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  THREEFOLD

  Scott Hildreth

  DEDICATION

  I dedicate this book to someone I barely know. In 2006, a beautiful young girl 15 years of age approached me as I sat with a group of friends at a coffee shop and asked for a cigarette. Over the course of the summer, she often stopped by the coffee shop for a cigarette, or to simply talk for a while. My friends and I learned she was an abuse victim and homeless. The story is much deeper than this, but for the sake of this dedication, I’ll leave it at that. Several years later, I saw her again. She was sleeping in whatever random cars she could find, and trying to make ends meet by eating food she could find in the trash cans outside of local restaurants. It’s been a few years since I’ve seen her, but I think of her often.

  Ashley, this one’s for you.

  COPYRIGHT

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

  THREEFOLD 1st Edition Copyright © 2015 by Scott Hildreth

  All rights reserved. In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the author or publisher constitute unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like to use the material from the book (other than for review purposes), prior written permission must be obtained by contacting the author at [email protected]. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.

  Covert art by Jessica www.creativebookconcepts.wordpress.com

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  PROLOGUE

  When I was a little girl I lived in a castle. From as early as I can remember until I was eight years old, I dreamed of princes, princesses, and being swept away just like the girls in the Disney movies I so loved to watch. I had not yet heard the phrase happily ever after, nor would I have fully understood it if I had, but in many respects, it was what I yearned for.

  Innocent, carefree, and full of life, I played from room to room with my plastic horses and Barbie dolls for hours on end. At the end of each day, I would carefully place all of the Barbie’s in their nighttime beds my mother had so carefully crafted, allowing them to sleep under the comfortable blanket of my watchful eye and caring heart, for it was me who was responsible for their well-being, and no one else.

  I lived with the false sense of security my castle provided until I was eight. At that age, my innocence was lost, my world tilted on its axis, and I realized not all castles were occupied solely by princes, princesses, kings, and queens. Some were inhabited by monsters. Mine was, and escaping the leathery hands of the savage beast would require a plan; a plan which would require almost seven years for me to put into place.

  When I ran from my castle, I escaped the clutch of the monster, but the memories lingered, and still remain with me to this day. I was fifteen at the time, and I never looked back. Although I have no way of knowing for certain, I must assume the monster remains, waiting for me to return. If for some reason he does not, I am certain he is out there somewhere, and running is the only way to stay one step ahead of him.

  And run I will, until one day I fall into the arms of my protective prince.

  RAIN

  As an early teenager I never dreamt I would be homeless, but before I left my teens, all of my belongings were stuffed into a backpack and I began my journey into my adult life as one of the city’s many homeless.

  After relocating to an old warehouse district which had been modified and updated to include multi-story housing units, I had claimed a bench along the sidewalk as my new place of residence. The many buildings surrounding my new home allowed Generation Xers and a few well-off Millennials to live amidst their respective workplaces. Strangely, from my month long observation, it seemed the people working during the day were a different group than the ones who inhabited the swanky lofts and spacious studio apartments in the buildings behind me.

  Each side of the brick street was outfitted with benches, flower filled planters, and displays of very odd sculpted works of art. From what I could see, my bench was the only bench along the entire street to have the comfort of shade; and the shade was my only relief from the 95 degree temperature and high humidity of this particular Kansas day.

  Prime real estate indeed.

  A twenty-something year old woman dressed in a cute pencil skirt and an extremely feminine man wearing brownish-red skinny jeans ran out of the front door of the adjoining brick building, across the street, and into the parking lot. I watched as they each quickly opened their car doors, got inside, and sped off into the sparse afternoon traffic. This was the second group of people I had witnessed leaving their offices in such a hurry.

  Interesting…

  Typically, or at least from what I had observed, people were quick to escape their workplace on the weekend. The weekend, however, had just ended a few days past, as the district was filled with drunks, hopefuls, bar-hoppers, and party-goers, all of which were overly dressed and far too willing to drink the $5-a-bottle beer specials until 2 o’clock in the morning. Whatever was causing the people to rush away from their offices on this day wasn’t immediately apparent, but my curiosity was certainly aroused.

  After a few moments of wonder, a wave of people rushing out of the buildings within my view captured my attention. I crossed my arms, sat up straight, and grinned as I began to watch the circus. Although I had watched everyone filter from their offices daily since my arrival, today seemed different. In the month I had lived on my new bench, I had yet to see anything like this unfold. I watched in awe as the men and women nearly trampled each other to get to their cars.

  They’re saying golf ball sized hail and tornadoes, a man said over his shoulder as he rushed past my bench. The well-dressed man behind him shook his head and waved as he stepped across the street and unlocked his silver Mercedes-Benz.

  For fucks sake.

  Tornadoes?

  I hate this state.

