Broken Halo

by Dayo Benson

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Sign up for Updates

  From the Back Cover

  Quote

  Colby

  Chapter 1

  Chloe

  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

  From the Author

  Sign up for Updates

  Links

  About Dayo Benson

  Saints and Sinners 1

  The Carter Family

  Dayo Benson

  Copyright

  Broken Halo: Saints and Sinners 1

  © Copyright 2018 by Dayo Benson

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without written permission from the author. The only exception is brief quotations in a book review.

  Visit the author's website at www.dayobenson.com

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  Click Here to join Dayo Benson's VIP reader's group and receive an email alert the minute she has a new book out.

  From the Back Cover

  What do you call a knight in shining armor if the knight is a woman?

  Colby:

  I'm trying not to stare at this blonde knockout when I get robbed.

  I don't expect the blonde to chase the thief, blast him with pepper spray, and retrieve my money.

  And that's how I met Chloe Campbell.

  The last thing I need is my lady knight thinking she can save me in other ways. I certainly don't want to start believing that she can.

  She's everything I want in a woman, but she must be missing some vital self-preservation instincts because she thinks she's in love with me.

  I'm a stark sinner whose future is a big, fat black hole.

  If she was like many girls her age, she would have heard of me. I'm pretty famous among that demographic.

  But she has no idea who I am.

  Chloe:

  Colby is a bundle of secrets packaged as a drop-dead gorgeous, 'he belongs on movie screens' man.

  I have every reason to walk away and forget that we ever met:

  1. He's out of my league.

  2. He doesn't seem to want anything to do with me.

  3. I'm engaged. To a pastor, no less.

  This feels like a disaster waiting to happen.

  But it might be just what I need.

  Falling from grace was never Chloe's plan. Finding his way back to God was never Colby's.

  Could God be trying to get their attention?

  "My sheep know my voice, and I know them. They follow me,"

  (John 10:27 - CEV)

  Chapter 1

  There's so much evil in this world and I'm part of it.

  My gun is loaded and pure adrenaline is coursing through my veins.

  I can't do it anymore. I can't serve my bosses anymore. It's been seven years of this soul-destroying lifestyle. My heart is empty. My soul is dead.

  I should never have let myself get mixed up in this kind of business to begin with. I'm smart. I was a straight-A student in high school.

  Until that night.

  After that night, everything changed. My older brother, Hudson, took the blame for my mistake and went to jail. And I knew I had no right to excel in life while he suffered for a crime he didn't commit. So I stopped trying.

  I found a job that made my life a daily purgatory and reinforced my decision to turn my back on God. It's what I deserve. It's what my hypocritical Pentecostal preacher father deserves. And I hope I'm making God mad enough to just strike me dead sometime. That would be justice.

  But there has been no lightning strike yet.

  I'm sinking into deeper despair with each passing day.

  God, why haven't You killed me? I ask. Don't I deserve it?

  I have a Bible app on my cell phone. I read it whenever I get like this. The urge to read it is strong right now. But I don't want to give in. I always happen to find an encouraging verse and start feeling better. I don't want to feel better. I want the end.

  I look at my gun, lying on the passenger's seat of my Aston Martin. Everyone who sees me in this car looks at me in either admiration or envy. They don't know there's nothing admirable or enviable about my life.

  It's broad daylight and I'm in my car in a pretty busy part of town. I want someone to find me after I'm gone.

  My cell phone lies beside the gun.

  I want to pick up the gun. But there's this check in my heart that won't let me.

  I pick up the cell phone instead.

  I tap into the Bible app and see that today's recommended reading is Judges 6:36-40. I read the verses. They're about Gideon putting out a fleece. They don't apply to my life. It's totally abstract.

  I grab my gun with my other hand as I read the commentary on those verses. Putting out a fleece is a sign of unbelief. Gideon had already seen an angel. He'd already had lots of confirmations that he was God's chosen deliverer for Israel. Yet, he wanted further evidence.

  I snort. I hate Bible commentaries and devotionals. The writers think they know everything about God. They write with such authority. They make me think of my father and his hardline preaching. He preaches like he's perfect and knows everything there is to know.

  Nobody, not even preachers and theologians, knows everything. And just because something might not be what a perfect, faith-filled, super Christian would do, that doesn't mean doing it is forbidden.

  So what if Gideon's fleece tests were a sign of unbelief? God obliged him, didn't He?

  The way I see it: when people try to be too perfect around God and do everything just right, they miss out on hearing from God and encountering Him in special ways.

  Besides, why should a child have to be perfect in order to gain his father's love and approval? What is love that is given as a result of your perfection worth?

  Absolutely nothing.

  I would know. I have such a father.

  I decide that putting out a fleece is exactly what I need to do.

