The Gift

by Perri Forrest

  THE GIFT

  A Christmas Novella

  Copyright © 2018 by Perri Forrest

  All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. Without limiting the right 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 by means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the copyright owner.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  Cover Design

  Perri Forrest

  Photos (c) bekir-donmez

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  To the Most High: Thank you forever for blessing me with my moon, my stars, my son, the Marine. He is the love of my life and I’m proud to be his Mama. Thank you for blessing me with the gift of writing. I’m so alive, and so whole with this outlet. I set out to see if I could write one book and here I am in the double digits now. In addition, I thank you for the Angels assigned to only me. I wish I knew them by name so that I could speak their names in gratitude when I’m saying my daily prayer to you.

  OTHER BOOKS BY PERRI FORREST

  SERIES

  Dario Caivano (2-book series)

  In the Ring: A BWWM Love Story

  Rush Cambridge (4-book series)

  Rapture: A BWWM Alpha Male Romance

  Gavin Brooks (2-book series)

  Special Delivery

  Special Delivery 2

  Love’s Awakening (2-book series)

  Kennedy’s Awakening

  Awakened Desires

  Pandora’s Box (Brooklyn Kellogg)

  The Color of Lies

  What Lies Beneath the Surface

  Beautiful Lies

  Crooked Lies

  STANDALONE NOVELS

  The Graffiti Effect (IR Romance / Suspense)

  Last Night (IR Suspense)

  Family Ties (AA Fiction / Love Story)

  Beautiful Vengeance (AA Fiction / Love Story)

  Destined (IR Love Story)

  Captivated (IR Fiction)

  Isa: Gift of the Baloma (IR Fantasy / Paranormal)

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  https://www.perriforrest.com

  -1-

  Kayla

  I was getting comfortable on my living room sofa, preparing to watch a recorded episode of The Originals, when a weird noise from outside, made me take notice. I muted the volume on the television so that I could hear a little better. Wanted to make sure that I wasn’t imagining things. And when the blaring sound persisted, I realized that I had definitely heard something weird. It was a familiar sound. And sadly, I knew just what it was.

  I released a heartbroken sigh.

  “Fuck!” I cried. If it ain’t one thing, it’s a fuckin’ ‘nother!

  I knew it would happen at some point, but I was hoping that before it did, I could turn the situation around in my favor, and avoid the occurrence altogether. But as usual, the odds were stacked against me. This isn’t even me playing the victim; it really is the story of my goddamn life! And I got real life questions for the universe—more like a series of questions! Starting with, “Why me?!”

  I swear I pray to God on a daily basis, several times a day. And for sure at night before I lay me down to sleep! So, why me? I just don’t get it. I swear I try to be my best self at all times. No matter how damn boring that shit gets. I do it. So, why?!

  I see so many people prospering—sometimes even the ones that are very undeserving! Yet, when it comes to me, it seems that I’m always being short-changed and I’m tired of it. It’s hurtful as fuck. If it’s not the wrong damn man, it’s the wrong fuckin’ job. If it’s not the job, it’s the wrong friends. If it’s not the wrong damn friends, it’s the wrong turn on the highway! Yeah, I know. That doesn’t have shit to do with anything. But it flowed, soooo. Basically, what I’m getting at, is that these effed-up circumstances keep me questioning just how much one person is supposed to be able to handle.

  As much of my life as I could take up right now, sitting here having a one-sided Q&A about the injustices of my life, it’s going to have to wait because unfortunately, I have business to conduct.

  I jumped up quickly to remove my sleep shorts and tank top. My tears had already begun an aggressive formation, and were a constant stream of warm puddles running down my face. I dashed into my bedroom, frantically grabbing warmer items to dress in so that I could run outside.

  My emotions were all over the place. I was sad, I was hurt, but mostly I was angry. Angry at myself, at the world.

  It took me no time at all to slip into a pair of cheap, elastic-at-the-ankles sweatpants, and a hoodie. I hurriedly threw my bare feet into a pair of tennis shoes, sitting near the front door. I snatched my key ring from the wall, flung the door open, and sped down my apartment stairs into the cold evening air, toward the sound of my car’s blaring alarm.

  The tears dried against my face as I ran against the brisk air. The last thing this person needed to see was me crying. I was already embarrassed enough. But hell, did I really need to give a damn about how anybody viewed me? It was circumstance—circumstance that I wasn’t particularly proud of—but that we all encounter at some point in life.

  Just my ass more than others!

  As soon as I spotted my car’s positioning, I got the unwanted confirmation that my worst nightmare had for sure come true. I fell into a slow jog, all the while trying to gain as much of my composure, my dignity, as I could, before approaching.

  Because I was beyond humiliated, I was happy for the hoodie that partially covered my face.

  “Excuse me! Excuse me!” I yelled over the tow truck’s loud idling motor.

  A short, stocky Latino guy wearing a mechanic’s jumper and a beanie turned toward me, and then walked away from the tow truck’s bed to meet me halfway.