  I stood from the bench, walked beyond the edge of the multi-story building behind me, and gazed southward. Although the sky above me was blue, a dark southern horizon filled with a low layer of marshmallow clouds boiled in the distance. A signature Kansas summer thunderstorm was brewing, and the obvious reason everyone was in such a hurry to get out of their offices and to their cars. I glanced toward the bench and gazed at my pack. The walk to the bridge was a little more than three miles, and considering the weather, it would be overrun with people trying to get out of the rain and under the protection the Kellogg overpass provided.

  As countless people continued to scurry past, I walked to my new home, shoved my pack to the end of the bench, sighed, and flopped down. After nestling the back of my neck into the canvas pack, I closed my eyes, crossed my arms, and prepared for rain.

  Fuck it, I need a shower anyway.

  ETHAN

  Living in the largest city in Kansas was similar to living in the suburbs of a city in a normal state. Kansas was where I was born, and where I had spent my entire life, but not where I intended to stay forever. Living in one of the lofts in a downtown high-rise had become far more of an attractive manner of living than I had ever expected, and I enjoyed it more and more as each day passed.

  No yard work, no maintenance, and no real estate taxes meant minimal worries. It allowed me more time to do what I felt was important; riding my motorcycle, planning my future, and forgetting about my impossible to satisfy high maintenance ex-wife.

  I couldn’t decide if
seeing her from time-to-time on the back of my buddy’s bike made matters better or worse. He was a middle aged dirt-bag, and was more than likely one of the intended audience for all of the erectile dysfunction commercials which littered the television. Seeing them together provided confirmation she was gone, and gone for good; but did little to comfort me that she left for the reasons she had indicated.

  “You can’t provide me with what I want,” she had explained.

  “What is it you want, Chloe?” I asked.

  “A future,” she snapped back.

  The fucking bitch knew everything about me when she met me. I was the same man when we divorced that she had married just four years before; the same man with the exact same problems.

  Our divorce obliterated my belief that love and loyalty was enough to keep a couple together. Chloe’s happiness could be measured in the countless hours she spent shopping, and not much of anything else. The deterioration of our relationship left me with little doubt that gorgeous women were nothing more than avid shoe collectors with a love for buying clothes they couldn’t afford on one salary alone, leaving them no other alternative than to find a man with a desire to finance their spending sprees while he admired their beauty from afar.

  A fucking future.

  She didn’t leave me for a future. She left me to find more money.

  I inhaled a shallow breath of the cool humid air. In the twenty minute ride home, the temperature had changed from a calm sweltering heat to a cool breeze. No surprise for Kansas in late April. Living in Tornado Alley during tornado season was a crap shoot for a guy on a motorcycle, but I had no other alternative.

  Chloe had taken my car during our separation. She later demanded it in the divorce decree, and I chose not to fight with her. I felt if provided everything she requested in the divorce she’d walk away quietly, and everything associated with her, including the memories of our divorce, would vanish. If allowing her to have my car helped her disappear, so be it.

  Good fucking riddance.

  As I slowed down to turn into the gated entrance of the loft’s underground parking, I noticed a familiar body sleeping on the bench below my seventh floor bedroom window. Of all days to be sleeping on the bench, today wasn’t a very good one. The forecast called for 90 mile per hour winds, rain, and hail the size of ping pong balls. After a short hesitation, I pulled in the clutch, downshifted, and slowly rode past the bench. I gazed over my left shoulder as I waited for traffic to pass.

  Dressed in Khaki cargo style pants, a green canvas jacket, and a black beanie, she was wearing the same clothes I’d seen her wear for roughly a month.

  Yep. Same girl.

  At the first break in traffic, I sped through the intersection and rode to the parking garage a block north of the loft. After maneuvering into an open stall, I switched off the ignition and pulled my cell phone from the sleeve of my riding jacket.

  Although the homeless citizens of the city did not live in the downtown area, they frequently spent their days wandering the eight square block area, typically looking for handouts of food and money from the patrons of the local bars and restaurants. Almost like magic, they all disappeared into the bowels of the city during the evening hours.

  With the exception of one.

  I recalled the first day I had seen her walking down the block, surveying the buildings as she walked past. It was difficult to tell from seven floors above, but I believed when I initially saw her glance upward that she was an extremely attractive girl. Shocked that she was homeless at her age, I decided she couldn’t be, and convinced myself she simply looked the part. On that very first day, as I observed her through the window for no less than twenty minutes, I felt sorrow in the pit of my stomach as I watched her wander the street looking for a place to rest.

  For the past month, I had seen her on the bench almost every day when I rode home, and made it a point to look out the window and under the large Bradford Pear tree after I ate dinner. The few opportunities I had to see her up close provided confirmation to my early belief regarding her appearance.

  She appeared to be attractive.

  And she was very young.

  The thought of her lying under the tree and being pummeled by a hailstone large enough to kill her was more than I wanted to try and comprehend. Although I had no experience with homeless people, my instinct told me she would probably be far too prideful to accept my offer even if Cade agreed.

  “Hear me out before you start bitching, okay?” I said as soon as he answered.

