Beautiful Tomorrow: A Twisted Fate Novel

by Jacobs, Emery

  “Be back in ten,” he says as he walks out the door.

  * * *

  The final shade of red settles on Ray’s shoulder, bringing together the arrangement of flowers that has taken three separate visits to complete. When she jumps up from the table, I grab the mirror and pass it to her. Her eyes are bright with excitement, and she has a smile plastered on her face. Ray turns to look at me, her back pointing toward the mirror on the wall. Her small body twists and turns until she has the view she wants.

  “Oh my God, Caleb. Thank you. It’s so pretty,” she squeals.

  I love moments like this. A happy customer gives me a sense of pride. It motivates me and makes me want to do better. I don’t let the fact she describes my work as “so pretty” bother me. She’s an eighteen-year-old girl and “so pretty” is equal to “fucking unbelievable” in my book.

  “I have to agree, Ray. It’s so pretty.” I throw my head back and laugh.

  “Stop it, Caleb. You know what I mean. I love it.” She gently slaps my shoulder.

  “I know, I know. Just giving you a hard time. But I’m really glad you love it.” I take the mirror from her, and she skips over to her bag. She grabs her phone and heads back to the mirror.

  “I’ve gotta share. Because you know it didn’t really happen if five hundred of my closest friends don’t see the finished product.” She adjusts her phone to the perfect angle for the photo, before saying, “Even you know that, right, old man?” She smiles while her fingers move a million miles a minute, posting the picture to most likely every social media site.

  “Old man?” I balk. “I hate to disappoint you, sweetheart, but twenty-six does not make me an old man.”

  She tosses the phone into her bag then adds, “I hear what you say, old man.” She lifts her right eyebrow and smiles.

  I finish up with Ray and then spend the next thirty or so minutes cleaning my station. It’s Saturday, which means we rotate the late shift. Unfortunately, my shift ends early today. I’d much rather work, because once I leave here, I’ll head upstairs and do nothing until I fall asleep.

  After locking up all my stuff, I grab my phone and walk to the front. Brant, one of the other artists, walks past me as he enters the shop. He nods in my direction before making his way around the counter. My relief. I was hoping he would call in sick, so I could work. How sad am I?

  As I reach the glass door, I notice Henley’s still out front. But not for long. She’s packing all her shit up. I glance at the clock on the wall. Damn, two and a half hours. She’s been here longer than I would have expected. It makes me wonder if she likes performing or if she does it strictly for the money.

  “See ya later, man,” Brant mumbles in my direction. I jerk the door open and am about to speak when I catch a glimpse of Henley’s open guitar case. Lying inside is a small wooden club.

  “What the fuck?” I mumble as I stagger out of the shop and into the small crowd of people making their way down the sidewalk.

  By the time I reach her, she has her guitar loaded and the case shut.

  “Henley, right?” I ask.

  She glances at me, and her mouth immediately gapes open. She wrinkles her forehead and nods slightly. Then she turns on her heels and walks away.

  Six

  Henley

  Shit! It’s him! The guy from the apartment. Even though I didn’t get a good look at his face last night, or more like this morning, the bruises and claw marks are a dead giveaway. I’m so damn stupid. Of course, he works for Smitty. He’s new, though, because I’ve never seen him before today. I can’t run, because it will make it too obvious. I’m sure the look on my face doesn’t hide much.

  “Wait! I need to ask you something.” His voice is near, so damn close. Shit, he’s following me.

  I shake my head, and without hesitation, my feet keep moving. Walk, Henley. Just keep walking.

  “Ok, fine. Keep walking. I’ll just follow you. You’ll stop eventually,” he says from behind me. His voice is the same as it was last night. Deep and gravelly, sending a chill up my spine. I decide it’s better to face the music now than in front of my apartment. Because the last thing I want is for him to know where I live. I stop, gripping my guitar case a little tighter.

  “Ask your question. But hurry. I have things to do.” Which is a lie. I have nothing to do.

