Five Minutes To Midnight (A Fairy Tale Life Book 3)

  Five Minutes to Midnight

  Copyright © 2017 by C.B. Stagg

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short passages in a review.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, dead or alive, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  ISBN-13: 978-1546640783

  Cover designed by C.B. Stagg

  Formatting by C. B. Stagg

  Edited by Christina M. Scambray & Jennifer Roberts- Hall

  A Note to Readers

  Thanks for reading the new and improved SECOND EDITION of Five Minutes to Midnight, the third book in the An Ordinary Fairy Tale series, which is already up to FOUR books! Crazy, right? The plan right now is to end this series at book 6, but you know what they say about the best-laid plans…

  As an independently published author, the greatest gift you can give me is reading my book. The second greatest gift is reviewing the book on Amazon, B&N, or where ever you purchased it. Authors like me rely heavily on reviews to keep getting our books into the hands of readers like you. If you’re reading this on Kindle, just keep flipping to the very last page and you’ll have an opportunity to review the book right there while it’s fresh in your mind!

  Also, follow me on Amazon, Facebook, check out my Instagram, take a peek at my website. There are so many more stories I have to tell, so don’t miss out on a release!

  Yours, Charly Stagg

  http://www.cbstaggauthor.com @CBStaggAuthor

  Available Now:

  An Ordinary Fairy Tale (A Fairy Tale Life Book #1)

  If Wishes Were Horses (A Fairy Tale Life Book #2)

  Five Minutes to Midnight (A Fairy Tale Life Book #3)

  Scars Like Wings (A Fairy Tale Life Book #4)

  Coming Soon:

  Life on the Ground (A Fairy Tale Life Book #5)

  To Andrew, Ryan, Grace, & Lucas

  Thanks for making this‘mom’ thing so much fun! I love all of you so so much!

  Chapter 1

  Christian

  October 2011

  A SLIVER OF LIGHT from the setting sun blazed through the window—slicing through the whitewashed cross painted on a dusty piece of salvaged wood, like a flaming sword. The cross hung alone in my dingy new office; a dismal, cavernous place in desperate need of sprucing up. With its yellowed tile floors and institutional, white painted brick walls, it had more of a prison vibe than that of a church. I bet if I screamed, it would echo.

  I opened my mouth to try, but stopped… knowing any attempt would surely give my secretary a terrible first impression of her church’s new associate pastor. In fact, it may very well give Miss Betty a heart attack. The woman seemed nice enough, but her age-spotted hands and glorious crown of blue-tinted hair revealed more about her advancing years than she would probably like. When she mentioned being a former teacher, my immediate visual was of a one-room schoolhouse on a prairie somewhere—cart, horse, the whole shebang.

  With a discerning eye, I took in my surroundings, trying to gauge what it would take to make the space less sterile. I quickly fired off a text to my mom with pictures of my dungeonesque office, begging for a woman’s touch. I was assured that, with proper measurements, she could have the space nice and cozy within a week using unneeded items from around our house. That would thrill my father.

  I dug around inside the 1970’s walnut desk, not yet stocked with office supplies. I only came up with a short, dull pencil, which was probably originally intended to fit in those little holes in the backs of the pews for filling out prayer requests and visitor registrations. Pulling out the folded piece of yellow paper I’d carried with me for almost six years, I opened it to reread the goals I’d set for myself; something I’d done more times in my life than I could count. I could easily recite it in my sleep, remembering the exact words that made up the list—completely unlike the night of my birthday, where I remembered absolutely nothing.

  “Owwww. No, no, no… ”

  I tried covering my head with a pillow, but even that did little to dull the storm gathering strength behind my eyes. “Oh my God. Turning twenty-one shouldn’t hurt this bad.”

  My mouth had morphed into a desert, and a jackhammer pounded its continuous rhythm, splitting my skull in two. I tried to squeeze my temples between my hands, like a vise, but it didn’t alleviate whatever civil war had erupted between my ears.

  “What the hell did I drink?”

  “Alcohol, apparently.” My brother’s reply was delivered at least ten decibels louder than my addled mind could handle. “You drank the alcohol. All the alcohol. In the entire bar. They had to close early because you drank them dry.”

  I wanted to object, but speaking took energy I didn’t have. And shaking my head? Absolutely out of the question. Chancing to open one eye, I glared at him. Casey only had about thirteen months on me, but from the outside looking in—seeing him handle the responsibilities of life with ease—the gap appeared much wider.

  “What the hell are you doing here, anyway? I don’t remember you being there.” I needed to pee. I needed to puke. I needed for the room to stop spinning so I could take care of the other two things on my immediate to-do list.

  “I wasn’t there. You didn’t invite me,

  remember?”

  “No.”

  “Do you happen to remember bringing a chick home?”

  I didn’t remember much about my twenty-first birthday celebration. “Chick?”

  “Yeah, a chick. The one who called me in the middle of the night. Thanks for that, by the way. She said she found my number in your phone. You brought her home, though I’m not sure how. She wanted to leave, but said she was scared you’d die. To be fair, she said she tried to get you to go to the hospital, but you told her to call me instead. Again, thanks. Kris is not pleased.”

