Hard Redemption: A Second Chance Romantic Comedy

by Emily J. Wright

  HARD REDEMPTION

  Emily J. Wright

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, email to author_ejwright@aol.com

  Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, place and incident are the product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, event, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2018

  Dedication

  To all those who believe in love and second chance.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 1

  I was getting ready in the back alley for video call with my five-year-old daughter—Casey. I painted a portion of the wall to give the background an office-alike look. I wore a business suit, a tie, and glasses for a little professional touch. I did everything I could then think of.

  The last I saw Casey—she was two hours old, crying in her mother’s arms as I was being handcuffed by the cops.

  The look on my wife’s face was difficult to explain in a single word.

  Confused.

  Terrified.

  Shocked.

  Her face was one big ol’ question mark as if she was asking me whether I was being arrested for making the cutest baby ever—or was it illegal to sell too many insurance policies.

  I could have averted my arrest and carried on with my life as it was—but I chose not to, and faced the music like a man.

  Oh, shoot! Where are my manners? I forgot to introduce myself.

  By the way, I am Duke Kingsley. And this is the story of my life—which was no less than a finely scripted telenovela.

  I came from nothing. No family. Terrible childhood. But I found my niche in the burglary. Staking the houses at day and burgling them at night.

  I was good at my job; it came naturally to me. Spray painting the security camera, cutting the power, entering someone else’s home as if it were my own, and taking whatever I fancy.

  I began earning quite well in no time. My adulthood was somewhat of a smooth sail from then until . . . I fell in love with Amber.

  I had to change my career after I met her. It was necessary. I couldn’t stake, rob and date her at the same time.

  After a long, hard thought about my future, I decided to be a conman. It had a rush of its own, though not quite thrilling compared to breaking and entering.

  Not my every con was successful, but yours truly was never caught once.

  My phone started to ring; it was my daughter. I positioned myself before the painted area of the wall and answered her.

  “Daddy,” Casey chirped.

  She was a happy, little soul. Always laughing, giggling, and making everybody around her joyful. She was the best daughter anyone could ask for.

  Sometimes, I imagined her at her granddad’s funeral—skipping rope and singing children’s song in her thin voice. I could do it myself, but she had a better chance of getting away with it.

  I HATE MY FATHER-IN-LAW.

  “Oh, look at how grown up you are,” I said in a playful voice and kissed my phone screen multiple times.

  It was not as good as actually holding her, but it got the job done.

  I looked at my phone when I was done pestering it with my kisses and asked, “How are you?”

  “I am fine, Daddy,” she said in her angelic voice while scratching her itchy zit.

  Like a loving father, I stopped her from doing that. “No, no . . . don’t pop it off. It would leave a mark.” I was concerned. I didn’t want any zit marks on my daughter.

  “It’s so itchy,” she complained. She wanted to give it a hard rub—I could see it in her eyes.

  But I diverted her attention with every woman, girl, or granny’s favorite compliment: “Your hair looks amazing.”

  “Thanks, Daddy. Mom is using a new conditioner on it . . .”

  She was proud of her mother—and so was I—for taking care of her in my absence.

  “. . . and they smell good too,” she said while taking a long whiff of her blonde hair.

  “I bet they do.” I wanted nothing more than to be there with her, and be a judge of it myself.

  But—I couldn’t.

  “Daddy . . . when are you coming home?” Playtime was over, and she reached straight for my jugular.

  Casey and I shared the same vision of living together as one happy family, but the chances of that happening were getting slim with each passing day. Amber was breathing down my neck to sign the divorce papers, and I was struggling to make ends meet.

  I yet again gave false hope to Casey like I always did. “Soon, I promise.”

  “You said the same thing last time.” Her tone turned disappointing—and not cheerful anymore.

  “This time—it’s different,” I lied some more, “I have received a big order of supplying fish in the tri-state area.”

  “You have!” A ray of sunshine was back on my daughter’s face.

  I didn’t know what I was thinking. Fish! I didn’t even like fish back then. But, I could have done anything at that time to bring back the big smile on her face.

  “Am I gonna lie to you . . . ?” I was assertive in my approach; it was what made me a successful conman. “I was on the phone with my realtor this morning instructing him to find a sweet home for my sweet little princess’s worth living.”

  I was ashamed of myself for lying to my daughter, but sometimes, it’s better to have a false hope rather than a heartbreak.

  “I love you,” she said with a big smile—too broad for her cheekbones.

  I would surely have done some good deeds in my life—not this one, but perhaps in one of my past lives—to be blessed with a daughter like her. I loved her so much.

  I suddenly heard my wife’s voice from the other side of the phone. “Are you talking to your father again?” She caught Casey talking to me.