  The next thing I know, he’s standing directly in front of me. This guy—I breathe in deeply—is beautiful. I mean sexy. Hell, beautiful and sexy. I don’t like up close conversations with guys, because it avoids the misconception that I might be interested in dating or fucking or hooking up or whatever. And, honestly, I’m not interested in him or anybody else. I have too much shit creeping around waiting to take everything from me. And when it happens, I want to be alone.

  I push all the negative bullshit out of my mind and focus on the guy standing in front of me. He needs to shave; all that dark scruff makes him look too damn— God, I hope he never shaves again. His hair is dark and too long. He’s definitely in need of a haircut. The light breeze is keeping it off his face, which gives me a better look at his dark brown eyes. His eyebrows are drawn, and his lips firm. For some reason, I can’t pull my gaze away from the bruises on his face and neck. The claw marks are screaming at me. Just tell him already! Yes, I’m the one who showed up at your apartment at 3:00 a.m. this morning wielding a baton, and I’m sorry. Just let me walk away.

  “Are you homeless?” he asks without hesitation. Like he already knows the answer. Then he continues, “You don’t look homeless, but I’m not really sure what a homeless person looks like.” God, he’s rambling. It’s kinda cute and, of course, sexy.

  “Looks can be deceiving. Can’t they…?” I lift my eyebrows and motion toward him with my hand, wanting him to tell me his name.

  He reads my expression or maybe my mind, because he answers softly, “Caleb.”

  Caleb. Now I have a name for that face.

  “Like I said, Caleb, looks can be deceiving. I mean look at you.”

  He smirks before opening his arms as if he silently agrees for me to look at him, which I do because… well, he’s beautiful and I can’t help myself.

  “You’re a big guy. Six-one, six-two?” He smiles and nods. I continue, “I would think you could give a pretty good ass whipping. Am I right?” As soon as the words roll off my tongue, he knows exactly who I am.

  His brown eyes darken before he moves in a little closer to me. Now he’s only inches away from my body, but I stand strong, not moving. I will not be intimidated. Not by him or anybody else.

  “Just admit it, Henley. I saw the billy club in your case earlier when you were packing up your guitar,” he growls.

  “Why didn’t you just ask me instead of going the homeless route? I would have told you, but now you’re digging into my personal life. And well, I don’t know you, so it’s not your concern whether or not I’m homeless.” I tilt my head slightly, so I can get a better look at his face.

  “Truthfully, I didn’t know how to ask you if you broke into my apartment and beat the shit out of me. If you think about it, the whole ordeal is kinda fucking embarrassing—for me. But when I saw the club in your case, I wanted to find out why,” he says.

  “Why?” I repeat.

  “Yeah, why would you need to break in? Are you homeless? Did you have a fight with your boyfriend or husband and get kicked out of your house? Did you plan to rob me? Hell, I don’t know. My thoughts were all over the place. I just need to know why.”

  He doesn’t seem angry anymore. He seems… concerned. I just want to go home, so I grip the handle of my case tighter and take a couple steps back. Away from him.

  I take a deep breath, before saying, “First, I didn’t break into your apartment. I had a key. Second, I did not know anybody had moved in. There are no signs that you even live there. No car or personal belongings on the outside. It looks the same as it always has. Vacant.”

  “You’ve stayed there before?” he asks.


  I drop my gaze toward the ground, and whisper, “Yes.”

  “So, it was you?” he questions.

  “Yes,” I admit.

  “Look at me.” His voice is quiet but stern.

  I hesitate, so he cups my face gently. My gaze meets his, and then he continues, “My car and bike are parked behind the shop. And I don’t decorate, so you won’t find a bunch of flowers or shit like that littering the outside of the apartment.”

  A sudden chill causes a shiver to race up my spine. This is not something I’m accustomed to, but I assume it’s because his hands are touching my face. No one ever touches me. Or at least, no one has touched me in a very long time.

  “Now, back to my original question. Are you homeless? Because if you are and you ever need a place to sleep, you’re welcome to stay at my place. As long as you knock first.” He chuckles.

