Bet in the Dark Read online

  Bet in the Dark

  By

  Rachel Higginson

  Copyright@ Rachel Higginson 2013

  This publication is protected under the US Copyright Act of 1976 and all other applicable international, federal, state and local laws, and all rights are reserved, including resale rights: you are not allowed to give, copy, scan, distribute or sell this book to anyone else.

  Any trademarks, service marks, product names or named features are assumed to be the property of their respective owners, and are used only for reference. There is no implied endorsement if we use one of these terms.

  Any people or places are strictly fictional and not based on anything else, fictional or non-fictional.

  Editing services provided by Jennifer Nunez.

  Printed in paperback through Createspace as of May 2013 and available in Kindle and E-book

  format as of March 2013 through Amazon, Smashwords and Barnes & Noble.

  To Lindsay,

  For buying Reckless at full price,

  For reminding me of everything always,

  And for all those times you wanted to hug but me didn’t.

  Most of all thank you for such an amazing friendship.

  Bet in the Dark: To place the bet before the player looks at his cards or before his turn.

  Chapter One

  I blamed this on Kelly Clarkson.

  On Kelly-Freaking-Clarkson.

  The angry man standing across the kitchen island looked like he was about to throttle me. I had visions of large hands gripped firmly around my neck shaking me like a rubber chicken. His eyes flashed with frustration and I cursed Kelly Clarkson straight to the grave.

  Things started out so good this morning, so unbelievably, unnaturally good. I should have known better. But at the time, I woke up in my bed to the powerful chords Kelly Clarkson belting through my radio alarm, and laid there for the length of the song just to let her words sink in.

  Stronger.

  In fact I started to think Kelly Clarkson was a genius. And like maybe we were soul sisters that survived something awful but came out on the other side of it stronger. I started to think maybe she got me….

  Because the bed did feel warmer, and I dreamt in color again. I never felt lonely when I was alone anymore and really I was standing taller. Kelly Clarkson had it all figured out.

  Well “was” as in the seriously past tense because with monster-man looming over me, pissed off and yelling about money he wanted and I definitely did not have, I wasn’t standing taller anymore. I was shrinking slowly into what I assumed would soon be the fetal position.

  But this morning, even as the warm sun sifted through my bedroom window and heated my exposed skin, everything seemed possible. I felt strong enough to get out of bed today and conquer the world- or at least the closest Starbucks and my Econ class.

  Which come on, that’s close enough right?

  And even though last week I missed a seriously important pop quiz in my post-break-up-cowering phase and now my grade was in some trouble…. and then it started raining and I happened to be wearing a white t-shirt and red bra. Who does that by the way? Me apparently, in my Kelly-Clarkson-gave-me-the-strength-to-be-a-skank-mood. And then even after I came home to my roommate on her way out, for what at the time she promised was just a bite to eat even though she was two months behind on her share of the rent, I believed today was the start of better things to come.

  All thanks to Kelly Clarkson.

  After setting my purse down on the kitchen counter because the entry hall table that I usually placed it on had been moved, I started to wonder if maybe Kelly Clarkson lied to me.

  Well, Ok, that’s not exactly true. First I wondered if I was hallucinating. And then I ran through the possibility of being robbed, but my roommate’s casual departure quickly negated that idea.

  I blinked. And blinked again. And then blinked so hard tears formed in the corners of my eyes and I felt like I was trying to be the sEcond coming of I Dream of Jeannie. If I willed all of my furniture and belongings to reappear, they would.

  But they didn’t.

  And that was just the start of my disappointment.

  Then there was the letter…. The one calmly explaining my roommate had a clinically diagnosed gambling addiction, and was thousands of dollars in debt. She explained that she had to sell the furniture, my furniture, to pay for rehab. Her family insisted on it. She had a real problem. A real problem. And I needed to understand that anything she had done to hurt me was her addiction and not the real her.

  Well her addiction wasn’t going to replace all of my furniture.

  Her addiction wasn’t going to come up with the other half of my rent!

  And her addiction really wasn’t going to explain to the man across the kitchen yelling at me that no matter who he thought I was, I did not owe him seven thousand dollars!!

  I picked up the handwritten letter of crazy with a shaky hand and held it out to him.

  “What’s this?” He paused in his tirade to take the half sheet of torn notebook paper. I noticed my Biology notes on the back of the paper for the first time. Seriously, she couldn’t even use her own paper???

  “Um, see? I’m not the one that owes you money,” I sounded confident, but inside I was a trembling, terrified puddle. And on sEcond thought, maybe I didn’t sound quite so confident….

  “Who’s Tara?” he grunted after skimming the note quickly.

  “My roommate,” I said simply and then thought better of it. “My ex-roommate. She’s moved on to group therapy and the twelve steps apparently.”

  “And who are you?” he asked carefully. His eyes swept over me in a way that made me feel like he had x-ray vision and suddenly I felt very vulnerable and very naked.

  Ok, more vulnerable.

  And not really naked.

  But feeling more vulnerable was a hard emotion to feel since he elbowed his way in here not even ten minutes ago and started shouting at me and threatening all kinds of legal action and at times bodily harm.