  Amber hated me more than Bin-laden. Guess, I deserved it for not telling her who she was marrying to.

  I quickly turned my phone camera off to cut off the visual. Amber was smart—had a college degree—and would have easily known the reality of so-called office wall.

  “Duke!” Amber called my name like she was throwing a stone at me.

  “Hello,” I said with a nervous chuckle, “How is my lovely wife?”

  “Shut up!” She was in no mood to partake in my shenanigans and asked point-blank, “Have you signed the divorce papers yet?”

  There came the question she had been asking me for years. And I responded the same that I had been doing for years.

  “No, I don’t have the papers with me anymore. I lost it when I moved to my new place.”

  I lied a
gain. I had already torn it into pieces and scattered them on the rooftop of my building.

  “I knew you would say something like that; that’s why I sent them again at the shit-hole you call your apartment. Read it, sign it and deliver it back to me by Monday—or else.”

  I had dodged the divorce bullet plenty of times in the past couple of years, but she had never resorted to threatening me like that.

  I had to inquire whether her threats were empty or had some firepower. And I casually asked, “Or else?”

  “I’ll come to Brooklyn myself, and file a petition with a judge to finalize the divorce.”

  She sounded really serious that time. She had sworn to never step foot back to the place where her heart was crushed by a monster—but was then up to break her swear.

  “It wouldn’t come to that.”—I reassured her and then took a deep sigh—“I’ll sign it . . . eventually . . . in a couple of days.”

  She got overly frustrated on hearing the same excuse I always made whenever that topic resurfaced. No wonder she wasn’t ready to back off just yet and gave me an earful after that.

  “That’s what you always say. Days turn into weeks, weeks to months, and then it’s a year, and you conveniently lose the papers—”

  “What’s the rush?” I tried to know the reason for her being mad at me—apart from the fact that I lied, broke her heart, and made her the first victim of my con.

  “I am getting married next month.”

  Her reply made my world came crashing down. I always thought somehow, someday, we’ll work out our issues and end up together. That news popped something in the back of my head, and I leaned against the wall and descended to the ground.

  “Are you listening to me, Duke? . . . Duke . . . I am getting married next month, Duke. You hear me?” She broke the news of her marriage again and again either to spite me or churn a response out of me.

  “I heard you the first time,” I said with a deep exhale as my eyes started to tear up. I tried to power through the sniffles coming along the way and dared to ask, “Who is the lucky guy?”

  “Walter.”

  “What?! What?! That chipmunk, Walter?” That was the biggest shock of my life—and I was once tasered in the penis. I stood up in shock and stated, “He is not worthy of you.” Like she was going to listen to me?

  “And you were . . . ?” Her burning hatred for me pierced my heart on the spot. “At least he knows how to take care of his family without breaking into someone else’s home.”

  Yep—there was no coming back for me from that. She landed a knockout blow and made me shut up.

  “Just sign the papers,” she said with a deep sigh. “It’s in everybody’s interest.”

  And she hung up the phone and left me senseless.

  I was standing in the back alley with seven dollars to my name. No career prospect. And no way of getting my family back.

  Life threw me another curve ball as if what happened five years ago wasn’t enough.

  I chose to repent for my crimes. Did time. Became a good citizen. But what did I get?

  I paid the ultimate price by losing the love of my wife and was separated from my lovely daughter.

  “Damn it!” I started kicking the garbage can in frustration as if it was my arch nemesis.

  The back door of the establishment next door opened and my boss yelled at me like always, “Knock it off! Your break is over. Get back inside.”

  That pot-bellied, lard-ass, big old slob was Herman—my soul-sucking boss, and a real S.O.B.

  He was the owner of a restaurant where food was cheap, and quality—cheapest. He had some excellent recipes up his sleeve, and somewhat, semi-working business mind. It’s unlikely anyone—except Herman—could prepare pigeon meat with such delicacy and flavor to sell it as chicken.

  “I don’t know why I hire ex-convicts like you.” He reminded each one of us how he was our messiah for giving us a job.

  “Because we are off the books and work below minimum wage.” I usually let his comment slide—but not that day.

  I loosened my tie, removed the blazer, and went inside the kitchen to slip into an apron.

  Yes. I lied to my daughter. I am not proud of it—or, be good at it. But I couldn’t tell her that I waited table at a restaurant. It wasn’t because of what I do, but because of my earnings. Which compared to the hooker of our alley—made me a peasant, and her a royalty.

  Sometimes, I thought I was better leading the life of a small-time criminal. I tried to get myself back in the game a few times, but every time I returned back with guilt. Casey’s face appeared before my eyes whenever I tried to do something bad. After all, it was she who made me a better man in the first place.