  “Is this your car, ma’am?” he asked when he was close to where I stood.

  “It is,” I confirmed, along with a slow nod that spoke its own language of defeat.

  Is that pity I see in your eyes, I almost asked him.

  In the seconds that it took for him to speak again, I aimed the remote at the car to silence the alarm.

  “Would you like to remove your items before we take it away?” he offered.

  I looked into the driver’s seat of my car and froze when I saw a guy sitting comfortably. This is really happening. That was all I could think. And while I was thinking, I must have zoned for a bit because the next thing I knew I was hearing, “Miss . . .”

  “Uhh, yes. If that wouldn’t be a problem, I definitely would.”

  “No, it’s not a problem at all. Do you have bags to place your items in?” I stared at my beloved Dodge Avenger that I had only had for two years, and that was now being repossessed, and no words came out. “Do you have somewhere you can put it all?” he rephrased, as though I didn’t comprehend what he asked the first time. “There’s a lot,” he stated.

  “I know,” I said, softly. “I have a garage. Is there a way you guys can release the car from the chains and back it up?” I asked.

  My mouth was moving, and words were coming out. But I didn’t know how because I was totally checked out. My mind was pretty much occupied with all the things I’d done wrong, and circulating fears of how I would make a comeback . . . if I even could, for that matter.

  Once my champagne beauty was backed near my garage, I set about taking multiple trips to the vehicle to empty it out. CD’s, pictures, paperw
ork in the glove compartment. Books, clothes, heating pad in the trunk. You name it, it lived in my car.

  When I was done, I thanked them, relinquished my car key and headed back inside my apartment where I sank to the floor and cried until I fell asleep. The sobs came even harder when I realized that I had neglected to remove my University of Arizona plate frames—the one reminder that I wasn’t a complete failure and had accomplished something.

  The next morning when I awoke, there were dried up tears around my eyes, caked in the hairs of my bottom lashes, and across my cheeks. And though I hadn’t checked yet, I was sure that my eyes were as puffy as pillows and a version of red that matched vampires.

  My neck ached, my back hurt, my legs were cramped, and I was cold. Really cold. But even as cold and as uncomfortable as I was, I didn’t bother moving from my spot. What for? The need hadn’t presented itself, and the desire sure as fuck wasn’t present. As far as I was concerned, I needed to be stationary so that I could be forced to marinate in my predicament. Like, really simmer in it. In this place I could focus on what my next move would be. Do I even have any moves? No. None. Not so much as a backup plan. Not even a backup man. Not shit.

  Screwed.

  These were the moments that suicidal thoughts were born inside of—out of desperation and feelings of worthlessness. I was right there at the cusp of both those things. I knew that I didn’t have what it took to take my own life. I knew that with everything in me. Sink into a deep depression and live there for a while, yes. But suicide, no. Or did I? The prodding of those dark thoughts was right there in my apartment with me, circling my soul like a vulture hovering above its prey.

  Maybe it would be better to not have to deal at all—with life.

  Things were for sure crumbling, and I was dead-ass tired of picking up all the pieces and struggling to put them back together again. I was tired of the momentary sprints ahead, that I got happy inside of, only to be pushed the fuck back down again! Tired! What did it all mean, anyway? Did the universe not have anybody else to fuck with?! And how the hell did I get to a place of believing that, “Everything happens for a reason?” That whole saying is a crock of shit! Because there was no reason for life to keep doing me dirty!

  I had no idea how rent was going to be paid. I was on borrowed time. Not just financially, but physically and spiritually, as well.

  My temples were starting to throb from the circus of questions I was in my head trying to get answers for. It was all too much. I mistakenly thought I wanted to be at one with the noise. I thought if I allowed myself to process, I might be able to come up with my own resolve. But the more I lay there, the more I knew I needed to escape.

  Get up, I silently coached.

  “Aaahh!” I yelled out when I finally tried to maneuver slightly. “Shit!” I moaned, just as a cramp shot through my neck and down my shoulders. “Dammit!” I screamed at its sharpness.

  Oddly enough, at the same time that the cramp hit, a thought struck as well. It was time to change the way that I was thinking—and feeling, for that matter. Continuing to sulk and relive moments long gone, was more than just counterproductive, it was draining as hell! I had to try my best to spring into action and get things back on track. For all I knew, all this shit could’ve been a blessing in disguise.

  I quickly decided that first on my agenda would be sending out follow up emails on a few of the interviews I’d had, and calling around to set up appointments with some of the more notable temporary agencies. I hadn’t stepped foot into a temporary agency since I graduated high school and got my first clerical job. If worst came to worst, I could revisit braiding hair. There was a point in time where braiding was the love of my life. It was where I got to be as creative as ever, and turn regular Jane’s into starlets.