  “I’m uh, wait a sEcond! Who are you? You’re in my apartment!” I dug deep for some courage. I slammed my fists to my hips and tilted my chin in my best I-mean-business pose.

  “Don’t get cute with me.” He sneered. I wanted to explain that I wasn’t being cute; I was being tenacious but decided to stay silent when his full upper lip curled in frustration and his dark, chocolate brown eyes narrowed. “I’m the guy you owe seven thousand dollars!”

  Ugh, he was still stuck on this! I cleared my throat and tried again, “How could I possibly owe you seven thousand dollars? I’ve never even met you before! I don’t even know your name.”

  “You’re really going to stick with this whole doe-eyed-innocent act?” he scoffed unkindly. He walked forward and placed two meaty hands on the kitchen counter slowly, like he was weighing his strength against a fragile surface. His broad shoulders tensed and stiffened and his entire body went rigid with frustration. I almost felt bad for him.

  Almost.

  But then I remembered I was not that person anymore. No more pity for people that didn’t deserve it. No more sacrificing my time and money and energy for people that would just screw me over when they got what they wanted. This was the new me. The stronger me. The me that was soul sisters with Kelly Clarkson. The I-get-what-I-want-me! And right now, I seriously wanted this guy out of my life, or at the very least out of my apartment.

  “I’m not innocent,” I spat back with my arms crossed firmly against my chest and my hip jutting out. I realized that maybe that wasn’t my best defense but I pushed forward. “And I’m not doe-eyed!”

  His face suddenly opened up in some shock and his lips kind of twitched like he was holding back a laugh. “I can’t be
lieve this.” He rubbed two hands over his face in a sign of exhaustion and turned his back on me.

  With his body more relaxed I saw him almost in a new light. He was less macho-Neanderthal in

  this posture and more holy-sexy-back-muscles-batman. Obviously the disaster that was my last boyfriend did a number on me if I was checking out the confused hit man pacing back and forth in my kitchen. I mean honestly, fantasizing about what his back could potentially look like under his thin t-shirt was seriously clinical right? Maybe Tara wasn’t the only one that needed medical observation and group therapy.

  “I think there has been some miscommunication,” I ventured, now that he was somewhat

  relaxed. “You think I am someone that owes you money, but I am not. Do I look like a drug addict to you?”

  He swung his head back around to face me. “You think I’m a drug dealer?”

  “Seven thousand dollars is a lot of money,” I sniffed.

  “Yes, it is. And you think the only way to go that much in debt is by drugs?” His eyes widened in

  disbelief.

  Now that he was even calmer I noticed his face wasn’t necessarily menacing, but more chiseled and dignified. Actually when his dark eyes weren’t bugging out of his head in rage, he looked more like a Calvin Klein model than Tony Soprano…. And his hands weren’t so much meaty as they were just large and connected to very defined arms. And Ok, originally I was under the impression that his neck was the size of a redwood, but now that I was really paying attention it was more like just a very strong, carved out piece of art, attached to an equally and artfully sculpted body. And then to top it off, he had great hair. I just needed to admit that. He had amazing hair. Hair that I was instantly jealous of! Dark, rich coffee colored hair that matched his eyes. Short on the sides, and just a little bit longer on top, it was stylish and trendy, not at all ex-military-renegade-private-security like I originally associated him with.

  Wait a minute, I didn’t think I liked that he was attractive…. more than attractive, hotter than hot attractive. When I finally took in the scruffy growth across his jaw that partially hid too full lips, I wanted to roll my eyes. Who was this guy?

  “Well, it’s one of the ways,” I huffed impatiently.

  He cocked his head back, seemingly surprised with my answer. “I actually have no argument for that. You’re right, drugs is one way to go into that much debt.” I smirked at him, momentarily satisfied until I realized he was really a drug lord and he thought I was his client! A client that owed him money! “But that’s not why you owe me money. I’m not a drug dealer.”

  Oh whew. Sure, I knew that.

  “Ok, are you a bill collector then? Because I don’t even have a credit card. Well, I have one credit card, but it’s for emergencies only and I’ve never used it. Besides, it only has like a fifteen hundred dollar limit on it. And it’s actually in my brother’s name.” I was growing more impatient the longer he stared at me. It was like all of the anger that propelled him into my apartment to begin with had evaporated somewhere between drug dealer and bill collector. Now his chocolate eyes were lit with amusement and his mouth was doing that annoying twitching thing again. “And my roommate gets calls from debt collectors all the time. Phone calls- have you heard of those? You seriously did not need to come all the way over here; I could have explained this to you over the phone.”

  “I’m not a bill collector either.”

  This time I could tell he was laughing at me. The corners of his eyes crinkled with humor and he held his hands up, palms out as if to stop me from guessing anymore. But I wasn’t finished. If he wasn’t a hit man, drug dealer or bill collector but wanted seven thousand dollars from me that left only one option.

  I gasped, “Oh my gosh, is this about prostitution? Oh my goodness, are you a pimp?” I shrieked and backed up three steps.

  “What?” he burst out in a bark of confusion. “Are you into prostitution?”