  Cade was my roommate, and resembled a woman trapped in a man’s body in many respects. He was extremely neat, codependent, loved to cook, was constantly cleaning, and looked like he belonged in a dance show on the Disney channel. His hair, clothes, and shoes were always perfect. His job as an engineer for a construction company seemed like an awful mismatch to both his personality and looks, but it suited him quite well. Although he was very close-minded to change of any sort, and if given the opportunity to decide he’d certainly choose the status quo, I felt I at least needed to ask.

  “What?” he sighed, “What’s going on? You realize we’re getting a huge storm in a few minutes, right?”

  “Yeah, that’s why I’m calling,” I paused and wondered what the girl on the bench would do if she didn’t agree to come in out of the weather.

  “Dinner’s almost ready, are you close?” he asked.

  “I’m a block away, just shut up for a minute,” I said under my breath.

  He sighed loudly. “Okay, what’s going on?”

  “Remember the girl on the bench downstairs?” I asked.

  “With the beanie? Yeah, she was there when I came home, why? She get hit by a car or something?” he chuckled.

  I rolled my eyes and shook my head, “No, asshole, the storm. She’s laying there with her head on her backpack, asleep. It’s getting ready to hail like a motherfucker and I was thinking of inviting her over for dinner. You know getting her out…”

  “No,” he interrupted, “she’s not some puppy or something. You’re not bringing her home with you. Jesus, Ethan, she’s some random homeless chick.”

  As he spoke, I realized I knew all along what his response was going to be. Maybe not the exact wording of it, but the end result, yes. Before he had a chance to finish speaking, I butted in. After all, the call was more of a courtesy than a necessity.

  “I’m going to stop and talk to her. If she’s willing, I’m bringing her in with me,” I said.

  “Ethan, I swear, I don’t want her…”

  “I’m not asking. If you don’t want to be around her, she can sit in my room until the storm passes. She probably won’t agree to it anyway, but I’ve gotta offer,” I snapped back.

  “Fucking great. Whatever. I hope the ratty little bitch likes enchiladas,” he responded.

  I smiled and nodded my head, knowing he had accepted it as being what it was. Cade was six years younger than me, but even though he was a 26 year old man, he wasn’t willing to stand up for himself or argue with another man. In many regards he was similar to a little boy, unsure of his position, and easily swayed with a harsh tone or the threat of opposition of any kind. Although I used knowing this about him to my advantage, I would never let another person take advantage of Cade; in our eight years of friendship I had come to love him no differently than my brother.

  I stared out the opening between the concrete pillars of the parking garage. Although it hadn’t started raining yet, it looked like it could begin at any minute. As I gazed off into the distance, I continued.

  “Enchiladas, huh? Sounds good, I’ll let you know what happens. I’m at the parking garage.”

  “If she stinks…”

  “See you in a few,” I said as I hung up.

  I pushed the phone into the pocket on my sleeve and bent down even with the rearview mirror. A few days growth of beard with my hair grown out to one length – down to my chin – made me look like I was either homeless myself, or preparing to do a
Harley-Davidson commercial. I ran my fingers through my hair and wondered if she’d even be there by the time I got back.

  As I began to roll to a stop at the intersection, I sighed nervously at the sight of her still lying on the bench. A quick check of traffic produced no one on the one-way street, so I released the brake, killed the engine, and rolled across the street and along the sidewalk. As my bike came to a stop behind the bench, I kicked kickstand down with my left foot.

  “Tree’s not going to keep that hail from pounding that pretty Harley of yours to death. Why don’t you park in your garage?” she said flatly.

  I glanced over my shoulder and down at the bench. She was lying on her back with her eyes closed.

  “How’d you know it was a Harley?” I said under my breath as I stepped off the bike.

  “Says it on the side of the gas tank,” she responded as she opened one eye slightly.

  “But your eyes were closed,” I said with a laugh as I walked around the corner of the bench.

  “They sure were. But you ride it past here every night about this time. After all these people rush out of here, you come home and park in the basement. Heard you ride past a few minutes ago. Guy in the Benz across the street said it’s going to hail pretty bad, probably ought to park that thing in the garage,” she said under her breath as she slowly rose into a seated position beside her pack.

  “I’m going to in a minute,” I responded as I pointed toward the empty portion of the seat beside her.

  She nodded her head as she scooted along the bench and closer to her pack. As she pulled her black beanie tightly onto her head, she narrowed her gaze and looked up into the sky.

  “Looks bad,” she sighed.

  “It’s why I stopped. I was wondering. Well, with the weather, I was thinking…well, really wondering…if, uhhm…”

  As I stammered for words, I realized I was actually nervous. There wasn’t a situation in the last ten years that I could think of which made me feel apprehensive, but for some reason, asking this homeless girl if she wanted to get in out of the rain was making me feel uneasy. I quickly dismissed it to my recent divorce, and the anticipation of the girl with the beanie rejecting my offer, further proving there was something about me women didn’t like. As I mentally stumbled for a way to sugar coat my offer, she spoke.