  For some reason, his words piss me off. I had already told him that question was off limits. But he’s pressing me. Wanting to know more. Or maybe he wants an easy fuck, and he thinks if he’s kind enough to let me sleep at his place, I’d be willing to spread my legs for him.

  “You’re a liar.” The sound of my voice is shaky. Not at all how I intended it to be. I want to yell, to tell him to get the fuck away from me, but I don’t because there are too many people around. And I don’t want to appear crazy, but I guess it’s too late for that. After all, I am the person who walked into his apartment uninvited, beat the shit out of him, and am now calling him a liar.

  Have I been alone for so long that I don’t even know how to act, how to exist in this world?

  I jerk my face away from his hold. My feet move in small, quick steps leading me away from him and toward my home.

  “Why am I a liar? Damn girl, you’re all over the place. Just stop.” He grabs my arm, bringing me to a complete halt, and I suddenly realize his strength.

  “Let go of me, Caleb.” I grit the words out as I twist and turn, trying to break free.

  “Henley stop fighting me. I’m not going to hurt you. Just tell me when I lied.”

  “You said that you only wanted to know if I was the person in your apartment last night. And after I admitted it, you still went back to the homeless question. Where I live is not your business. Just let me go. I have plans. I’m meeting a friend, and if I don’t show up he’ll come looking for me,” I explain. Who’s the liar now?

  He releases my arm, and I stumble but quickly regain my balance. I scan his face one last time. His brown eyes are dark with emotion.

  He’s done nothing but be a nice guy throughout this entire misunderstanding. I’m torn. I truly hate to be a complete bitch toward him, but I don’t want to know him either. Because knowing him will only complicate things.

  “If you must go, then leave. I’m only offering you help if you ever need it,” he says.

  “Well, I don’t. Not from you. So back off,” I snap.

  I step around him and head toward home. My thoughts shift to a warm bath and sleep. Because all this back and forth with him has exhausted me. My steps quicken before I decide to glance over my shoulder. Caleb is walking in the opposite direction, away from me. Finally, I’m able to breathe.

  And, several blocks later, I’m standing in front of my apartment with the key in the doorknob. I set my guitar case on the ground before closing my eyes. My fingers find the cool brass numbers on the door. One, three, two. I push the door open. I’m home.

  Seven

  Caleb

  Henley doesn’t show up to play in front of the shop on Sunday or Monday or the entire next week. Which, I guess may not be that unusual. Rex did say she used to play in front of the shop every day but hadn’t in a while. So, maybe I’m not the reason she hasn’t been back.

  Who the fuck am I kidding? I’m sure I’m the reason she hasn’t been back.

  Every day, I stand at the counter, watching—waiting for her to make an appearance, but she doesn’t. I didn’t tell anybody about what happened between us. And I really don’t know why I want to see her. She doesn’t want anything to do with me. Hell, she didn’t even apologize after beating the shit out of me. She turned the entire situation around and made me feel like shit for questioning her. The old me would have told her to go fuck herself. But I’m not that person anymore.

  “Caleb, did you hear me?”

  I shake my head and then rub my eyes.

  “Shit. Sorry, man. My mind is somewhere else right now.” I shift my attention back to Mike, who is sitting across the table from me.

  “Everything all right? You’ve been different the last couple days.”

  “Yeah, everything’s good. I’m tired, I guess. Haven’t been sleeping very well.”

  “Anything you want to talk about?” he asks.

  Mike’s my sponsor. I met him after my fourth AA meeting. He’s in his early forties, slightly balding, and drinks entirely too much coffee. This is what we’re doing now at one of the outdoor cafés in the French Quarter. This is our three-day a week ritual. Coffee and beignets. And it’s why I’ve added an extra mile to my morning run.

  “Nope, all is good. No thoughts of ingesting anything illegal. And, of course, hanging out at the bar with the guys is always tempting, but honestly, being sober hasn’t been as hard as I thought it would be.”