  I didn’t like Kris anyway, so the fact that Casey’s uppity fiancée found the situation inconvenient didn’t phase me in the least. “Yeah, I remember a girl. I remember amazing legs. I remember her lips. Man, I can still smell her.”

  I leaned in and sniffed the pillow beside me. Yep, a blend of lavender and coconut filled my nose. I could remember how good it felt touching her, kissing her, being in her arms. That, I could remember with absolute clarity. Her face, not so much.

  “Well, apparently you brought someone here, of all places. Now, let’s get you fixed up with a little hair of the dog. See if that’ll jog your memory. Then, you’ve got some cleaning to do because you puked all over the sink and shower in the bathroom, and hell if I’m gonna come over in the middle of the night to babysit your ass, then turn around and clean up after you.”

  “So, back to the chick. You never saw her?”

  I started piecing together what little I did remember from the previous night. Short, brown hair, tiny little hummingbird frame, effervescent smile that set fire to my…

  “Nope, never saw her, but she sounded h-h-h-h-h-hot. And pretty sober too. No sign of her when I arrived, though, other than your phone being in the living room open to my contact information instead of on the charger. Maybe she turned into a pumpkin.”

  I stood to attempt the ten-foot journey to the bathroom, which may as well have been ten miles at my rate. “Maybe she’s my Cinderell-AH! Damn!” I jerked my foot up and hopped on the other one, all the way back to the edge of the bed.
br />   “I’m not sure I’ve heard that fairy tale.” He laughed.

  “No, you ass.” I pulled my foot into my lap. “I stepped on something. There’s a nail or some crap sticking out of my foot. Come and help me. Jesus Christ this hurts!” I focused on the dust-covered ceiling fan, losing myself in the rhythmic squeak while Casey inspected my foot. I could not handle the sight of blood. The thought of it made my already queasy stomach flop around like a fish on the shore.

  “Ha-ha, interesting choice of words, bro. Be ready on the count of three. One. Two—”

  “Ahhh. Damn it, Casey, you said three!” I kicked at him, then grabbed a pair of soccer shorts from the floor to stanch the blood.

  “Check this out.” He held up the offending item for my inspection. Two nails wired together in the middle with copper.

  “Is that a cross?”

  “Yes, it’s a cross, moron. I’m surprised it didn’t spontaneously combust during your night of sin and debauchery with your hot Cinderella.” He inspected it further. “Where do you think it came from?”

  Shaking my head, I took it from his hand. “I have absolutely no idea. I’ve never seen it before in my life. And did you notice that there’s blood at the end of each nail? That’s a little creepy.”

  ”Yeah, it’s your blood, doofus. Both ends were stuck in your foot.” I checked, and sure enough, two punctures marked my instep, the most tender part of my foot. The wounds were still bleeding, so I applied more pressure with the shorts.

  “Maybe it’s a sign you need to remove your head from your ass and get serious about your life.”

  I didn’t have it in me to hear another lecture about my misguided ways. “What’s gotten into you? You’re way too smart to be drinking yourself within an ounce of alcohol poisoning.” He sighed and sat beside me to inspect my wounds. “Seriously, man, you need to get it together. You drink too much and don’t study near enough. I mean, do you ever even go to class?”

  That was none of his damn business. He wasn’t the one paying my tuition.

  “And what’s with all the girls? Did Mom not hug you enough as a kid? You don’t have to sleep with every girl who bats her eyelashes at you, you know. A simple smile will sometimes do the trick.”

  “I’m not that bad. And I go to class. Sometimes.” But my definition of ‘sometimes’ was once a week, if that. I was barely hanging on to an agriculture degree I had no idea what I’d even do with once I graduated. I’d been spinning my wheels for what felt like forever. And he was right. I brought home anything with a pulse, but I never let it get too far. After his girlfriend’s pregnancy drama in high school, there was no way I was putting myself through that.

  “And in all honesty, Casey, I don’t sleep with them. I’ve never actually slept—”

  He cut off my heartfelt confession. “Look, maybe you need to view this cross as a sign. A talisman or something. You’re twenty-one years old, man. You’re, what… a year away from graduating? And then what? You gonna go be a farmer? And that’s if you pull out the grades to graduate at all. What happened to you, bro? It’s like you peaked at fifteen and it all went downhill from there.”

  Shrugging, I could hardly disagree. I’d always felt restless and unsettled—like what I needed to be complete laid somewhere beyond my grasp. All through high school I’d jumped around from group to group, party to party, drink to drug, always searching.

  My crap grades in high school earned me a two-year stint at a junior college, where my parents assumed I would get my act together. Now, I found myself barely hanging on at Texas A&M, with academic probation looming. I was still uncomfortable in my own skin and no closer to figuring out who I was or what I wanted to be than before. I felt as if I was flying along with the rotation of the sun—chasing dawn, but never quite able to wrap my fingers around it.

  “Yeah, maybe you’re right.” I looked up to say more, but I was alone.

