by B. N. Toler
TO HAVE IT ALL
Copyright © 2017 Brandy Toler
www.bntoler.com
All Rights Reserved
This book or parts thereof may not be reproduced in any form, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means without prior written permission of the authors, except as provided by United States of America copyright law.
The following is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are fictitious or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, to factual events or to businesses is coincidental and unintentional.
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Other Books by B.N. Toler
To my brother, Brett.
Thanks for always being the best big brother in the world.
The first light of dawn was just leaking into the room as I drifted toward his bed. He’d just closed his eyes, and if he’d had a choice, he would never open them again. But there was still time.
Lying beside him, I stared up at the ceiling, contemplating what I should do. The man had thrown chance after chance away. He’d pushed aside any chance of happiness and love that had ever come his way. They thought him cruel. And he was. He’d spent much of his life in raging pain, like a caged animal lashing out. He wanted others to hurt as he did. He’d become a walking, talking imitation of his pain. He was ugly in all the ways a man could be, except physically.
I had known him before he became this twisted soul. I knew him as a boy with a heart of gold that wept as he held the hand of his dead mother. I knew the boy that was forgotten by his father, yet put upon to be perfect. In his life, the one’s he loved most either left or forgot him. He was rare to me, and I couldn’t give up on him, though I knew I should. There were only a few I’d felt tied to, and that I fought for, the rest got what they deserved. It was not his life I wished to save, but rather his soul. Only this time, I was limited in what I could do for him. Choices were made. He had chosen to die. Another had chosen to give his life to save him. Both men deserved my attention; one my favor, the other my wrath.
I knew he’d just been scared. I don’t think he even knew why; he just saw fear. That’s why he did it. That’s why he’d left the man that saved him to die. We all have our reasons—our excuses. That didn’t make it okay. If it hadn’t been for me and my inability to give up on him, his life would’ve been very different.
Just because I understood him, didn’t make his actions justified, and like a mother who loves her child with all of her being, a mother must still do what is hard, teach her child to do better by punishing him.
Rolling toward him, I stared at his face, his nose and jawline chiseled as if he was crafted by God’s very hands. He was a man with youth, beauty, and wealth, yet he was miserable.
“Oh, my darling,” I whispered. “What am I going to do with you?”
For a race so advanced, it still, after eons, shocks me when they fall so tremendously short when it comes to expanding their minds; to believing in what is beyond their comprehension. If they cannot see it, touch it, dissect it like a frog in a high school science lab, they label it with titles deemed preposterous such as religion, superstition, miracles, or even the devil’s work. And those who do dare let their minds reach out and brush their fingers against the preposterous are cast as cultists, fanatics, or even crazy.
There is magic in this world beyond any explanation. It exists only because a scale steadies the universe, and it is the unknown that keeps the balance. The human race needs miracles; it needs the unthinkable to happen because without it, hope would not exist.
And that’s where I come in.
I am the eyes that watch your every move, the invisible mouth that whispers in your ear, urging you to do what is right. I am the ultimate scorekeeper.
I’m known by many names, but most know me as karma—the bitch. What goes around comes around. You reap what you sow. You will get what you deserve. The expressions are endless that describe what I deliver. I could go on for days.
There is no bad luck. Bad things happen because of the choices made by one person, and that choice is like a rubber bullet; it bounces. It ricochets from person to person, connecting everyone. A simpler term would be cause and effect. One choice sets into motion a series of events that reap other choices. I’m a referee of sorts. I watch, I wait, and from time to time, I interfere. I can give you joy or earth-shattering pain. I find immense pleasure on both sides of the coin—bringing the wicked to their knees or giving hope to the kind are equally fulfilling for me.
But in cases like this, I find no joy.
Sitting up, I kissed my fingers and ran them lightly across his lips.
“I am going to let you think about your choice a bit longer,” I whispered. “Perhaps watching someone else have what is yours, you will see it differently.” Behind closed eyes, he would not find peace and darkness. He would watch, powerless, as another man took over his life—the man that had saved him. And in the end, because I loved him so and wanted desperately for him to wake up a changed man, I would let him choose. His life would be tied to another man’s as well as his fate. He would choose if they lived or died.
Standing, I went to the bathroom and checked myself in the mirror after I changed form. Straightening my name tag, I walked back into the bedroom and looked at him one last time. “Choose well, Maxwell.”
With a snap of my fingers, it was done.
The 24th of August
When I opened my eyes I knew something was wrong. I didn’t recognize the room, but it wasn’t just that. It was more. It was a dreadful feeling that threaded around my soul; something whispered inside me, prepare yourself. There was so much more to the whispered words and dreadful feelings. The last thing I remembered was pain—immense, debilitating pain, but it was gone now. I never wanted to experience that kind of pain again. But there was something else—something more.
