Captive in the OC: A Story of Survival

By Karen Carson

Captive in the OC: A Story of Survival, takes the reader on a journey of the devastation of a young, ambitious woman. She could have never known that a chance meeting could eventually destroy her; and yet it did. Unexpected nuances, twists, turns and red flags are revealed as the story unfolds in one of the wealthiest places in California; Orange County. Fast cars, boats, and an even faster lifestyle looks beautiful on the outside; until behind closed doors. Once the doors are shut, a whole different story takes place, as the author dares to tell her story with the hope that others will have the courage to do the same.

Karen Carson graduated in 2021 with her Bachelor's degree in Psychology with an emphasis in Domestic Violence. Becoming a Domestic Violence Advocate, she has spent over 100 hours talking to victims at her local DV shelter. Karen's hope is that the wretched veil of DV begins to be lifted, and the truth be told.

With the proceeds of her books, she hopes to open her own Domestic Violence shelter, incorporating education and allowing women the opportunity to break-free from the cycle of violence.

About the Author: Graduating in December 2021 with her Bachelor's degree in Psychology with an emphasis in Domestic violence and having received her degree in Veterinary Assisting, her passions are animal rehabilitation, camping, fishing, kayaking, jewelry design as well as art and theatre. Born in Silicon Valley, she has lived in 22 locations including California, Washington, Costa Rica and Oregon.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Newman Springs Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Feb 24, 2022
• ISBN: 9781638813620

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

In the Beginning

Captive: A person or animal that has been confined against their will. Held prisoner and denied their rights of freedom.

I DO NOT like master bathrooms with no doors. The cubby of a toilet room is on the small side; nonetheless, it was my sanctuary. The toilet and I knew each other intimately. This tiny square of a room was the only place in the house that I could hide, shut the door, and cry. Hiding in that little cubby, I used to look up at the vent fan and pray, wipe my tears, and go downstairs to make dinner alone.

When you live in the OC, everything is perfect; the lawns are perfect, the pools are perfect, the houses are perfect, and there is not a dirty car in sight. The cars are perfect, and all vehicles must be washed and detailed weekly, either at the drive-through wash or at a bona fide car spa.

At the car spa, you bring your kids and designer dog, relax, and tan in the outdoor waiting lounge with your cell phone and a nice Cabernet. There is a gift shop inside the car spa and a café where one can order lunch and a play area for the kids.

If you are caught driving in the OC with a dirty vehicle, the embarrassment and shame. Sneers of disappointment and disgust ensue from fellow drivers, and Wash me is likely to be written in the dirt until washed.

The hair is perfect, the nails perfect. Brunettes are few and far between, and everyone is tanned, buffed, and beautiful. All of the kids are perfect, and it’s a competition as to whose kids are enrolled in the most extracurricular activities. Your dog is a purebred and taken to the groomers every week and to doggie day care.

In between the hustle and bustle, there are nannies to coordinate; pool cleaners, maids, and maintenance people to keep in check; and parties to plan. The gym is a must and should be attended at least three times a week. Before the official summer season starts, one must pretan as to not be confused as a tourist.

The ecosystem is dead. They make sure there are no bugs; rodents; or anything that crawls, flies, or bite; no weeds either. When the temperature falls below sixty, winter has officially begun; and the Uggs, sweaters, and scarves come out.

There is one continuous season, and the palm trees never change colors. The ocean keeps on rolling in and out the same way it does every day. Yearly Disneyland passes are required, and there is designated Tesla parking at the outdoor malls where you go to dine.

I saw Dennis Rodman once after docking our boat at the Crab Shack in Newport Beach; he sat at a table with six blondes.

I have only been to Southern California twice in my life—once as a kid on a family Disneyland trip and once in college to visit a boyfriend and go to Disneyland.

Being a small-town girl from a town just over the hill from Santa Cruz, I had no cultural concept whatsoever of Southern California, outside of Disneyland. As it turns out, Southern California ain’t no Disneyland, like, at all.

My husband, on the other hand, was born in New Jersey. His family moved to LA County when he was one. No one really knows where Southern California becomes Northern California and vice versa. On a very basic level, California has three extremely different sub-Californian cultures. First, there is Northern California. Northern California has rocky coastal shores; magnificent redwood trees; sprawling farmland; gorgeous mountain views; and plenty of lakes, rivers, streams, and home to lots of weed and hippies.

Central California is very extremely flat for a long time. Lots of farmers and ranchers are in the middle of the state. The gateway to Lake Tahoe, Central California, is home to the capital of California and an eclectic mix of people. On the coast, folks are relaxed and chill, like the water. It also happens to be the home of Silicon Valley.

Finally, there is Southern California. Within Southern California itself, you have three separate counties: Ventura County to the north, LA County dead center, and Orange County just before you hit San Diego County.

