Desperately Seeking Epic Read online

  DESPERATELY SEEKING EPIC

  Copyright © 2016 Brandy Toler

  www.bntoler.com

  All Rights Reserved

  Cover Design: Cover to Cover Designs

  Cover Photo: pablopicasso

  Editing: Eagle Eye Reads

  Formatting: Integrity Formatting

  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.

  To my most epic adventures.

  Jackson, Gracey, and Brey.

  I love you.

  Dedication

  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

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Epilogue

  Dearest Readers

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Connect Online

  Other Books by B.N. Toler

  DESPERATELY SEEKING EPIC

  You’re my father.

  I don’t know much about you. I know your name is Paul James, you’re a thrill seeker, and once upon a time you did stunts and people called you ‘Epic.’

  I’ve been told you don’t know about me. That it’s complicated.

  But for me it’s simple.

  Here’s the thing: I’m twelve years old . . . and I’m dying.

  And as much as this could crush my mother, I have to meet you before I go.

  In time, I’m sure she’ll understand. She’s still in love with you.

  So, Epic, if you read this, please come back. You don’t have to be my dad. You don’t even have to tell me you love me or you’re sorry. Just come see me.

  Patiently waiting, but running out of time,

  Neena

  The coffee mug in my hand crashes to the ground, cracking in half, the brown liquid splashing my bare legs.

  “She didn’t,” I gasp.

  Ignoring the sting from the coffee droplets dripping down my legs, I hustle to the counter where the small television is and turn up the volume. My favorite morning show, This World, This Morning, is on. The blonde news anchor, Veronica Marsh, sits across from her co-anchor, Brett Adams, a large screen behind them depicting a Craigslist ad titled: Desperately Seeking Epic.

  “This,” Veronica swivels in her chair and motions to the screen, “just breaks my heart, Brett.”

  “Mine, too,” Brett agrees. “This Craigslist ad was posted four days ago and has spread among social media like wildfire. This World, This Morning is working diligently to locate the author of this ad because we’d love nothing more than to help her find her father.”

  “That’s right,” Veronica chimes in. “So if any of you know this young girl or a Paul James that goes by the name ‘Epic,’ go to our website and email us. And, Neena . . .” Cringing, I listen as Veronica says my daughter’s name, her tone full of intent, “If you’re watching this, we’d love to have you on the show.”

  Hitting the power button, I spin around with the intention of bolting up to Neena’s bedroom and giving her the verbal thrashing of her life, but I slip on the coffee I spilled two minutes prior, landing hard on my ass.

  With a groan, I move slowly to my knees, attempting to pull myself up, but can’t seem to complete the task. I don’t do happily ever after echoes somewhere deep inside of me. Even the memory of those words is like a hard punch to the gut. From out of nowhere, a sob bubbles up and bursts free from my chest. How could she do this? And why wouldn’t she have asked me first? My body shakes as I continue to cry, the images of Paul flickering through my mind like a TV channel with poor reception; quick, and not nearly long enough to really understand. Which is Paul down to a T. You only ever get a taste, and it’s never enough.

  I nearly jump out of my skin when someone lightly touches my shoulder. When I jerk my gaze up, Neena’s red and swollen eyes meet mine as she flops to her knees on the floor near me.

  “Don’t,” I sniffle. “The floor is sticky and you’ll get your pajama pants wet. Please look out for pieces of my mug. I broke it.” And I point to where the mug lay in front of us.

  She ignores me and sidles closer. “I’m so sorry, Mama,” she whimpers after a moment. I forget about the coffee and pull her in, hugging her tightly. I’m mad—mad as hell. But I can’t watch her unravel, not now, not when there’s so little time left. “I didn’t know they’d put it on a television show.”

  “I know that, honey. But now it’s out there. They’ll find him.”

  Pulling away, she wipes at her nose with her forearm. “But that’s a good thing.”

  I exhale slowly as I stand, then bend down and help her to her feet. I have no way to explain how not good it is if they find him. She’s a hopeful child with this romanticized idea her biological father will meet her and fall in love. That’s extremely unlikely, and the last thing she needs is to have her father reject her on national television.

  I don’t do babies and white picket fences.

  I’ve only ever wanted to protect her. But maybe I can’t protect her anymore. She’s bright and loving, and extremely curious. And when it comes to Paul, it’s better to keep most things in the dark.

  “I know he may not want to meet me,” she admits. “I know he may not love me.”

  I crush her to my chest for another hug. “It’s impossible not to love you, sweetie.”

  We shuffle to stand in the kitchen and hug. “We’ll try to find him. But please don’t get your hopes up.” I can’t tell her I’ve already tried, repeatedly, to reach him. I can’t tell her I’ve taken drastic measures in a last ditch effort to bring him back. It would only create false hope and break her heart if he doesn’t show.