  Those girls and women would emerge from my house looking photoshoot-ready. It was definitely rewarding work, but there were just way too many people that wanted something for nothing. I sighed loudly at the fact that I was even thinking back on that time. I guess, in my mind, it became more about exploring all available options. All the areas that I possessed talent, and whether or not I could turn those talents into something monetary. I had years of corporate experience, I was in possession of a piece of paper that I’d spent four years earning! Why did I even have to figure out next steps, when I was a gold mine?

  Well, you’re not too much of a gold mine, I told myself. Unemployed with no unemployment insurance, my itty-bitty savings was pretty much exhausted; there were no other streams of income, and an abundance of bills. How can you be a gold mine with all of that going on?

  With the cramps gone, I decided to try getting up again. I already knew that any aches and pains would be tenfold, so I erected myself slowly, and with extreme care. It was a few minutes later, but I did manage to successfully sit upright. I even managed to drag a little bit of optimism with me.

  Moments later, there was a knock at my front door. I was all set to ignore it, but then a few short seconds later, whoever was there, knocked again . . . and again.

  -2-

  Silas

  I was about to walk off, when I heard footsteps approaching on the other side of the door to Apartment #210. I had knocked four times and was starting to think that nobody was there. The only reason I tried as long as I did, was because I wanted to put the letter belonging to Kayla Carter, directly into her hands. Or at least an occupant of the unit. I’d told my daughter that I would drop it off on the way to my car.

  When she finally opened the door, I was met with a dark-brown beauty, probably about five-foot-six or so, wearing a grey University of Arizona hoodie and sweatpants. Her body was well-concealed behind the baggy clothing, but I could tell that she did have body. She looked to be about thirty; maybe thirty-five, but definitely not older than that. Standing at the door with her, was an air of stress that seemed larger than she could carry. I saw it in the puffiness and the redness of her eyes, in the tension present in her slightly hunched shoulders, as well as the look of slight annoyance on her face.

  “Can I help you?” she asked, sounding as though she had just gotten up.

  “I just wanted to drop this off to you,” I said, extending the envelope to her.

  “Oh . . .” she said, “How did it . . . get to—”

  “Apparently, my daughter is your neighbor and—”

  “Oh, okay,” she said looking down at the notice in her hand.

  “It looked really urgent, so she wanted to make sure you got it.”

  After I said the words, my eyes inadvertently roamed left, toward the sign on her front door. For some reason, I had only just read it.

  Following my eyes, she responded, “Nice life, right?” Almost immediately after she said that, she began to cry. “I’m . . .” She waved her hand at the air, while dabbing her eyes. “I’m really sorry about that. Thank you for bringing this to me. And please thank your daughter as well.”

  “I’ll let her—”

  No sooner than the words were on the way out, the door closed, and she disappeared, leaving me face-to-face with the eviction notice plastered to the door. I stared at the sign for what had to be a full minute. It made me feel like shit, considering the orange and white envelope I’d just handed her was a 48-hour shut-off notice for the gas and electric.

  My fist was poised to knock on the door again. I didn’t know what I would say to her, but if being there for her, for just a few minutes would help, I wanted to try. My knuckles made contact with the door right as a scream and loud crash came from inside of her unit. Instinctively, I began to knock harder. For all I knew there was someone in there with her that meant her harm. She hadn’t opened the door fully when she came the first time, so anything was possible.

  “Miss! Please open the door!” I shouted. I moved my ear closer in order to pick up additional noises of distress. Then I took a chance and called out the name on the front of her mail. “Kayla!”

  Several seconds later, the door swung open and there
she stood once again. This time the look in her eyes was different. She was pissed.

  “What is it?” she snapped at me. “What do you need?”

  The woman before me was at her end. Life was taking her through some shit—a lot of it. I found myself afraid to leave her alone no matter how angry she was at me. It would’ve fucked me up had I gotten home only to find out that a murder, or even a suicide victim, had been found in my daughter’s apartment complex.

  “Is there someone in there with you?” I asked, boldly. I didn’t care whether or not she got mad at my inquiry. “I heard you scream and crashing glass . . .”

  “And that’s your business, why?”

  “Well, because if you’re hurt, then I’d like to help.”

  “I don’t need your help, sir. I don’t even know you.”

  “And I get that. I don’t know you either. But I don’t have to know you to be concerned.” Once again, the sign jumped out at me. While I tried not to look, I couldn’t help myself. “Clearly, you have some things going on.”

  “And again . . . why is that your business? Why are you trying to make me your business?”

  “Lady, listen. I’m here to lend an ear if—”

  “Okay, and what exactly is it, that I can do with your ear? Pawn it? Is it worth thousands of dollars or some shit like that? Do I rub it three times to see a fuckin’ genie?! I’m missing something. Please let me know what I’m—”

  “You know what? Fuck it,” I said to her, turning on my heel. Yeah, maybe I was being intrusive, but it didn’t warrant her fucked up attitude. I was done. “Good luck with everything, lady!” I yelled out.

  As bad as I felt, I left her to her life. There was no way that I was going to stay there and let her talk crazy to me, when I was only trying to be nice. Fuck that. I had way too much other shit that I could be doing with my time.