “relocation package”. Without the “relocation package” I would still be back in New York living in my rat infested apartment paying three times what I could afford working at a job that payed half what I was worth. If I was still living in that rat infested dump that means I would still be living with Jason. If I was still living with Jason then that meant I was still living a lie. A twisted, hurtful lie that we both danced around for years.

  For some reason the housing gods had decided to bless me with good fortune and a big enough check to make a down payment on my dream home. I guess sometimes the winds change and you get exactly what you want.

  I only had two major items to check off my list that first day in Portland. The first, move into my house. Check. The second, meet everyone at the office.

  My new boss had sent me an email early last week asking that I stop by the office when I got settled. Wanting to make a good impression I decided that I would stop by my first day in town. If that didn’t show commitment to the new job I wasn’t sure what else I could do.

  I unpacked my bike, rode down to the streetcar station, took the street car across the river and into the Pearl district. In total, it took me 15 minutes to get to work and coming over the river I caught my first glimpse of downtown. If this was my morning commute, I was going to be just fine.

  I made my way to the Pearl District with surprisingly little incident and spotted the building with large black letters that said, “Abraams and Snider” and pushed through the large glass doors.

  I was greeted by a receptionist whom I imagined worked nights as a burlesque dancer. She had two full sleeves of tattoos, large black gauge earrings, jet black hair done up in the style of a 50’s house wife and lipstick so red it would have made firemen jealous.

  “Hello, welcome to Abraams and Snider. May I help you?” She said.

  “Yes, please. My name is Sarah Kinsley and I am the new girl. I mean, I am going to be starting work here in a few days. I was asked to come stop by and say hello. Or actually, I am supposed to say I have a meeting with Stephanie.”

  Forming coherent sentences isn’t really my thing.

  The receptionist smiled.

  “Well Sarah, welcome to the team,” She handed me a stack of papers. “If you could fill these out and return them to me we can get you all taken care of.”

  I started towards the chairs in the lobby but heard the receptionist speak again.

  “Yes, of course. I will.” She said.

  I spun around.

  “What was that?” I said.

  “Sorry?” She said.

  “I didn’t catch what you just said. I am sorry, that was rude of me.”

  The receptionist stared at me.

  I stared back.

  My powers of awkwardness had already begun to take hold of her and would soon be consuming this entire building. What little hope I had of not being that girl again slipped away into oblivion when she turned her head and pointed to the bluetooth headset hidden in her ear.

  “I was just talking to Stephanie. She said to send you up once you complete the paperwork.” The receptionist said.

  “Ok, thank you.” I said, mortified that I hadn’t even made it past the gatekeeper and I had already committed an act worthy of watercooler fodder.

  Just another day in the life.

  After filling out my emergency contact information for the umpteenth time and double checking that my new address was correct, I returned the packet
of paper work to the receptionist and was allowed entrance to the inner building.

  Abraams and Snider was a crazy, inventive and competitive digital marketing firm that had it’s roots firmly planted in the Portland soil, both literally and culturally. The walls were adorned with local art, the coffee stations were stocked with local brews and the corner offices has faux polar bear skin rugs. It was all very trendy and I suppose inspiring.

  After making a few lefts when I should have gone right I found the office of my new boss. The plaque on her office door said, “Make Art Or Die” and showed a rather graphic scene involving nudity, a chicken head and some blob I couldn’t make out all arranged in a sort of collage. I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to be intimidated or inspired. I felt both.

  I knocked on the door.

  “Come in.” The voice said on the other side.

  I opened the door and was surprised to find a woman lying on the floor reading a magazine. Her shoes were missing, her desk was a mess and she wasn’t alone. A man who looked to be in his early fifties was sitting in a chair perpendicular to her. He was reading a magazine too. They appeared to have been in conversation, but I hadn’t heard them when I was standing outside the door.

  They both peaked above their magazines when I walked in.

  “Who are you?” The woman asked.

  “Sarah Kinsley. I am new here.” I said, still processing the scene.

  “Oh, right the new copywriter. C’mon in. Have a seat.” The woman scrambled to her feet, pulled her black skirt back down and made her way to the other side of her desk.

  The man didn’t say anything. He just stared.

  “Hi.” I said.

  He didn’t say anything back so I just sat down in the only available seat in the room - the one right next to him.

  “Well, I am Peyton Samson, assistant creative director. You and I will be working closely together on projects, and let me tell you we have plenty of work for you to do.” She began rummaging through the things on her desk looking for something.

  I was as confused as she looked lost.

  “I am sorry, I think I might have the wrong office.” I said.

  The man chuckled and asked, “Why is that?”

  “I am supposed to report to Stephanie.” I said. I knew that my face was turning red.

  The man smiled.

  The woman behind the desk stopped searching and the both of them started to laugh aloud.

  “Oh god, you are hilarious.” The woman said through giggles. “My name is Stephanie but I go by Peyton.”

  “It’s because she is a Nazi.” The man said. They both burst out laughing again.

  My confusion reached new levels.

  “Oh don’t worry Sarah. We are just a bunch of jokesters around here. What he means is that my initials spell S.S., you know like a Nazi stormtrooper or something. I prefer to go by Peyton. That way my initials spell out that thing you wish you would have said in your letter but didn’t think to add until the very end. The very special part.”

  “Spoken like a true copywriter.” The man said.

  “And don’t you forget it Brandon.” Peyton said.

  “Well, I better leave you two to it.” The man stood up, shook my hand, jokingly told me that Peyton was the worst boss in the world and left.

  “Tell me about yourself.” Peyton said as soon as Brandon was out the door.