Life for me was going well when I was twenty-five. I had a solid career in Sacramento with an international company called Pella Corp. Pella is a company that sells windows and doors in the construction industry.

In college, I worked construction to pay for my tuition. Obtaining a knowledgeable background in the field of manufacturing windows and a successful background in sales and marketing, I applied for a service manager position and quickly realized that it helps when you know your interviewer for a new job. Curtis and I both attended California State University–Chico together; he was a TKE and I an AX. I had pictures to prove it.

The following Monday, I began my position as the regional service manager for Pella Corporation in Sacramento, California, inheriting a team of six of the best pot-smoking, coke-snorting, glue-sniffing service techs a person could ever wish for. Scheduling these guys on service calls over three states was like herding cats. Still, we pulled it together and made one hell of a service team without cell phones. Our corporate customer service rating went from 25 percent when I first started to 90 percent by the time I was fired. The job was fast-paced, rewarding, and there was lateral movement.

I had worked closely with Jerry, the CEO of the company. One day, Jerry was giving a new employee the corporate tour. Since having to work intricately with sales and production, we were introduced. You can always tell the sales reps; they were way overdressed for the operations facility, and they always smelled good. After shaking his hand, I went back to work and thought to myself, I am going to marry that man someday. Corporate takeovers are a bitch. Two years had passed since John and I first met.

On a Thursday afternoon, corporate fired us all—everyone, the whole company. On Saturday, we had prescheduled appointments with the hiring gurus from corporate. We were all rehired under corporate headquarters and restructured.

My new position, as it would be, was inside sales rep with—of all people—John. John was cranking some serious numbers after a couple of years, and then we were a team. We made a great team for a while, but working with corporate was horrible, so I quit. A couple of months went by with my new job, John’s divorce was finalized, and my relationship over.

One day, as I drove past my old Pella office, John’s car was parked in front.

Driving back to my apartment, I picked up the phone and dialed my old office number, disguised my voice, and asked for John. What’s the worst that could happen? I thought to myself.

We met at the Sutter Street Salon in Folsom for a couple of drinks and to catch a band. John was friendly with the owner of the salon, and the bartender called him by name.

Since he conveniently lived close to the bar, we started walking to his house after shutting down the place. His roommate was Noel, one of my old service techs, and there was a tapper and a ping-pong table in the garage.

On the walk home, John described this wild story that a few months ago; while he was walking home from the bar, he was jumped and shanked. He pulled up his right sleeve, and there was a scar just below his elbow where he said he blocked the attackers. This strange story did not stop there. He said he knew kenpō karate, and he took a guy out, broke his neck.

The rest of the story gets even stranger. He said his mom and dad were staying at his house visiting for the weekend. He walked back to his house, and with his dad, they revisited the scene. That’s where the story ends; I never did get to the end of that story.

John was charming and confident. Standing at six feet tall, John was a runner in high school, and it showed in his long-legged, lanky structure. He did, however, have a liking for the gym, and it showed.

On our second date, John picked me up at my apartment with his camp gear and his dog Chelsea. Chelsea was a blue merle pit bull and had a few social glitches; primarily, she bit people.

Our destination was supposed to be somewhere else besides the Sonoma Mountains, but after being lost for hours, we did not have enough gas to get home. The rain was starting to come down hard. With no one else around for miles, we set up camp beside a small creek for the night.

Uncomfortable about the situation, John assured me everything would be fine. We ate what we could out of the cooler and got ready to retire. I had that creepy feeling, like The Hills Have Eyes, and got in my bag.

This was the plan according to John: Chelsea, the glitchy dog that bites people, would protect us; besides, he had a gun and had strategically placed spent bullet casings around the campsite to ward off intruders. The rain was loud that night and came down steady.

We woke in the morning, sun poking through the clouds above, unzipped the tent, and it was gone. Everything was gone. The cooler, chairs, and stove—gone. My bike, even the spent casings, gone, and the dog was snoring. We rolled up the sleeping bags, stuffed a soaking-wet tent in its sack, and ran out of gas on the way home; that was date two.

Date number three was the one that won me over. Lake Tahoe in the spring is spectacular if you hit it before the tourist season. The sky was blue and the wildflowers blooming. We set up towels on the fresh green grass and talked about the future, our future. He wanted children, like me, and the picture that he painted was blissful: house, kids, dog, cat, and two-door garage—the full-meal deal. We were going to raise our kids in the wilderness and teach them about nature and the beauty of their surroundings. We were going to mountain bike and hike the mountains in search of waterfalls.

John secured a sales position at Pella in Redmond, Washington. It was I who flew up to meet his new boss and find a place to stay. Three weeks later, the U-Haul was packed and ready to go. Destination: Kirkland, Washington. We drove straight through from Sacramento to Kirkland. John, Chelsea, and Jake (a parrot from