  “I won’t. Thank you, Mama.”

  I never drink.

  There have been less than a handful of times when life has handed me a bad day and I turned to a bottle to drown it away. Today is one of those days.

  My office l
ight flicks on and I wince, squinting my eyes as I spin around in my leather office chair, the amber liquid in my paper cup slushing about, landing on the test results on my desk.

  “What are you doing?” Marcus asks as he stares at me from the doorway. He strides cautiously toward my desk, his expression one of uncertainty.

  I chuckle as I gaze giddily at the paper cup. “I’m drinking.”

  I’m not looking up at him, but I can feel him deflate. All the hope he carries inside of him melts from his body, evaporating. “Fuck,” he hisses, and punches the visitor’s chair to his right. My glance flicks to him as he shakes his hand out, sitting in the very chair he just assaulted. He points at the bottle of Hennessy on my desk. “Pour me one.”

  I use the desk as leverage to push myself out of my chair and stumble over to the watercooler and grab another cup, swaying on my way back. Plopping back in my seat, I pour his drink and slide it across the desk. I raise my cup with an unceremonious grip and grumble, “Here’s to life shitting all over everything.”

  Marcus reaches for the cup and clenches his eyes closed before nodding once and choking down his drink. When he’s done, he crushes the cup in his small hand and tosses it in the wastebin. “How long do we have?”

  The question reaches out to me, wrapping its cold and unforgiving fingers around my throat, choking me with emotion. I have to swallow hard more than once and blink a few times to keep myself from crying. “Six months. A year if we’re lucky.”

  “How’d she take it?”

  “Like she always does.” Tentatively, I sip my lukewarm drink, then add, “Like a trooper.”

  He nods a few times, just as I have for the past hour, and I can tell he’s trying to keep it together, too. “We need to get Paul to come back. Maybe he’s a match. I know it’s a long shot, but maybe—”

  “You think I haven’t tried to reach him by now?” I suddenly snap. “I’ve emailed, called . . . nothing. He won’t respond. I even had Richard try, figuring he wasn’t responding because it was me.” My heart squeezes a little.

  “Then there’s only one other way to get Paul’s attention, forcing him to return.”

  “Oh yeah,” I snicker disdainfully. “What’s that?”

  “Money.”

  My facial features, once weighted with despair, perk up. The idea is brilliant, and I’m pissed at myself for not thinking of it sooner. “Can he sue me for that?”

  “Do you really care? Any judge with half a heart would side with you anyway.”

  That’s true. Looking at my watch, I note it’s ten until five. Richard always answers his phone before five. Standing, I step around the desk unsteadily, the effects of my evening alcohol consumption catching up with me, and drop to my knees in front of Marcus so that we’re at eye level.

  “Oh, shit. Don’t hug me,” he grumbles.

  Yanking him to me, I whisper, “Oh, shut it, and bring it in.” I squeeze him tight, lifting him from the ground. Marcus is barely three feet tall, suffering from achondroplasia, a form of dwarfism that affects bone growth. What he lacks in height he certainly makes up for in personality. I’ve never met a more colorful person in all my life.

  Leaning back and sitting on my heels, I wipe fresh tears from my face. “Do you think it will work? Do you think he’ll come back?”

  “Of course, he will,” Marcus insists, grabbing a tissue from the box on my desk and handing it to me. “He needs money to fund his traveling.”

  “Don’t tell Neena, okay? I couldn’t bear for her to know he was here and didn’t want to meet her. It would crush her.”

  “I know he doesn’t have the best track record, Clara, but he’s not all bad.” I nod once, not because I agree; quite the contrary. I strongly disagree. Paul James is one of the most selfish men I have ever known. But Marcus and I, although we agree on many things, always seem to butt heads on this one subject. “Once upon a time you thought I was an asshole. Look at us now.”

  “I still think you’re an asshole,” I jest. “Just a loveable one.” He snorts and I chuckle through my tears.

  “If we can get him home, he’ll help,” he reiterates.

  “I hope you’re right,” I admonish as I stand and brush my skirt off. “But please, not a word to Neena,” I reiterate.

  “Not a word,” he promises. “I don’t want you to get your hopes up though, Clara. He may not be a match.”

  I pull in a deep breath, swallowing around the lump in my throat. I know he’s right. There’s a very strong possibility Paul will not be a match for Neena and all of this would be in vain. But we have to try. We have to. A horn sounds off from outside.

  “That’s my cab. I’m heading home. I’ll call Richard on the way.”

  “Kiss Neena for me.” He waves. “I’ll close up.”