  Maybe Casey had a point. Maybe divine intervention was at work. Maybe, after six years of putting socializing, popularity, and substance abuse before educational and personal growth, I needed to admit that something about my life wasn’t working. I needed to reevaluate. Remembering the way I felt last night in the arms of my mystery woman—my Cinderella—I had renewed purpose. I wanted to feel that way again. And more importantly, I wanted to be the kind of man worthy of a woman who could make me feel like that.

  My mantra had always been:

  If you never try, you’ll never know.

  The time had come to try something else.

  From that day forward, life was different for me. I showered and cleaned my mess, before writing out a list of goals for myself.

  No more drinking

  No more girls

  Finish college

  Find an ADULT job

  Find a relationship like my parents

  Marry her—fast, before she figures out you’re an ass

  Buy a house

  Live happily ever after

  When the list was complete, I ripped it from the legal pad on the kitchen counter, folded it, and stuffed it in my wallet. And after an internal pep talk, I grabbed my hat, my keys, and my new talisman. With a quick Google search, I pulled up a map to North Point Baptist Church.

  It was the first day of the rest of my life. With the cross of nails clutched tight in my fist, I followed the signs, and a few minutes later, I uttered words I never in all my life thought I’d say in succession.

  “Hi, my name is Christian, and I’m an alcoholic.”

  With the small pew pencil in hand, I neatly crossed through the fourth item on my list before tucking the worn yellow note back into my wallet. It had taken me more than five years to get halfway through my list, but I was satisfied with what I’d accomplished so far. I was a different person than I was the day I wrote it—a man my family could finally be proud of. But everything else seemed like child’s play compared to the next step in my plan, which had me shaking in fear. The next goal—the one where I had to find the love of my life—was the Everest of the list and I had no idea where to start.

  Eyeing my laptop, lying dormant on the desk, I wondered if technology might hold the solution. In theory, internet dating would probably be my best bet, but there was certainly a stigma associated with it. Only losers have to resort to the internet to find a girl, right? But I wasn’t a loser. Not anymore. Not since her.

  Why did this task seem so daunting? I wasn’t ugly. I kept myself in decent shape. I stood tall at almost six feet, had a little muscle, and wasn’t overwrought with body hair in weird places. No acne scars, no third nipple, no tats, and no piercings. I didn’t live in my parents’ basement, playing video games, while my mother served me sandwiches and chips on a paper plate. It’s not that I couldn’t get a date. But in my profession, there were only so many places I could cruise for chicks, as my brother called it in college.

  I wasn’t even sure I remembered how to date. Did a ‘Dating for Dummies’ book exist? I thought of her again. It always led back to Cinderella.

  Yep, this would definitely be my Everest.

  Chapter 2

  Kaitlin

  November 2011

  IT WAS HER. My heart jumped into my throat.

  She was back again, sitting in her usual spot, with what I assumed were work materials spread about on the table. With a pencil tucked into her curly brown hair and little pink glasses perched on the tip of her nose, she read from her computer while making notes on a small Steno pad. The woman always seemed completely engrossed in whatever appeared on her screen.

  “Would you like a refill?” I plastered on a smile, hoping to hide the nerves I felt in her presence. “Sweet tea, right?” I must have been on break when she arrived, but I’d waited on her more times than I could count on two hands. I’d been trying to work up the nerve to engage her in a conversation consisting of more than, Would you like fries with that?

  “Yes, thank you.” She looked up a second later, as she finished typing. “Oh, hey, there yo
u are. I thought it might have been your day off.” Her smile, like her eyes, reflected kindness.

  “No, I was on a break, that’s all.” I dismissed the notion of a day off as I filled her glass, but once my task was complete, I lingered. The diner was empty, save the mailman who’d stopped for coffee during his route. He was such a regular that he’d get his own cup when I was busy, still leaving a five-dollar tip under his empty cup each day.

  “So, you’re in the diner all the time lately, and I’ve been wondering… ” I bit my bottom lip, hoping I wasn’t being too forward. “Are you a writer?”

  “No.” She shook her head as she took a long pull of tea from the straw. “Close, though. I’m an editor.”

  Even better, maybe?

  “So, you work with writers? You help get them published and things like that?”

  Her nod of confirmation accelerated my mind to warp speed. The mystery woman came into Perrilloux’s Diner at least once a week, usually later in the afternoon after the lunch rush. She’d set up shop with her little Apple computer in the corner, out of the way and free from distraction. As long as I fed her once and kept the sweet tea coming, she’d work all afternoon.

  Extending her hand, she said, “I’m Claire Clark.” I took it with more enthusiasm than was socially acceptable, but she seemed unfazed.

  “I’m Katy, and I’d, um… I’d like to be a writer.” It probably wasn’t an appropriate time to strike up a conversation with a perfect stranger, and I knew she had work to do. But I feared if I left now, I would never be brave enough to start one back up in the future.

  “You’d like to be a writer?” She eyed me with authority.

  Grinning, I asked, “Can I start over?” She nodded. “I’m Katy, and I’m a writer.”

  “That’s better.”

  With a wave of her hand, she gestured for me to sit, and I scooted into the seat across from her as she launched into the specifics of her job. Claire worked as a freelance book editor. Her client base was small, but she worked alongside a collection of fiction authors from a mixed bag of genres. Listening to her speak, she seemed passionate about the work she did.