  “What? Me? Do I look like a prostitute?” I was back to being angry; narrowed eyes, hands cocked on my hips, scowl tightening my expression.

  “Well, no, honestly, you look more like a missionary,” he shrugged a casual shoulder and let his eyes travel over me.

  “A missionary!” I spit the word out like it burned me. I clutched at my gray infinity scarf that covered my black and white cowl neck long sleeve tee. Ok, maybe it was a little conservative…. but he seriously did not need to confuse modesty with missionary.

  “Would you rather look like a prostitute?” He asked, his stupid dark brown eyes laughing at me.

  “Why in the world would you think that?” I demanded. This conversation had the disorienting feel that we were going backwards instead of forwards and I started to feel dizzy from all the circles and the way his mouth quirked up when he was trying not to laugh.

  Wait, scratch that. I was only dizzy from the conversation!

  “Listen, honesty, I don’t care what you are, I just want my money,” some of his amusement faded and a wave of exhaustion flashed across his face.

  “So this isn’t about prostitution?” I asked, just to clarify. It was kind of important that this wasn’t about prostitution.

  “If you’re not a prostitute and I’m not a pimp how in the hell could this be about prostitution?” he rumbled.

  “Well, I don’t know, I just need to be…. sure,” I finished lamely.

  He ran a hand over his face again and growled out a frustrated sound. Then he pulled his cell phone out of his pocket and checked the time. “This is taking up too much time. I just want my money and then I’ll be gone. I won’t bother you anymore. I promise. Although I strongly suggest that you stay away from anymore poker games. You are obviously not nearly lucky enough to be as careless as you are with your money.”

  That got my attention. “Wait,” I held up a hand like I was asking him to stop his vehicle. But then I didn’t know how to go on. Gambling? This sounded way too convenient…. way too coincidental. A man comes to my door, demanding a seven thousand dollar poker debt minutes after my crook of a roommate robbed me blind and then headed off to rehab for a gambling addiction? “Ok, I don’t know what you’re talking about, but why don’t you just tell me who you think I am. That might make things easier.”

  A smug smirk turned his mouth and he said with confidence, “Eleanor Harris.”

  That caught me off guard. Because he was right. “Um, Ellie,” I corrected before he stuck to calling me Eleanor. Ugh! Even if he were here to murder me I would make him call me Ellie.

  “Fine, Ellie Harris.”

  “Ok, you know my name, but you don’t know anything else about me. Like for instance, I don’t owe you any money!” I argued, still wondering how he knew my name.

  “Alright, let’s see, you’re a sophomore, originally from farther up north. You transferred to La Crosse spring semester last year. You were originally at University of Madison but you wanted to be close to your boyfriend who turned out to be a cheating douche bag. He broke up with you two weeks ago for another girl and since then you’ve gone from being a straight A student with a nearly perfect attendance record to skipping all of your of classes, doing your best to fail out of school and now you’ve apparently acquired a gambling addiction with a side of pathological lying.”

  “What!” I would have made a terrible reporter. “I am not a liar! And I have never gambled a day in my life! And I’m not trying to fail out of school! A girl is allowed to take a few sick days after her three year relationship ends! How can you possibly know so much and so little about me at the same time?” This was possibly the most exasperating conversation I had ever had.

  “I make it a point to know all my players, Ellie. Especially ones that come into the game waving money around like you did,” he explained patiently with that same cocky smile on his face.

  I had the strongest urge to smack him. And I had never, not in my entire life, ever felt like hitting anything before!

  “Clearly you have me confused with s
omebody else because I have no clue what you are talking about!”

  “That is not going to work on me!” the anger was simmering under the surface again, his eyes turning almost black with emotion.

  “Ok, Ok, Ok,” I backtracked quickly. “I can see that. So, just for fun, how about you explain to me exactly how I came to owe you all this money and then we can figure this out together. I want you to get your money just as badly as you do, I promise, alright?”

  He seemed to think that over for a minute, his face relaxing back to movie-star-stranger instead of serial-killer-hit-man. It didn’t take a genius to figure out which version I liked best.

  “Alright, fine. We can do this your way. Especially if you promise you’ll help me get my money,” he said evenly and then waited for me to answer.

  “Yes, I promise. I mean, I know I don’t owe you the money. But if there is any way I can assist you with it, I’d be glad to help.” What I didn’t say was that as long as I didn’t have to shoot, stab or bury somebody I would be glad to help. Really, I meant like a stern, authoritative letter I could put a stamp on and mail for him. Plus, these were mostly just empty promises until I could get him out of my apartment, lock the two deadbolts, slide the chain and then call the police.

  “About a week and a half ago, you contacted me about joining the game. I had heard your name around campus and knew that your request was entirely out of the ordinary for you. So I started to ask around about you and that’s when I found out you just got dumped. It made sense then, why you would want to play. Even if I didn’t think it was a good idea, I’ve been dumped before, I guess I could relate in a way.”

  “You’ve been dumped?” I scoffed before I could stop myself. He was gorgeous, all testosterone and muscles, standing in the middle of my kitchen with his gray t-shirt, loose jeans and flip flops. Plus, he was more than just a little intimidating; I could hardly believe a girl found enough courage to break up with him.