  Account Balance: $1,425.00

  I narrow my eyes, not sure I’m reading it right. Yep. Definitely reading it right. What the fuck? There should be thousands more in this account. Clicking on the Deposits tab, I see the last direct deposit was a little over three months ago. The quarterly deposit should have been made one week ago.

  “Motherfucker,” I growl. It’s going to cost me a fortune, but I have no choice. I pull out my cell and dial my attorney, Richard Mateo.

  It rings once and he picks up. “Paul,” he states my name plainly.

  “Richard,” I drone. “Been expecting my call?” I’ve never been one for respectful greetings, especially over the phone, and I’m not starting now.

  “As a matter of fact, I have,” he admits.

  “I just logged on to my bank account and found the quarterly deposit hasn’t been made.”

  “Well, Paul, I’ve called you several times, but it always goes straight to voice mail. And your voice mail is full. I’ve also sent you emails.” I clench my phone tighter. I never check my email, and I loathe voice mails.

  “Where is my money?” I snap, my temper flaring. A tiny young woman glances at me, my tone having drawn her attention, but she quickly looks away when I give her a look that says, ‘mind your own fucking business.’

  “The agreement calls for an annual meeting once a year. Ms. Bateman is withholding funds until the meeting is held.”

  “What?” I laugh because it’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard of. “Why in the hell is that in the contract?”

  “Because I wasn’t aware it would be an issue. You gave me power of attorney and I made the decisions I thought would benefit you best.”

  “How is an annual meeting going to benefit me?”

  “Because you should want to know how your business is doing,” he answers making me feel like an idiot. I should be checking on the business. It is half mine. But checking on the business would mean seeing her. “She wants you to come home, Paul. She wants a meeting.”

  “We’ve never even had an annual meeting,” I argue, clenching my fist.

  “It’s in your contract.”

  “It’s been over twelve years since that contract was signed, Richard, and we’ve not had one annual meeting,” I point out again. “Can she legally withhold my money?”

  “Well . . . maybe not legally. But you can’t fight her on it without coming home and taking her to court. Just have the meeting. She’ll pay you. Then you can go back to gallivanting around the world.”

  I don’t even bother to respond. Hitting End on the call, I power it down and jam it back in my pocket. This sounds just like Clara. Always playing her hand and seeking the power in our agreement. The bulldozer. If she can’t get what she wants, she’ll run you over. I can’t imagine why in the hell she wants me to come home now after all these years. I thought for sure the first year I was gone she’d reach out to me, ask me to return, but I got nothing. Her life rolled on as if I never even existed in it.

  Logging on to Hotwire to find the cheapest airfare I can, I curse the situation.

  Home.

  I have to go home.

  Her.

  I have to face her.


  The two things I’ve been running from. If she thinks our reunion will be pleasant and professional, she’s got another thing coming. I’m going to make sure she never asks for another fucking annual meeting ever again.

  “Turn it off, Neena,” I warn as I sift through a stack of papers on my desk.

  “It’s not on,” she lies. Lifting my gaze, I find the lens of her camcorder five inches from my face.

  “So you’re just holding it in my face for no reason?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Go film Marcus,” I groan.

  “He’s prepping.”

  “Damn,” I mumble. “What’s today?”

  Neena grins so wide I don’t even have to look at her to see it; I can feel it. “The fifteenth.”

  Shoving the papers back in a folder and tossing it aside, I take Neena’s face in my hands and press my lips to her forehead. Exhaling a sigh of relief through my nose because she has no fever, I murmur, “You look tired, baby.”

  “I am tired,” she admits.

  “Lie down for a bit . . . please. After the guys go for the first jump, I’ll wake you and we’ll go get some lunch.”

  “Fine,” she huffs weakly, scratching her scalp, her purple scarf that covers her bald head moving back and forth as she does. She doesn’t want to lie down, but this is our daily routine now, and she knows I’ll nag if she doesn’t. The corner of my office is decked out with a single bed covered in a plush, neon comforter and pillows. The walls surrounding it are covered with posters of Neena’s favorite band; Masters of the V. Unfortunately, my job doesn’t allow me the luxury of taking off to care for my ailing daughter. I have to work—something I feel horrendously guilty about. But Neena insists she’d rather be here at the office with me and Marcus and the guys than sitting at home in her room. Her diagnosis is dismal but I’ve promised myself two things. One: never give up. I will fight to save her until the bitter end. Two: try to make every single day as happy as I possibly can for her, just in case . . . in case we lose. After she lies down and turns on her iPad so she can watch a movie on Netflix, I kiss her once more, grab my travel coffee mug, and turn the office light off, quietly shutting the door. Passing by the storage room where we keep the jumpsuits, I see Marcus buttoning up his custom-made suit. I give him a pointed look and he shrugs, giving me a pointed look back. “Three times per month. That was the deal.”