  I was clearing the table 7 off of dirty dishes when a lady walked in the restaurant and sat on table 13. I moved to take the order from her but was surprised to see an African-American woman sitting there.

  It wasn’t a racist thing—mind you. If people close to me knew anything about me—I was anything but a racist.

  My surprise actually came from the fact that she was obviously lost. Why would a woman that rich, beautiful, cultured and sophisticated ever come there to dine?

  And she was fearless, too. Yes, indeed. The way she was wearing diamond earrings and pearl necklace at a place where Braveheart would think twice to bring his sword—did make her fearless in my books.

  “Good morning,” I greeted and handed over the menu to her,” I am Duke, your server.”

  “Duke, mmm,” she mumbled my name trying to make sense of it and then looked at my face, “it means a nobleman.”

  “Well, if you knew my last name, you would call me your highness,” I said with a smile to charm her from the beginning in order to get a big tip at the end.

  She was then overly keen and excited to know my last name. “What’s your last name?”

  “It’s Kingsley,” I replied as I flipped the writing pad to take her order.

  “Duke Kingsley—the name suits your personality. It’s a well-given name.” She was not at all surprised that even though I was an American, my name was British.

  “It has done wonders for me. Look at how well I am doing in my life.” I was sarcastic, but she only smiled as if she knew something about me that I didn’t know myself. “Anyhow, can I take your order?” I asked when I caught my boss-cum-cashier giving me a stink eye for talking with a customer for too long.

  She looked at the menu, and then straight into my eyes. “What’s good here?”

  “Everything,” I told her what I was supposed to say to customers, but I could see that she wasn’t convinced at all with my lie.

  “Is the soup freshly prepared?” She did the same thing again—asked the question and then a straight look into my eyes.

  I couldn’t tell her the truth that we had stored packets of soup from last week in the deep freezer; so, I improvised. “Absolutely. It is prepared in a fresh and hygienic condition when the order is received.”

  “What about Risotto?”

  The same thing happened again. She asked. I lied. And then she moved on to the next item on the menu. I had started to believe that she was a walking, talking lie detector—or, she was reading my mind.

  She finally decided on and gave her order after five minutes. “A bowl of chili, please.”

  And I was not at all surprised that she ordered the only item on the menu that was freshly prepared that morning and didn’t taste like utter shit.

  “Good choice.” I appreciated her pick and went back to the kitchen to bring her the chili.

  When I was coming out of the kitchen, I saw her looking at me which spooked me a little. It would definitely sound weird, but for a moment, her eyes were all milky white. I could have sworn that there were no eyeballs, but when I got closer, her big sparkling black eyes were there. I paid not much attention to that incident as I believed I might not be feeling well after hearing that morning’s bad news.

  “There you go.” I served her order a
nd was about to go back when she called my name.

  “Duke—it won’t be long. Bring me the check.”

  “Right away, Ma’am.”

  I was certainly hoping her to turn out as one of the upstanding members of society who tipped big on the small order to maintain their social stature.

  I returned shortly with the check, and as I was handing it over her, our fingers grazed each other.

  And I felt a spark.

  Not the sexual one. Not the romantic one that I experienced when I was with Amber.

  It was an actual shock.

  I looked at my hand and she hers.

  “Duke Kingsley—your Venus has turned retrograde pushing you ahead in your life.” She seemed possessed and went on blabbering something about the nine planets. “Mars, Jupiter and Mercury are in conjunction and are turning the tides of your luck—”

  “That’s good to know,” I said with restrained voice as I didn’t know how to react to her bullshit.

  “Saturn is happy with how you repented for your sins,” she continued. “It has been a long road of redemption for you which is finally coming to an end. It’s time to reap the benefits. . . . Keep an eye on the fish.”

  And she was back from trance—or probably fooling me into believing that she was really in a trance before. Which I couldn’t care any less.

  “I would appreciate if you hurry up a little. I have to wait on other tables.”

  “Not for long—it’s your last day here,” she said confidently while going through her Gucci bag. “I assume you bore with me for a big tip—but I am not going to give you any.”

  What a bitch?

  “You can call me a bitch.”

  Did I say out loud what I was thinking? No, it just can’t be!

  “I could have tipped you, but trust me—you don’t need it. Right now—you need this more than a couple of extra bucks.”

  She handed me a card, and I couldn’t help but snigger when I read it. It was the visiting card of one of the biggest jeweler downtown.

  Perhaps I was wrong; she wasn’t a mentalist. If she were, she would have known better before handing over that card to the man with a total net worth of seven dollars.