It wasn’t until I sat up and rubbed my face with my hands, finding the course scratch of a few days-old-beard that I began to realize something was definitely wrong. Where was my full beard? I hadn’t shaved in years.
Slowly, as I darted my eyes down my body, more realizations dawned: smooth, clean hands,
massive muscular thighs, and abs. This was not my body.
Flipping the covers back I flew out of the bed. My feet met cool hardwood floors as I gaped at the lavish bedroom I was standing in. The walls were painted dark gray, and the windows were big, reaching from the floor to the ceiling. It looked modern and elite; like nothing I would choose or like.
“Where the hell am I?” I croaked, jerking at the sound, seizing my throat with one hand. Even my voice was different. My heartbeat whooshed in my ears as the panic set in. Was I drugged? Was this just a dream?
Rushing to the first door I saw, I tore it open and found a walk-in closet filled with suits and shiny leather shoes. Those definitely weren’t my clothes. I couldn’t even remember the last time I’d put on a suit. I shook my head in disbelief as I flung open the next door.
The bathroom.
Fumbling blindly in the darkness, sliding my hand up and down the wall, I finally managed to hit the fancy high-tech sensor light switch just right and illuminated the room. The giant mirror above the granite double sink revealed a handsome, muscular man, wild-eyed and clad in red silk boxers. He even had abs most men would kill for. His hair was disheveled, his shoulders bunched up, his mouth gaping open. He looked as freaked out as I felt. I raised my hands to rub my face again, to wake myself from this dream, and . . . so did the man in the mirror.
“What the f—?” I sputtered in pure disbelief.
I spent the next five minutes making motions; jumping jacks, weird facial expressions, hand gestures—the man in the mirror mimed everything I did. I slapped myself several times, harder and harder. The man in the mirror still mimicked my every move, his face getting as red as mine felt from the slaps.
“Wake up!” I yelled, only to have the voice I heard panic me even more. “This isn’t me,” I told the man in the mirror. “I’m not you.”
I stood frozen, my feet planted to the cold tile of the bathroom floor, yo-yoing between confusion and panic. What should I do? I was in another man’s body. Who do you call when shit like this goes down? If I called the police they’d tie me up in a strait jacket and send me to the nut house. That definitely wasn’t an option. Yanking the navy terry cloth robe off the hook by the shower, I slipped it on and left the bathroom quickly. When I hit what appeared to be the living room, I froze. Was this place for real? One of the biggest flat screen televisions I’d ever seen hung just above a marble gas fireplace, the couch and love seat were black leather, and the coffee and end tables were glass. Everything looked new and incredibly clean. The main room was big with a huge open floor plan. The kitchen was separated by a wall, but the dining room was open. What really impressed me was the view. The floor to ceiling windows offered an amazing view of the city. Who was this guy and how did he afford this spread?
I scavenged the apartment for photos, bills, anything that might tell me who this body I was in belonged to. In the kitchen, I discovered a junk drawer, although it was far less junky than any junk drawer I’d ever seen. In my house growing up, we had four junk drawers filled to the brim, and the contents ranged anywhere from tools to retainers to five hundred expired coupons for Kentucky Fried Chicken. The only things in this drawer were a set of keys, a lighter, a pack of gum, and a photo.
A photo of him.
The man whose body I’d somehow stolen.
My hand shook as I held the photo, a feeling of dread consuming my senses. In the picture, he stood next to a beautiful woman, his arm draped over her shoulders. While he stared at the camera, his perfect grin beaming, she looked at him, a soft and loving smile on her face. She loved him. I could tell. Frowning, I tried to push aside the envy I felt. I couldn’t remember the last time a woman had looked at me like that.
“Shit,” I breathed. Glancing at my left hand, I sighed with relief—no ring. He didn’t appear to have a wife. But I couldn’t rule out a girlfriend. At the very least he had a woman in his life judging by this photo.
When a loud ring sounded out, I nearly jumped out of my skin. It was a cell phone—his cell phone. Like a mad man, I stumbled through the apartment until I found it on the charger next to the couch.
The name Waverly lit up on the screen.
I stared at it like it was a snake coiled up, ready to attack me. Should I answer? When it stopped ringing, I let out the breath I’d been holding, but then it started ringing again. Waverly was calling back. It must’ve been important. What if I didn’t answer and she came over? I didn’t want to risk that as I was having a brain melt over the fact I was in another man’s body and had no idea who he was. Closing my eyes, I took a deep breath. God help me, I was going to answer.
“Hello.” I winced. My voice was way too deep; I sounded like James Earl Jones. I hadn’t had a chance to talk much since I’d awoken in this body. This guy’s voice would take some getting used to.
“Wow,” a woman snickered. “I can’t believe you actually picked up. Are they calling for snow today?”