  I stare through my car window at the people walking around, going about their lives. Happy people that I envy. Stressed people that I still envy. Stress is good. It means you have obligations and responsibilities. It means you're alive. It means you still feel.

  I'm not stressed.

  I'm dead inside. I no longer feel anything.

  God, I'm giving you ten minutes to tell me whether I should end my life, or not.

  I wonder what further clauses to add. I need something specific. If it doesn't happen, I'll know God doesn't care. I'll know I'm beyond redemption. Rejected by God.

  What fleece should I put out?

  It has to be a totally unreasonable fleece that would definitely take an act of God to happen. I don't want coincidence. I don't want to be unsure as to whether God is at work, or not.

  God, I want someone to ask me if I'm okay.

  It has to be a woman.

  And her name has to begin with 'C', like mine.

  Just then, a burn-your-eyes-out-beautiful woman walks past my car.

  I'm in the middle of a serious, life-and-death conversation with God, but my eyes follow her. I can't help it. I'm a dude. And not a very uprigh
t one. I stare at hot chicks.

  I could stare at this one all day long.

  Her springy, blond curls bob with each step she takes. She has a serious look in her blue eyes. She's dressed down in sweatpants, a hoodie, and sneakers.

  She rakes a hand through her curls and I'm riveted.

  She's pretty.

  No. Pretty doesn't even begin to describe this chick. She is a knockout.

  I already don't like her. I'm attracted to her, but I don't like her.

  I've met lots of women like her. Hot, overbearing cheaters.

  Being beautiful doesn't make a woman a cheat, I tell myself.

  I watch her cross the road and stand in line at an ATM.

  She needs money!

  I jump and hit my thighs against my steering wheel.

  Those words were almost like a shout in my head.

  I blink a few times and look around.

  No one is here.

  Nobody spoke.

  I didn't hear it out loud. I heard it in my heart.

  Was it God?

  Why would God speak to me?

  He never has before. At least, not like that.

  I look across the road at the girl.

  Well, of course, she needs money. She's standing in line at a blasted ATM.

  Are you simply stating the obvious, God?

  I shake my head. Do I—messed-up sinner that I am—really believe I'm having a conversation with God?

  Somehow, I've never read a Bible commentary or an article by a respected preacher that said God shouts obvious statements in the minds of suicidal human junk like me.

  The girl is looking down at something on her left hand. A ring?

  I don't care if she needs money. God and I are supposed to be talking about me and my life right now.

  Still, that shout is echoing in my mind and I feel like something is prodding my heart.

  I'm suddenly so restless that I get out of my car.

  Here's my fleece, God. I want a woman whose name begins with 'C' to ask me if I'm okay. Then, I'll know that You're out there and that You care about me and don't want me to put myself out of my misery.

  I notice a church across the road. There are people outside handing out tracts. Most are women. If I walk that way it's possible I'll be asked if I'm okay by a woman whose name begins with 'C'. I'm not about to make this easy for God.

  I'll give that blond chick some money. She won't ask me if I'm okay. She's probably self-absorbed. And if she's broke, she won't care about what's going on with a stranger. She'll only be thinking about her finances.

  Her name probably doesn't begin with a 'C' either.

  But who knows?

  I head over to the ATM and stand behind the blond.

  Should I try to strike up a conversation?

  I've been shot down by hot girls more times than I care to count and I've been burned by angel-faced cheats, so I'm not even going there.

  I'm not looking for a relationship here, I tell myself. I'm just putting out a fleece.

  Still, I can't do it.

  I'm not going to speak to her, God. If You want me to give her some money, You have to set that up.

  Chapter 2

  My dream guy would be rough around the edges rather than perfect.

  He would be easygoing rather than super organized, nitpicking over every minute detail of everything.

  And he would love the arts.

  Timothy is none of these things.

  I look down at the engagement ring on my finger. The ring is beautiful. An oval-shaped diamond sitting on a sterling silver band. It fits a little too tight, though. I don't know why. It's supposed to be my size.

  And I'm supposed to be happy.

  But I only feel trapped.

  Trapped is not the feeling I want right now, I tell myself. I have a stage play tonight.

  When I get into my car, I'm going to have to pump my fists and do my 'getting-into-the-zone' routine; become the miller's daughter in Rumpelstiltskin.

  Tonight is the last show. I've been starring in it since July. Three months. I no longer need to rehearse the lines or even think about my gestures, facial expressions, or tone of voice. It comes naturally at this point.

  A gust of wind blows orange, fallen leaves and gospel tracts across my sneakers. The woman using the ATM finishes and the man in front of me steps forward to use it. I dig my fingers into my pockets and glance at the church across the road.

