Midnight Special Read online

  MIDNIGHT SPECIAL

  BY: DAYA DANIELS

  CONTENTS

  Copyright

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Copyright@ 2017 by Daya Daniels

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any way, including electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or any other means without the explicit written permission of the author, except for brief quotations of the book when writing a review.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, incidents and even facts are the product of the author’s imagination. Wait a minute...especially facts. Any resemblance to actual people—alive, dead, or someplace in between—is completely by chance and likely in your head.

  The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. Holy hell, this is important. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  Let’s not forget! All song titles in this book are the property of the sole copyright owners.

  Acknowledgments

  Thank you first and foremost to the readers.

  Without you, my stories would have no audience.

  To my wonderful husband, I love you. Your support is priceless.

  Thank you to J. Zweifel for helping to make sure that all my words aren’t a jumbled mess on the page!

  You’re all fucking awesome!

  CHAPTER ONE

  Madison

  Whoever believed in the saying no regrets was a fucking dreamer. I! Had! Plenty!

  It was ten in the morning on the south side of Philadelphia—the City of Brotherly Love. The birds chirped and two squirrels scurried up a pine tree a few yards away from where I sat. This morning, the sun struggled to shine through the thick, grey cloud cover over the city. The weatherman announced that we would be ushering in the cold, September weather, which would blanket the state with snow for the next few months.

  I sat in the back seat of my car, pressing my forehead to the cool glass of the window next to me, watching the traffic go by on I-70. It would be a few minutes before Zita made it back. She’d run inside to grab our paychecks from the car wash where we both worked during the week in separate shifts. Unfortunately, my earnings for the week would dwindle to nothing after I bought groceries, paid part of my rent and put gas in the old piece of shit Saab I drove around in each day.

  When I thought about my reality, it only forced me to guzzle down the small bottle of wine that I grabbed from the liquor store just across the lot even faster. The sign above the stack of them, told me they were on special at $1.99 for two. I bought six—two for now and four for later. I drank them back to back, feeling the cold liquid settle in the pit of my stomach as I rested my head against the back window. I knew I wouldn’t survive the day that I wasn’t prepared for, if I didn’t narcotize myself in some way. I inhaled the frigid air that moved around in my lungs.

  I was twenty-six and a single mother now, after that coward Dominic, who was currently still my husband, left me with five kids—four boys and a girl. Dominic headed out the door one day just after lunch, claiming that he was going to the corner store for cigarettes and never came back. That was a year ago. So, either Dominic lost his way home or he’s dead. It doesn’t matter either way. I don’t want him back.

  I was trying desperately not to be a statistic. I worked two jobs. As of tonight, it would be three just to make sure we were able to eat, have a roof over our heads and stay off welfare.

  “Got ’em,” Zita said grabbing the driver’s side door handle and hopping in.

  Zita was my best friend. We were close which was strange because we’d only known each other for about a year. She lived in the apartment complex I rented and had two children of her own. We took turns babysitting each other’s kids for free, which was a godsend when daycare was so expensive.

  Usually, I worked the day shift and Zita worked nights, so one of us was always able to be there for them.

  Zita’s brown eyes looked me over as she tore open the envelopes eagerly. “Are you okay? Drinking before twelve is never a good thing.”

  I laughed, smoothing my long hair out of my face, not really caring for judgements.

  “I just needed something to settle my nerves.”

  Zita looked at me and smirked. “Mads, you will do fine. You’re already a dancer. The rest is just all show.”

  I sighed, draping a hand out of the window.

  “It’s been years since I’ve danced, Zita.”

  “You never lose it,” she said, glaring at me.

  I’d been dancing since I was a little girl—classically trained in ballet, jazz, tap and modern. I probably would have had a half-decent career if I hadn’t given it up to run away and marry the so-called love of my life Dominic Combs. What a disaster that turned out to be. Tonight, would be my first night on stage at The Red Room. It was a gentleman’s club of sorts. Zita got me the gig that supposedly paid well for three hours of dancing, which meant I could be home at least by three, before the kids even knew I was gone. I could get a few hours’ sleep and be up for work at the car wash again for seven.

  I was nervous as hell and my stomach seemed to be in the first stages of liquefication. It wasn’t the dancing that had me worried. It was the stringy gold outfit I had to wear that had my stomach in knots. It was also the glittery stars that I was supposed to put over my nipples while I shimmied around on stage in front of a bunch of strangers, in shoes that no human being should ever walk in.

  Zita joked that instead of looking at the audience that would be there tonight as strangers, see them as dollar bills. Men with faces made of green dollar bills. Naturally, I decided that’s what I would try and do but even then, I worried it wouldn’t work. I had to imagine all their greasy smiles and wishful groping only as paychecks that would simply keep my children fed and warm.

  Zita sighed, holding the check open. “Two hundred twelve dollars and ninety-nine cents net.”

  She shoved an envelope over to me. I took it lazily, unsealing the top of it to pull out the check.

