by Nola Marie
Goodbye Is a Second Chance
Sons of Sin
Nola Marie
Copyright © 2021 Nola Marie
All rights reserved
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
ISBN-13: 9798731935654
ISBN-10: 1477123456
Cover design by: Art Painter
Library of Congress Control Number: 2018675309
Printed in the United States of America
For the love of my life. You tease me relentlessly but you love and encourage me unconditionally.
Tell my mother
Tell my father
I've done the best I can
To make them realize
This is my life
I hope they understand
I'm not angry, I'm just saying
Sometimes goodbye is a second chance
Brent Smith/ Dave Richard Bassett
Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Epigraph
Playlist
Prologue
Josephine
Angel
Josephine
Angel
Josephine
Angel
Josephine
Angel
Josephine
Angel
Josephine
Angel
Josephine
Angel
Josephine
Angel
Josephine
Angel
Josephine
Angel
Josephine
Angel
Josephine
Angel
Josephine
Epilogue
Kind Campaign
Coming July 2021
Books By This Author
Would you like a signed copy? Email me at [email protected] for your signed book plate.
Acknowledgement
About The Author
Playlis
t
Second Chance – Shinedown
Fall to Pieces – Velvet Revolver
By the Way – Theory of a Deadman
Do I Wanna Know? – Artic Monkey
Better Than Me – Hinder
Dust in the Wind – Kansas
If You Only Knew – Shinedown
Black – Pearl Jam
Careless Whisper – Seether
Please Forgive Me - Bryan Adams
Never Be the Same – Red
In My Life – The Beatles
Heaven – Bryan Adams
When You Love a Woman – Journey
Easy to Love You – Theory of a Deadman
Prologue
Roses?
Check.
Breath?
Check.
Reservations at the nicest restaurant in the city?
Check.
I check my pocket for the ring and tug on the collar of the damn suit someone convinced me to wear. I knock on the door to the apartment, even though I live here. It seems like the thing to do in this situation.
I’ve planned this for a while. I’ve been with her steady for a couple years now. It’s just the natural progression of thing. Seems like this is the next logical step.
After a few minutes, I knock again as I wonder what’s taking her so long to answer the door. Probably taking a shower or something since she has no idea what I have planned. Now that I think about it, maybe surprising her wasn’t such a great idea. She’s not going to be happy knowing we have reservations in an hour. She has a tendency to throw tantrums when things don’t go her way.
They don’t bother me. Not really. I’ve got my own hang ups and issues too.
With a sigh, I take out the key and insert it into the lock. I open the door to find the living room and kitchen empty. My shower idea makes even more sense.
I stop at the mirror. My damn eyes are bloodshot as fuck. I search my pockets for my eyedrops. They’re not there. Guess I left them in the office.
I place the long-stemmed yellow roses – her favorite – into a vase then make my way to our bedroom.
Moaning and panting coming from the other side of the door make the blood in my veins run cold. I move to turn the knob when I hear voices. Very fucking familiar voices.
I push the door open. Ice floods my veins before turning to fire. The sight before me turns my stomach.
I see Jason Wexler thrusting into my girlfriend from behind. In our bed. In our bedroom. In our apartment.
As she screams out his name, I jerk him away from her.
Rage fuels my entirety. My temper flares from my wounded pride. You can feel the fury pouring off of me in waves filling the room like a living thing. I don’t give anyone a chance to say a word. I begin slamming my fist into his face over and over. I hear yelling all around me but none of it registers. All I can see is the person I am supposed to trust betraying me.
Finally, I stop. I look at the guy I have had a love/hate relationship with for years in disgust. His eyes are already black with one closed shut. His nose is bleeding profusely. His eyebrow is cut. Not the first time he’s felt my wrath.
I throw his clothes at him. He tries to speak but the look on my face shuts him up quickly. He turns and runs out of the room then out of the apartment.
I turn to look at her. Her eyes open wide in fear.
I walk to her, take her by her arm to lead her out of the apartment. If she wants him, then she should go be with him. I toss her naked ass out into the corridor. Then I throw the clothes that were on the floor with her.
I listen to her crying and begging on the other side of the door for an hour as I drown myself in cheap one hundred proof vodka and do another line because the effects of the one from earlier just aren’t doing the job right now. My ego and pride are thoroughly upset. I won’t say my heart is broken because it’s not. Maybe that’s fucked up of me but it’s the truth.
Then the cries and pleas become angry beating and banging, demanding that I let her back in. She is shit out of luck if she thinks I’m letting her back in. This is my apartment. My name is on the fucking lease.
I’m not sure when it all stops. Maybe it was before I passed out. Maybe it was after. But my phone ringing wakes me from my semi-coma.
