All In: Paying His Way (Gambling With Love)
Read All In: Paying His Way (Gambling With Love) Online
Authors: Lane Hart
ALL IN
Paying His Way
By Lane Hart
This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue were created from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual people or events is coincidental.
The author acknowledges the copyrighted and trademarked status of various products within this work of fiction.
© 2016 Editor's Choice Publishing
All Rights Reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
For permission requests, write to the publisher, addressed “Attention: Permissions Coordinator” at the address below.
Editor’s Choice Publishing
P.O. Box 10024
Greensboro, NC 27404
Edited by Angela Snyder
Cover by vocaldesign
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Photo ©123rf.com
WARNING: THIS BOOK IS INTENDED FOR MATURE AUDIENCES 18+ ONLY AND CONTAINS EXPLICIT SEX SCENES AND ADULT LANGUAGE!
Table of Contents
Jordan Young
Four years ago…
“Mmm-mmm. Best. Cake. Ever,” Jason, the baby of our family, declares after licking the last of the chocolate icing from his fork.
“Why, thank you, Jay,” my mother replies with a smile as she stands up to start collecting empty plates from the long, wooden table in the dining room.
We have a big family, four boys, no more than two or three years apart between each of us, with names that start with the letter J, like our dad John. All of us take after him rather than our mother, who has light skin, blonde hair and blue eyes. In fact, Jason, Jake, Josh and I each have the exact same caramel-colored hair and rich, chocolate eyes as our father. We’re like a uniform box of snickers, nearly identical heights and sizes, except dad has a gut and Josh is still lanky, not having hit his final growth spurt yet.
“I still can’t believe those crazy bastards at the DMV gave you a license today. I told your dad to bribe them to fail you,” our Mom teases, before she disappears into the kitchen.
“I am a great driver!” Jason exclaims indignantly, which is quickly countered with an adamant chorus of
bullshit
s.
“My now irregular heartbeat begs to differ,” Dad scoffs from the head of the table. Leaning back in his chair, he rubs a palm over his chest in mock suffering. “It must have stopped beating one too many times after you ran through that stop sign on the way home.” He chuckles before telling us, “Now you boys help your mother clean up.”
“Trash!” Jake calls out first with a smirk.
“Table!” Josh yells, even though it’s mostly clear already. Lazy fucker. That only leaves rinsing and loading the dishwasher.
“Loading,” I mutter, claiming the lesser of two evils. “That leaves you with rinsing, birthday boy.”
“Hey, I get the night off! Besides, I have a guest,” he whines, throwing an arm around the small brunette sitting next to him. She was so quiet I had forgotten she was even here. Looking at her now, her big, indigo eyes in her small oval face are wide, appearing a bit nervous but happy to be having dinner in this nutty household. I still can’t believe Jason brought a girl home. I mean, she’s pretty and all, but he already has a reputation for chasing skirts, especially after he made the varsity football team as a sophomore, riding the bench as the second-string quarterback.
“Slacker,” Jake, the second youngest of my brothers, taunts him. “Maggie, what exactly do you see in our baby brother?” he asks. “You know, I actually just got signed as the starting wide receiver for the Wildcats…”
“Oh, please,” Josh, who is my oldest younger brother, groans. He’s always had the worst case of middle child syndrome. Jason’s the baby who always gets his way. I’m the oldest who, of course, our parents love best, and Jake is now a highly paid, professional football player. That leaves Josh to be the official fuck up. Sucks for him, but all families have to have one.
“Can you go five minutes without talking about that shit?” Josh asks Jake with a scowl.
“Leave your brother alone. That’s something to be damn proud of, and he’s earned it,” our dad says, sticking up for Jake. “Maybe if you had screwed off less and spent more time on the field, you could’ve gone pro, too.”
“Fuck that,” Josh says, and immediately gets a reprimand from our dad telling him to watch his mouth because he’s in the company of a lady.
