Natalie E. Wrye

 

Copyright © 2015 by Natalie E. Wrye.

This novel is an original work. It is a fictional writing, a work entirely derived from the author’s imagination. All characters and events are entirely fictional and not based in fact, nor based on any real person(s) living or deceased. Any resemblance or similarity to any real person(s), alive or dead, or event is purely and clearly coincidental. This book contains adult language and in some instances coarse language and, due to its content, should not be viewed by children.

All Rights Reserved.

 

No part of this book may be transmitted or reproduced in any form or by an means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage or retrieval system without the written permission of the author (except for the use of brief quotations in a book review).

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Table of Contents

Place Your Bet

Rolling the Dice

Playing the Odds

In Times of Stalemate

A Rook-ie Mistake

Double or Nothing

Poker Face

All Bets are Off

To the Reader

Acknowledgements

More about the Author

Place Your Bet

 

The thrill is in placing the bet. Once the race is run or the match is played, you'll either win or lose. Until that happens, you're caught in this wonderful, agonizing sense of expectation… – Kenneth Cranham

 

 

LUKAS GRIFFIN

 

I may not be the smartest guy around, but I’m certainly not the dumbest—I know how to fucking count to three.

And right now, only three things are registering to my barely-conscious brain.

I can’t process where I am or how I got here; what time of day it is or why I feel like shit.

Just three—three simple, seemingly insignificant things.

For one thing… my phone is buzzing incessantly on the nightstand beside my head.

Two: I’ve got a massive, splitting headache that won’t go away.

And three—probably the least simple of all: a blonde bobble-head seems to have permanently attached herself to my cock, and right now… I’m not in the fucking mood.

Three minutes, she said. Three minutes, and I’ll be gone.

But it’s long past three minutes later… and I still haven’t come.

I’ve never been a heavy drinker, but I guess you can call me one now. I’ve been stuck in this routine for the past eleven weeks—ever since I realized I was losing all of my closest friends.

The person that I now talk to the most… hates me, and I’ve been trying to find some sort of happiness in the bottom of a liquor bottle since she came into my life.

Same story—different Saturday.

I binge—I fuck—I come… until I come to my senses.

It’s a three-part process, and it’s usually simple… but tonight, those former three things are all fucking up the sequence.

When my eyes adjust to their surroundings, I notice large, ornate black curtains by the windows, pristine white sheets on the bed—plush, rust-colored furniture at my sides.

The room is nice—neat… but it’s not mine…

I readjust the pillow, removing my hand from underneath my head.

I don’t know what to reach for first: the glossy head of hair performing a slip-and-slide on my dick or the vibrating phone on the glossy nightstand beside my head.

I grapple for the one shiny thing, bypassing the other… for the moment.

I press the button on the phone to pull up the screen. I groan, rubbing the stubble at my jaw.

If it isn’t my number one hater now. What the hell does she want this late—early… or whatever the fuck time it is—anyway?

I open her text.

I called you earlier today. I need your help. Whenever you get a chance to extract yourself from the arms of whatever flavor-of-the-night you’ve decided to pick up, call me. I’ll be up late.

I grunt when I read the final words, but the small gesture is a mistake.

Sharp pain shoots through my temples, its effect the product of my moan, the phone’s bright light and some God-awful stench streaming to my nose.

It’s the girl, her perfume.

The blonde bunny is more Energizer than Playboy, and despite her best efforts, I just can’t get off. I only want her to get off—of me.

The other nine million texts in my phone are from one of my best friends, Chris, who I abandoned several hours earlier at the bar, when my “one shot” turned into ten.

In my alcohol-inspired stupor, I took off, gallivanting with some buxom, Hugh Hefner-praising nymph that I met outside of the restrooms.

One Uber car led to the next, until we finally crash-landed outside of the Marriot.

The Marriot. That’s it. I’m in a hotel room.

I turn to place the phone down when my equilibrium shifts, turning my vision topsy-turvy.

My stomach lurches, and I swallow a mouthful of tequila-flavored bile.

What the fuck is this?  I’ve never been a sloppy drunk.

The nymph lifts her head up, taking note of my sudden jerking.

“Oh, what’s the matter, baby? That pill not sitting well with your stomach? I thought a big boy like you could handle it?” she says, smirking. Her mouth returns to its previous position.

I knew something was wrong. This cocksucking nutbag slipped me a drug. I become belligerent.

“That’s enough. Get the fuck up. Your three minutes are up.”

She looks up at me, releasing my cock from her pink lips with a pop. Despite my brusqueness, she’s all smiles.

“Hold your horses, honey,” she mutters. “I’m not done yet.”

“Actually, yes… you are.”

I clutch her shoulders, rolling her roughly to the side of the bed. I reach for the white duvet, pulling it over my nakedness, sinking my head back into the pillow.

She swings her legs over the side of the bed, stuffing her fake tits into the nearest shirt.

“So that’s it?” she huffs.

I roll over. “That’s it.”

“You’re going to throw me out? What about fare for a cab or car? A tip?”

“Here’s a tip, sweetie. Learn how to suck better cock. You set my expectations way too high.”

She finishes dressing, and I’m almost asleep by the time she hits the door.

“Good night, asshole,” she cries over her shoulder.

“Good night, flavor-of-the-night.”

***

Waking up two days later is a chore. Monday morning has never been a friend of mine, but on this particular day, she is an icy cold bitch.

I still haven’t recovered from my weekend binger, and the constant ringing of phones is driving me bat-shit.

I’m too old for this shit. At twenty-eight, the hangovers are more brutal than they’ve ever been, and I just can’t seem to rebound from the partying like I used to.

Chris chewed my ass out this morning when I arrived for work, and despite us owning the company together, he was ready to kick my ass out the second I stepped foot inside the door.

Foxx, my other best friend and third partner in the company, is too preoccupied to even notice. He’s probably in his office, bending his fiancée, Kat, over his desk right now.