  “Where should I start? I just got out of a bad relationship and when I saw that Abraams & Snider was hiring for a position located on the other end of the country I took it.” I said. It felt good to get that off my chest.

  “Wow. That bad huh?”

  “Only because I can’t really be all that mad.”

  Peyton looked confused.

  “I found him with another man.” I said for the first time out loud.

  Peyton’s mouth dropped open.

  “Yea.” I said.

  “Not to pry, but how does that work exactly?”

  I wasn’t sure what she was referring to and I wasn’t about to give her a biology lesson so I just looked down at my hands.

  “I’m sorry, probably none of my business.” She said.

  For the next half hour Peyton and I made small talk. She told me about her life, I told her a little more about mine. She outlined the rules, expectations and projects I could expect to jump in on. She talked about company culture and told me who the office bitches were. We both laughed at that.

  Before I left she said, “We are really glad that you are here Sarah.”

  I told her I felt the same and walked out of her office. I said goodbye to the burlesque receptionist, got back on my bike, took the streetcar over the river and walked in the doors of my new house.

  That night as I lay on my mattress on the floor of my living room I cried a single tear and promised myself it would be the last I would shed for everything that I left behind in New York.

  I only wish someone would have warned me about the weeks that were to follow.

  Chapter 2

  The following week was a whirlwind of orientations, meetings and paperwork. I showed up for work at 7am every day and wouldn’t make it home until 8 or 9pm. By Friday I was spent.

  I was anxious for the weekend to rest and relax, but knew that a mountain of unpacking still needed to get done. I considered hiring the College Hunks again to come help me unpack. Curling up on the couch with a glass of wine while muscle bound “hunks” did some heavy lifting within view didn’t sound like a bad weekend at all. I wondered if I could convince one of them to rub my shoulders for tips.

  Lost in my own fantasy and partially asleep from a weeks worth of exhaustion I didn’t even see her standing beside my desk.

  “Hello Sarah.” She said.

  I startled.

  “Oh hi Peyton. I’m sorry, I was just-”

  “Just falling asleep on the job?” She asked with a smile on her face.

  “You caught me.”

  “Yes I did and now I am going to punish you. You are coming out with me tonight and a few of the other gals in the office. You’ve had a rough first week.”

  She didn’t sound like she was asking and it did sound fun. I just wished I didn’t have so much to unpack still.

  “You know, I was really hoping to get some time to unpack.” I said.

  “Nonsense. You can unpack when you are an old maid and have nothing better to do. Since your boobs aren’t sagging nearly enough for old-maid status you don’t qualify for shut-in weekends just yet. You are coming out with us tonight and that is an order.”

  I smiled. She was persuasive.

  “Ok, I am in.”

  At 7pm I met Peyton, the receptionist and one other girl in front of a gritty strip joint in downtown Portland called Mary’s. A half-lit neon sign blinked half caring if patrons came or went. There was a sad mix of done-up girls and lonely looking men coming and going. It was surprisingly busy for looking like a disease infested black box in a random part of downtown.

  Peyton introduced me to the girls. Angela, who worked directly with clients of the firm in accounts looked like she had just stepped out of a JCrew catalog. Her shoulder length sandy hair curled slightly as it rested against her shoulders. She wore thin black-framed glasses that hung on the end of her thin nose. When she said hello she had bent her nose down and looked up at me over the top of her frames. Being almost a foot shorter than even I was I was impressed that she was able to find clothes that looked so posh and adult. I reminded myself to jot her down as a potential shopping asset in the near future. If she could find clothes like that to fit her tiny body, who knew what magic she could work for me.

  Lizzy, who I already knew as the receptionist, had also joined our little crew and looked exactly as you might imagine a burlesque receptionist would look on a Friday night standing in front of a strip joint. Her Levi blue knee-length showed just enough cleavage to expose the twin eagle tattoos that adorned her intimidatingly large breasts. Her lipstick was a dark red, almost black,
and she had a red bow in her hair that made her look like a modern Rosey the Riveter. Her white gauge earrings dangled in ears as she talked.

  Peyton outclassed us all. She was a high powered exec at an up and coming digital marketing firm and her clothes showed it. An all black dress hugged her thin body accenting all the right curves and her black clutch sparkled in the lights of downtown. She was the only one in heels and didn’t seem to mind that, compared to the rest of us, she looked overdressed. I want to look like her when I grow up.

  We said our cordial hellos and then curiosity got the best of me.

  “We aren’t going inside are we?” I said anticipating a night at Mary’s shared with strangers.

  The girls all laughed.

  “Seriously Sarah, you are hilarious.” Peyton said.

  Without answering, all three girls started across the street. I ran to catch up.

  To my delightful surprise we entered an Asian fusion restaurant in which all women were fully clothed. No stripper poles, no bad music and no fried chicken. Just low lighting, the smell of garlic and ginger, and plenty of classy, beautiful downtown types quietly chatting about whatever they considered important in their lives. I breathed a sigh of relief.

  “Did you know,” Angela said to me, “That Portland has the highest per capita strip joints in the country?”

  I didn’t. After the work I put in this last week at “Abraams and Snider” I considered asking how much the strip joints paid.

  “Don’t believe that for a minute.” Lizzy said slapping Angela’s arm.

  Peyton shook her head.

  “Yea, never believe the people in accounts. That is rule number uno.”

  Lizzy and Peyton smirked. Angela scoffed.

  The waiter brought our menus, we ordered drinks and spent the evening gabbing about this and that. I was happy that Peyton had basically forced me to come. The boxes could wait, she was right. This was fun and I needed it.

  “Is this one of your regular spots?” I asked trying to make small talk.