“Hello,” I answer gruffly.
“Angel, bro, how you been?” a familiar voice calls out from the other end of the line.
“Been fucking better, man. How about you?”
“Yeah, I’ve been fucking better too,” Jake tells me. “I’m calling because I need a favor man.”
“What’s the favor?”
“I need your help. Can you come to New York?”
That was the last thing I expected him to say. But I swear it couldn’t be better timing. I remain cautious though. “What’s going on?” I asked worried.
He fills me in on his current situation.
And I thought my night was bad. A little hurt pride is nothing compared to what he’s going through. That shit is harsh.
“I know it’s asking a lot, Angel, but I can’t let anyone down.”
If he’d asked me all of this yesterday, I still would’ve said yes but with a hell of a fight from the bitch that I just threw out. But things change in an instant. I need a change of scenery. I need a fresh start. A second chance away fr
om this bullshit that convolutes my mind. The answer is easier than it should be.
On an exhale of a breath I didn’t realize I was holding I answer, “when do you want me there?”
Josephine
Song
Second Chance
The alarm blaring on my phone startles me awake, though I could swear I only just fell asleep. God, how I would kill for more than a couple of hours of sleep. I can’t remember the last time I had more than a few hours.
Except that I remember the exact day. The day everything came tumbling down. The day I learned my father and fiancé were both thieves and liars.
With a groan, I roll out of bed and walk groggily, wearily across the cold linoleum to the coffee maker. Two cups. That’s how many I need to feel human. How many I require to even begin to function.
I take a lightning quick shower in the microscopic bathroom since the water is freezing. I really hope the freaking building manager has it repaired before the really cold weather sets in. I have my body and hair washed so fast the coffee barely has time to finish dripping. I throw the first cup back like a glass of water, scalding my tongue like I do every morning. It’s honestly a wonder I have any taste buds left.
The next cup I savor. I enjoy the rich, bold flavor exploding on my tongue with my perfect ratio of cream to sugar while I sit in front of my makeshift vanity to put on my makeup and do my hair. I carefully curl my sandy brown hair at the ends while making sure there are no fly-a-ways. I line my blue-green eyes, carefully flicking the ends into perfect wings. I contour and highlight to emphasize my high cheekbones then move on to create the perfect arch to my brows. I finish off by applying gloss to my full mouth.
I spent a lot of time in college learning to apply my makeup perfectly. After years of name calling for the acne I had and my complete lack of knowledge with putting myself together in high school, I opted to learn everything I could to atone for my homely appearance. I still shiver as I remember the times a particular girl would blow up pictures she found and plaster them all over the school. Of course, she was so careful about her timing, she was never caught by anyone.
Unfortunately, that was one of the more harmless things the girl did.
I move to the standing clothes rack near my bed to choose my outfit for the day. An indigo pencil skirt and white blouse with a bright floral pattern is what I decide. The effect isn’t what I’m wanting though. Two months of living on Top Ramen has caused a little bit of weight loss. Where the skirt once emphasized my curvaceous butt and toned legs, now it hangs a little too loosely. I sigh at the sight, but not much I can do about the situation. I slip on a pair of bright pink Manolo’s then glance in the mirror.
Thank God for concealer because I can almost still make out the bags under my eyes. Without it, everyone would see that even my bags have bags.
I am exhausted. I need a freaking day off, but I can’t afford it. I have bills to pay, so I work at the off-the-beaten-path café four days a week, an upscale, trendy restaurant the other three days, while picking up as many shifts as I can between the two.
And I send in my resume to as many real estate, developers, and architect firms that I can. I’ve had a few interviews but when the only other firm you’ve worked for is Byers Development and Timothy Byers is your father, the doors get slammed pretty quickly. At least they do now. Once upon a time, it would have opened every door. Needless to say, most would probably consider me spoiled.
Maybe today’s interview with Schulz and Schuster will be different. Maybe today will be different. This job could be the end of my seven day/eighty-hour work week standing on my feet and the end of Top Ramen.
With a sigh, I grab my Gucci bag – the only one I have not pawned yet because I need to look the part at these interviews and step out of my Brooklyn flat to hail a cab. A cab I can’t afford but I haven’t been able to make myself take the subway. Even though it is more budget friendly, it gives me anxiety. Being underground incites my claustrophobia. Another trigger from high school after being locked in a tiny closet for hours.
I take a deep cleansing breath trying to think only positive thoughts when the cab stops in front of the tall building. I slip on my mask of confidence. It is a mask I’ve worn many times in my life, and today it is most definitely a mask because I am feeling anything but confident. I won’t let anyone see, however. I am prepared to show these people that I won’t be intimidated. That I am strong, capable, and perfect for the job.