I barely contained the snort I wanted to let out. Whoever she was, she was a smartass. It was summer; they definitely weren’t calling for snow. I opened my mouth to say something—anything, but what? I had no idea who she was or what she wanted. I didn’t have any idea who I was. That’s why you shouldn’t have answered the phone, dumbass. Anything I said could cue someone that knew him well that something was off; I needed to tread lightly. I didn’t want to end up being dragged to a psych ward.
“Are we still meeting at The Mill at six tonight?” she continued. The Mill I did know. It was a fancy restaurant downtown that I’d never been able to afford to eat at, even in the best of times. Even if I’d had the money, I wouldn’t have wanted to. A guy like me wasn’t meant for a place like that. I was a worn barstool at a hole in the wall kind of guy. Run down bars were my forte. I was too rugged for a place like The Mill. But seeing as how I wasn’t exactly me right now, or at least physically me, I supposed all bets were off.
“Uh . . .” I didn’t even have any money. How could I meet her for dinner? But then again, how could I not? She knew who I was . . . at least she knew who this body belonged to anyway. It would probably help to find out as much as I could about him. I could fake a sore throat, that way I’d have a reason for not talking much. Maybe she’d offer to pay. Or maybe he had a wallet somewhere. In my panic thinking about how to pay for the meal, I forgot to answer her.
“Please don’t cancel again, Max,” she added, her tone annoyed and defeated. “I only need ten minutes of your time and then you’ll never hear from me again.”
Whoa. She didn’t sound like this guy’s biggest fan. At least she gave me his name—Max. Knowing his first name didn’t help much, but it was a start. It was only a tiny step forward, but still a step.
“Okay,” I coughed, letting my voice rasp slightly. Had to make a sore throat believable if I chose to feign being ill at dinner. “Six it is. Do we have reservations?”
There was a long pause before she replied, “Yeah. They’re under Torres. See you at six.” The call ended and when the screen cleared it revealed the date.
It was August 24.
“Shit,” I gasped as I leered at the tiny screen. It was five days later . . .
That’s when it all hit me. The screams, the sirens—the pain came rushing back twisting my stomach. I crashed to the ground and lay on my side, holding my belly. Physically I wasn’t hurt, not in this man’s body anyway. It was the memory that knocked me off my feet. The memory of it all was so real, so intense that it felt as though it had just happened.
I’d died.
But I didn’t.
I was still alive.
But I wasn’t me.
I was Max.
The man whose life I’d saved.
The 19th of August
I’d been homeless for ninety-three days.
I’d never had much money. Living paycheck to paycheck was my way of life. I hated it, of course, but there never seemed to be any way out of it. New York is hella-expensive, and a mechanics salary
only gets you so far, but I’d always had enough and I loved my job, which was worth more than any amount of money in the world as far as I was concerned—or so I had thought. I learned the hard way that passion doesn’t equal stability. Falling down a flight of stairs and breaking my left arm and right hand taught me that when it left me jobless. Two surgeries with months of rehab and physical therapy cost me my savings and my job. A mechanic kind of needs their arms and hands.
I applied for other jobs, anything ranging from fast-food restaurants to cashiers at grocery stores. But again, these jobs required full use of hands and arms, which I didn’t have. My bad luck snowballed from there as my bills quickly added up, and before I knew it my landlord was posting eviction notices on my door. One day, I came home to all my possessions piled up in front of my building.
I had to leave almost everything in used grocery boxes in front of my rundown apartment building. I could’ve left them at my sister Helen’s house, but I was too embarrassed to ask. Plus, she’d insist on me staying with her, and I refused to do that. My pride seemed more valuable than anything at the time. I was an idiot. I went from a small apartment full of furniture, clothes, and personal belongings to nothing but the clothes I was wearing and a backpack with what I could carry.
With great pain, I sold my most prized possession—my Harley Bobber. My best friend, Lenny, bought it, promising to keep it until I could buy it back. He did me a huge favor buying it. He didn’t need another bike, but he knew what that Bobber meant to me. I’d had that bike for over a decade. It wasn’t worth much monetarily, but it held great sentimental value. The money Lenny paid me from the sale kept me sheltered in a cheap motel for a bit, but eventually, that money dried up.
From that point on . . . I was on the streets.
I kept thinking it couldn’t get worse, that things would turn around if I was just patient and didn’t lose hope, but life continued to prove me wrong when it dumped me on the streets and kept me there. It can always get worse. By the time my hand started to heal after the surgeries, I had regained use of it, but not enough for mechanics work. It would take time for it to heal fully. When I continued to apply for other jobs, anything, no one would hire me because with over a decade in mechanics they knew I wasn’t likely to be a long-term employee and I’d eventually go back to that.