  “Look, Caleb, you can be honest with me. I live your life. Every day is a struggle for me. It’s okay to admit it. I’m not here to judge you,” Mike says in between sips of coffee.

  “Truthfully, sitting home at night is the worst. I’m bored, so my mind drifts to Piper. And when it does, the need for a drink or just anything to make me forget takes over. She is my trigger, and I’m afraid she always will be. Because I failed her. I sat on my feelings for over a year, and it killed her. Whiskey and pills were my only out. The only way I could cope. But we both know what that cost me—or almost cost me. My life,” I explain.

  “I can’t help you with all the crap that led up to you drinking and taking drugs, but what I can offer you is my support and help to steer you away from going down that path again.”

  I take another sip of coffee while tossing his words around in my mind. I hate that I’m not strong enough to take care of myself and that I need support from other people in order to keep from killing myself with drugs and alcohol. When did my life become so fucking complicated?

  “I’ve got to head out. My wife will have a fit if I’m not home by eleven to watch the kids. Remember, if you ever get to the point where you are contemplating doing anything stupid, call me. You have my number; don’t hesitate to use it. I would rather you wake me up at two in the morning than take a single drink.” He pushes back from the table and stands. “See you in the a.m.,” he mumbles as he walks away.

  I get up from the chair and gather my trash. The place is crowded, so I weave through the people until I reach the garbage bin in front of the window of the café.

  I toss my trash into the bin, and as I turn to walk away, I catch a glimpse of blonde hair. It’s her. Henley. She has her hair pulled away from her face in a ponytail and is rocking a fucking smile so big it meets her eyes. Man, I only thought she was perfect. Now, after seeing her relaxed and happy, I know she’s far more than perfect.

  She doesn’t notice me, because she’s too busy focusing all of her attention on… a boy. He looks to be around five or maybe six years old. She has a child? I guess anything is possible. She appears to be around twenty-five or twenty-six, so sure she could have a six-year-old. She’s waiting in line to place her order. As she inches forward, my gaze moves from her smile to the snug black dress that hugs her in all the right places. Damn, she’s so fucking hot. That thought vanishes quickly when I remember the kid standing next to her. Wait—her kid.

  Fuck. I glance at the boy. He turns his head toward Henley, and it’s only then I observe the dark glasses that cover his eyes. He then shifts in my direction, and everything immediately falls into place. The dark glasses, the white stick secured in his right hand, and
her overwhelming need to avoid talking about her personal life.

  My thoughts run rampant. She’s a single mother. She’s homeless—with a kid. She’s alone. She must perform on the streets of New Orleans for money… just to be able to feed her son. This is bad. Real. Fucking. Bad. I will my mind to stop. None of her situation is my fault. Unfortunately, for me, I have this terrible habit of feeling responsible for the shit that’s out of my control.

  I take a deep breath and decide it’s better she not see me here today. So, I back away from the window, maneuver through the tables, and walk away.

  Eight

  Henley

  It’s been over three weeks since I last played in front of Smitty’s place. I miss that small section of Toulouse Street. It used to be mine. It’s still mine. I played there every single day for months. Then I ventured out to other areas, but I always come back to The Drunken Peacock. It’s my favorite place to perform, but now I’ve screwed it all up. And to make things worse, I never apologized to Caleb for showing up at his apartment and, well… I should have at least said I was sorry. I swear, most of the time, I’m my own worst enemy.

  “Miss Henley, will you read with me now?” Heath asks.

  Heath is one of the students I teach here at Valley View School for the Visually Impaired. I graduated from Louisiana Tech University three years ago with a Master of Arts degree and a certification in teaching the visually impaired. Immediately after graduation, I disappeared from that small northern Louisiana town and headed south to New Orleans, which is where I met Mrs. Fowler, the principal here at the school. She is amazing. Her love and dedication to these kids is a true blessing to both them and their parents. When I arrived in New Orleans, all I had was an education, some clothes, and my Gibson. She gave me this job and let me stay with her family until I got on my feet.