  “Mine is a little more—three hundred twenty-three dollars and twelve cents.”

  “Fuck.”

  “We can pool it for the week.”

  Zita smiled. “Thanks, Mads. I appreciate it. I need to buy food.”

  “Maybe I’ll make some money tonight. It is Friday. Ralph said Fridays are the best nights for tips.”

  “I wish I could do what you’re doing but I don’t have the figure like you.”

  “Of course, you do.”

  Zita gave me a stern look. “Mads, I don’t. I’ve only had two kids and I’m out of shape, not to mention I need to get my boobs done—one is bigger than the other. I don’t know how you’ve managed to stay so fit and tiny after popping five of those life stealers out.”

  I choked out a laugh, taking another long gulp of wine and screwing the top back on. “I don’t know, maybe it’s the last bit of good luck I have,” I said, clearing my throat.

  Zita put the car in drive. I remained in the back seat as we pulled out on the highway.

  Ty

  I savored the steaming cup of coffee I’d just put to my lips that Gillian placed on my desk. I breathed in the deep aroma that was doing its best to wake me up this morning. I tasted it again and it was just right—made with one teaspoon of sugar and a little bit of milk.
>
  I swore Gillian did everything perfectly. She was nearly seventy years old but was just as efficient as someone fifty years younger than her. I knew my world would come crashing down if Gillian ever retired.

  It was nearly eleven in the morning. This week had been intensely busy and full of monotonous meetings, one after the other with no signs of letting up as another real estate acquisition was due to close soon. We were purchasing the portfolio of a smaller company, which had a lot of potential, if it hadn’t been so badly mismanaged financially.

  My overbearing father was on my back, so I knew everything needed to be done right. I would make him proud. Malcolm expected no less, after he’d spent a few hundred thousand dollars putting me through business school at Yale for seven years.

  I spun my desk chair around, peering out the window at the grey Philadelphia sky. It was Friday. My best friend, Patrick, had been hassling me for weeks about getting off work early and taking some time to relax. I was a workaholic, with not much else going on in my life.

  My cellphone dinged again for almost the fiftieth time this morning. The text in the subject line read: Party Tonight! I scoffed, placing my phone back down, taking another sip of my coffee. I wasn’t a big drinker and I hadn’t partied in a while. My idea of relaxing was far different than what my friends had in mind.

  After graduating from Yale, I took a position in my father’s company as his right-hand man, overseeing business development and whatever else he threw my way. Malcolm Westwood owned one of the biggest real estate development companies here in Philly. My father inherited this company, Westwood Industries, from his father and so forth. Now the company was nearly eighty-years old and was worth billions. It would be worth even more by the time it was handed down to me.

  I was thirty-years old and I made more money than I knew what to do with—courtesy of my father. I had no future plans and no girlfriend anymore. I had everything I could ever want, except for what I needed.

  Grabbing the silver frame at the corner of my desk, I looked over a picture of Whitney. We were embraced in a hug. Her blond hair cascaded over her shoulders in waves, as she snuggled closer to me. I didn’t know why I still had this picture on my desk. In one quick movement, I tossed it in the bin...finally.

  Whitney and I’d been together for almost five years through college at Yale. Naturally, my parents thought we would marry after graduating but by the time that happened, I couldn’t fucking stand Whitney. She was as snotty and upper crust as they came. Patrick described Whitney as an elitist bitch. I couldn’t argue the label he’d given her. Whitney wasn’t for me. My mother, Diana, loved everything about her. Diana and Whitney’s conversations circled around the country club, expensive vacations and designer clothes—all mindless blabber. Being around Whitney and my mother was like taking a succession of blows to the brain with a nail gun. I always left their company with a lingering headache.

  I usually spent my weekends an hour outside the city, in New Jersey at a cabin I owned just off Lake Absegami. It was the perfect way to unwind after a busy week, giving me a chance to shut off my phone and sink into nature, away from the city life.

  Picking up the phone again, I peered closer to the messages with a scowl on my face, realizing I was now involved in a group chat with Patrick and four other friends of mine—Rafe, Victor, Adam, and Brandon. I sighed. It looked like I would be forced into this tonight. Their suggestions were dinner at Field House on Filbert Street, which was a local sports bar and we’d go from there to one of Adam’s favorite places. I was certain his pick had something to do with writhing naked women, covered in oil.

  “Ty, we know you’re reading these,” read the message from Patrick.

  “Come on, fucker, don’t be such a pussy. I swear you fuck those files you stay buried in,” was the next message from Rafe.

  I quickly tapped out a message confirming that I would be there, specifically just to punch Rafe in the mouth for calling me a pussy.

  I slammed my phone back down on the desk and scrolled through a few emails.

  “Ty, you have a twelve o’clock lunch with your father,” Gillian said peeking her head into my office.

  I took a long breath. “Anywhere you think will be good,” I said.