  It has a big sign that says 'Jesus Loves You'. Out front, a couple of people are handing out tracts. I don't know why they're bothering. People are accepting them only to toss them on the ground after a quick glance.

  I know that Jesus loves me. However, love is one of those words that I know is positive but have only ever experienced in a negative way. Mom and Nana love me; that's why they've always been so hard on me. If that's their love, I would hate to be on the receiving end of their hatred.

  Timothy, supposedly, loves me; that's why he doesn't support my passion for acting and thinks I should focus of getting a 'real' job. Never mind that I've landed small parts in dozens of TV shows, starred in stage plays, been in a plethora of commercials, and am paying my own college tuition with the proceeds from my so-called 'non-viable' acting career.

  In my experience, love is an excuse to treat people badly.

  I'm tough with you because I love you.

  I refuse to support your passion because I love you and want better for you.

  I force my opinion on you because I love you and I'm trying to save you from bad decisions.

  Mom's and Nana's 'loving control' was worse when we lived in South Africa. I'm a missionary kid.

  I look away from the 'Jesus Loves You' poster and rake a hand through my unruly curls.

  I don't know why I haven't rebelled. Yet.

  Now that I'm in college, I live six hundred miles away from Mom and Nana. I have for four years now. Still, I attend church every Sunday without fail—unless I have a very good reason not to. Still, I adhere to all the rules: no drinking, no partying, no sex. Still, I toe the line.

  I'm a Christian.

  I'm too afraid not to be.

  I don't want to ruin my life like Mom did before she became a serious Christian.

  I rub my thumb over the diamond on my engagement ring and let out a sigh. I don't know whether I should bother praying about the whole engagement situation. Timothy is 'perfect'. And Mom is always saying I should consider myself lucky that he wants me.

  But I pray anyway.

  God, I don't know if marrying Timothy is the right thing for me. If it isn't, please send me the right guy.

  The man in front of me steps away from the ATM and I step forward. I have ten dollars in my account. Actually, I have minus one thousand, nine hundred and ninety dollars. When I withdraw this ten dollars, it'll be minus two thousand. And that's my overdraft limit. After that I won't be able to withdraw any more.

  But I'm expecting two hundred and fifty dollars next week from a gig I did yesterday, playing an extra in a soap opera. And then I'm getting a pretty hefty paycheck at the end of the month. It will be going straight towards my tuition and rent.

  My cell phone buzzes as the machine spits out my last ten dollars. Or, I should say, the last ten dollars that my bank is willing to loan me. I tuck it into my wallet.

  A man in a thick, brown sweater is waiting to use the ATM. He's pretty big. His sweater looks nice and warm, unlike my threadbare hoodie that is doing nothing to keep out the chill in the air.

  I step out of his way as I answer my phone. "Hey, Mom."

  "Hello, Chloe. I called you last night."

  I say nothing. I ignored her call. I was upset over my engagement and knew she just wanted to tell me why it's the right thing for me.

  "Oh, Chloe," Mom says. "Timothy is a good man. He'll take good care of you."

  We've been over this a hundred times. I feel like an invisible noose has latched around my neck.

  Just then, the man who
used the ATM after me steps away from the machine. Before he can put his money in his pocket, a guy with a hood over his head appears from nowhere, grabs his cash from his hand, and punches him square in the chest.

  The guy falls over.

  I'm shocked and completely horrified.

  The thief begins to run. I don't think twice before taking off after him. Thankfully, I'm wearing sneakers and joggers.

  "I have to go," I tell Mom. I stuff my phone into my pocket as I run.

  My hair is flying around my face. I dig a hairband from my purse and tie it back as best as I can while running. I also tuck my engagement ring into my pocket. I have pepper spray in my purse. That thief deserves a blast in the eyes.

  The thief glances over his shoulder and looks shocked to see me chasing.

  "Stop!" I shout. "Give that money back!"

  He cusses me out and begins to run even faster.

  He's much taller than I am and has long legs. One of his strides is probably equivalent to three of mine.

  "Stop that man," I shout to the people around. "He's a thief."

  Most people look like they don't know whether to get involved or stay out of it.

  What is wrong with people?

  The thief turns a corner. I follow. "Stop him!" I scream. "He's stolen someone's money."

  The thief looks over his shoulder at me again, and throws a rock. I dodge it, and then pick it up and continue to run.

  He glances back again. Because he isn't looking where he's going, he slams into a streetlight. He's dazed for a moment, but not for long. He begins to run again. But this time, he's not as fast.

  I throw the rock. I'm proud of the way it whacks him square between his shoulder blades. He stumbles, but continues to run. Then he trips over his own feet.

  He lands on his butt.

  Before he can get up again, I'm upon him.

  He pushes me away and is about to stand, but I whip out my pepper spray and spray it in his face for all I'm worth.