I walk through the lobby to the elevators behind the security desk. A few others join me, and I press the buttons to our corresponding floors. My floor is the first reached and I exit into the eighth-floor lobby. I walk to the receptionist desk and announce myself.
The receptionist is a thick woman with her inky hair pulled back so tightly I’m not sure how she can blink, making her look harsh and severe. She is wearing a dull gray pant suit that washes out her sallow complexion and clashes with her eyes that are the exact same shade of gray.
She gives me a once over with an air of arrogance. I’m a little taken aback. Her eyes and expression so unwelcoming I almost cringe. The judgement she is passing as she takes me in is more than apparent. I give her a warm, self-assured smile. At least, I try to.
After she has announced I’m here, I take a seat in the clear plastic chairs that sit across from her desk. I take the time to really observe the aesthetics of the office space. It’s ultra-modern with sharp, clean lines and neutral colors. Glass walls separate the individual offices while black tile adorns the floor. A few simple black and white canvases with odd angles of skyscrapers hang on the one wall that isn’t glass. Unique fixtures hang from the ceiling with round globes to provide light.
It’s a design I hate. It’s cold and uninviting. But for reasons I will never understand it is the go-to for most offices. Especially offices in the business of architecture and design.
“Josephine Byers,” a tall woman with beautiful auburn hair wearing a sleek black skirt with a bright purple top and matching shoes says as she steps into the lobby.
“That’s me,” I say with a practiced smile. Warm without a lot of teeth. Just enough to be friendly without looking like an airhead. Poised and sophisticated is what my mother calls it.
“Follow me this way,” she says as she turns to walk.
I follow her down the long, sterile corridor of glass offices with another bout of nerves fluttering my stomach. With each step, more dread fills my gut.
I moved to New York a couple of months ago. A few weeks after the SEC raided my father’s firm, my family home, and my own apartment then quickly placed him and my fiancé, Robert, under arrest for securities fraud, investment fraud, mortgage fraud, and tax evasion. Byers Development was ruined in the span of an hour, and I, along with many others, was out of a job.
I knew no one in the entire state of California would hire me. My last name and place of employment would haunt me everywhere I went. There was no point in staying no matter how much my mother argued.
My mother, father, and even Robert thought I was supposed to stay in Los Angeles to support them. To proclaim their innocence. They thought I was a fool. The evidence was indisputable and very damning.
But I was naïve to think the scandal would be confined to California. It was nationwide news, and it has been proving to me how damaging and scandalous it really is with every rejection I receive. I suppose I should be grateful the media has left me alone so far. At least since I arrived in New York anyway. But it has been hard to stay upbeat about anything lately.
I step into one of the glass offices behind the woman who turns to me with an outstretched hand. “I’m Abigail Sawyer,” she tells me. “I’ll be conducting your interview.”
I accept her hand then politely decline her proffered drink and take a seat in front of her sleek glass top desk.
Jesus, what is with these people and glass?
In spite of the cold, glacial atmosphere, her warmth and genuine kindness make the entire proc
ess feel less stressful. The air is full of her sincerity wrapping around me like a blanket. It helps to soothe my frayed nerves just a bit.
After the standard run of the mill questions which I answered with my standard go-to responses, she inhales a big breath. I inhale one as well as I await what she has to say.
“Miss Byers, can I ask you why you want to work here?” she asks bluntly.
I look at her trying to hide the confusion I feel while feeling taken aback. I already fed her my typical, very well-rehearsed spiel, but I give it to her again.
Her eyes soften. She gives me another warm yet sad smile while keeping her tone firm. I work hard not to fidget in my seat. I never used to fidget in a professional environment. Very few things made me feel ill at ease, but I also never had to go on what feels like hundreds of interviews before now. I’ve never had to interview for a job in my life until now.
“Josephine – may I call you Josephine?”
“Please,” I insist, hoping that hearing my given name will alleviate the flipping of my stomach as I await what she has to say.
“Josephine, I want to be candid with you. On paper, you are perfect. Graduated from Stanford at the top of your class. A portfolio to die for.”
“Perfect, except for my last name and place of employment,” I admit openly. There isn’t much point in pretending I’m not aware of the issues surrounding me.
A chuckle escapes her. “I’m assuming we are not the only firm with which you’ve interviewed. Am I correct?”
“You assume correctly,” I sigh, my heart dropping further by the second, as I prepare myself for yet another rejection.
“I can’t speak officially for the other firms, of course, but I’d like to believe we’re all of a similar mind.”
“Which is?” I ask because I’m genuinely curious about her insight into why I’ve been rejected so much. Why the hell, if I’m so damn perfect on paper, can’t I get a job? If it’s not my last name and connection to Byers Development, then what could it possibly be?