  The last thing I was interested in was having lunch with my father today. All Malcolm usually talked about was money and the company, then his prized race horses. Then money again and the company. In that exact order.

  I ran a hand over the stubble that had formed along my jawline after I’d been too lazy to shave this morning. I needed a fucking vacation from this place. I checked my watch again, noticing nearly a half hour had passed by while I was daydreaming. I stood and shrugged into my suit jacket.

  “I booked Barclay Prime on 237 South. I told them you needed to be out by one.” Gillian winked.

  “Thanks,” I said giving her a wide grin and heading out the door.

  Ty

  “Tyler,” Malcolm said giving me a stern look across the table.

  The moniker stunned me. My father only called me that when he was upset.

  “I called this lunch, hoping I could talk to you, son. I had a call from Whitney’s father.”

  I groaned, spreading my linen napkin in my lap.

  “Ty, please just listen. I know that you and Whitney have had your ups and downs over the years but you both belong together, you know that.”

  I took a long sip of the vodka tonic in front of me, hoping the alcohol in it would simply drown out Malcolm’s voice, which I knew was only wishful thinking. He twisted his face and sighed. I knew where this was going.

  Whitney’s parents and my own had always been friends. It was almost as if the two pairs had matched us from birth. I was convinced the fact that we’d broken up bothered them more than it actually bothered Whitney and me—I hoped. Whitney skirted around her real intention but the frequency of her phone calls and drop-ins, claiming to see my father, made me believe that the split bothered her more than she let on.

  “Tyler, I just think that you should think about your future. You are going to be a very important man soon.”

  I laughed, looking around the five-star Michelin restaurant that was filled with businessmen and wealthy politicians. They usually just came here for the steak and hoping to get sloshed, so that they could spend the rest of the day completely inebriated. Today, I was included in that group.

  “I have thought about my future, Dad.”

  “And.”

  “And, it’s wide open. I have no real plans.”

  “Marriage.”

  I laughed, adjusting the silk tie around my neck that felt like it was strangling me. This conversation was strangling me. Fuck, life felt like it was strangling me.

  “I just think Whitney has changed and your mother seems to think so too.”

  The waitress returned, putting our plates down. I looked over the two porterhouse steaks that Malcolm ordered before I could even ask for what I wanted. It was a heavy lunch that I didn’t want but I didn’t complain. The meal was rushed, just as Gillian requested. I would be out of here in about a half hour if I didn’t explode before then.

  “I just imagined you married by now, Ty. Your mother and I aren’t getting any younger.”

  “I know, Dad, but I’m not marrying Whitney. We’re not a good fit.”

  Malcolm knotted his brows, shoving the white linen napkin in the collar of his shirt, in a jerky comical gesture. Then he began to cut into his steak methodically.

  “Your mother and I weren’t a good fit.”

  I huffed, picking up my glass, looking at the waitress.

  “You both still aren’t,” I said giving my father a steely gaze.

  Malcolm sighed. “I know what you think, Ty, but it works for us.”

  I chuckled and shook my head, wondering where was my fucking drink. I lifted my eyes only to look into Malcolm’s glare. It amazed me how much alike we looked. In pictures of my father, I was the splitting image of him at my ag
e. Malcolm was tall and built with brown eyes and dark-brown hair cut short. We had the same smile that showed off one faint dimple in our left cheeks. I’d been told as a teenager by a few of my female friends that Malcolm was considered to be one of those dads they would sleep with if given the chance. The whole idea made my skin crawl. Even now my father had no problem scoring younger women, considering his age.

  I ran a hand through my hair, linking my hands behind my head and watched my father eat.

  “I know you think your mother and I haven’t had a good marriage, Ty, but we do love each other, regardless of the fights.”

  Malcolm and Diana had to be the most dysfunctional couple alive. Since I was probably a teenager, they’d been unhappily married. Still, they refused to get divorced. Image was everything to my parents. Even if they were unhappy with each other within the walls of our over-the-top home, no one who stood on the outside would be any the wiser. It was all peaches and cream.

  I took another bite of the steak, nibbling on a perfectly caramelized piece of onion wondering how the chef managed to get it that way. It was a recipe I knew I would need to try on the weekend. Gesturing towards the woman who stood in the corner of the restaurant, wearing an apron, I asked her for the menu only mouthing the words.

  “Can you ask the chef to scribble down the recipe for this sauce?” I asked pointing into my plate.

  The woman gave me a strange look and nodded. “I think I can, sir. I’ll be right back,” she said darting off.

  I focused on tasting the sauce once again, delighting in the subtle taste of red wine and garlic.

  Malcolm shook his head watching me. “Tyler, are you listening to me?”

  “Yes,” I said smiling when the waitress placed another vodka tonic next to me.

  Discreetly, she passed me a small piece of paper. I unfolded it, looking over the recipe. The note listed, “shallots, vinegar, rosemary, red wine, knob of butter then reduce, reduce, reduce,” the instructions read. I smiled looking it over again, then shoved it in my pocket.