Josh was good, and could’ve gotten football scholarships, but he’s always stayed away from anything that requires more effort than eating or sleeping. Oh, and jerking off.
“The team’s looking for a few waterboys. I’m sure I could put in a good word for you,” Jake tells him with a snicker.
“Enough,” my dad interrupts. “Go help your mother. And if I hear any of you bitching, you’ll be on toilet duty for the next month.”
“Good thing I don’t live here anymore,” I respond with a grin as I get to my feet and head into the kitchen. I’ve had my own place for years, but I still miss some parts of being at home with my parents and brothers. Some, just not many. “I’ll scrape food for you this time, but you’re gonna owe me. Happy birthday, jackass,” I call out to Jason.
The plates and dishes in the sink pile up higher and higher until I’m pretty sure I’ll never get to leave. Sighing, I start in, ready to get this mess over with.
“Thanks for having me over, Mrs. Young.” I overhear the girl’s soft-spoken voice say to Mom in the hallway while I scrub the unmoving, hardened edges of lasagna on the glass dish so hard my fingers nearly bleed.
“You’re welcome here anytime, sweetie. It’s nice to finally have another woman around,” my mom tells her, making me feel slightly guilty. I’m twenty-five but have no intention of settling down anytime soon. None of my brothers seem to be so inclined either, which is why it’s surprising that Jason, the youngest, brought an actual girl home.
“Thank you, and dinner was delicious. I wish I knew how to cook as well as you. My mom can burn spaghetti,” Melanie or Melissa, whatever her name is says. I can’t remember as I start loading the rinsed plates into the dishwasher.
“Oh, well that’s a shame. I would be happy to have some help in the kitchen whenever you come back to visit.”
“That would be great!” the girl says, actually sounding excited about cooking of all things. Maybe she’s just trying to be nice.
“It’s a well-known fact that the way to a man’s heart is actually through his stomach,” my mom informs her. “There’s no better way to show someone you love them than to cook their favorite food. Preparing the food that not only nurtures their body, but provides comfort…well, there’s nothing like it.”
“What’s Jason’s favorite food?” the girl asks, and, yeah, even I can admit that’s kind of sweet. Poor girl. I predict that she’ll be a faded memory to him in less than a month, which I think is a pretty damn generous estimate.
“Oh, Jason’s favorite meal is four cheese lasagna, but he loses his mind for peanut butter cookies and chocolate milk,” my mom tells her.
“Really?” she laughs.
“Yeah, has since he was a little boy. And let’s see, Jake always needs apple pie and root beer when he’s had a bad day. Josh likes chicken potpie whenever he’s sick, and Jordan, well, Jordan is the easiest to please. Whatever dessert I make for his birthday he’ll lie and tell me it’s his favorite, but I know his favorite is actually blackberry cobbler. The problem is, they’re only in season at the end of the summer and fall, and his birthday’s in June. So, I don’t get to make it for him until August or September.”
Wow, I had no idea my mom was so intuitive.
“You know, I just picked up some blackberries today. So if you want to come over tomorrow night, we can make a cobbler together,” my mom offers. I wait for the girl to politely decline, to maneuver her way out of the corner she’s backed herself into with her new boyfriend’s mother.
“I would love to,” Melissa or Megan replies with what sounds like genuine enthusiasm.
“That’s great, Maggie!” Maggie. Not Melissa, Maggie. I’ll forget it again in ten seconds. “You know, I think you’re gonna make one of my sons a lucky man someday.”
One of her sons?
“One of your sons?” Maggie laughs, echoing my own thoughts.
“Well, sure. A beautiful girl who can cook like their mother? They’ll beat each other bloody for you.”
…
The next night, Maggie did come back over, and her and my mom made me the best blackberry cobbler ever. I had no idea it would be the last one she would ever bake for me. If so, I probably would have ate those two slices I had a little slower, savored them for a little longer, and definitely thanked my mother for cooking it just for me because she knows it’s my favorite.
Two weeks later, our mom and dad were both gone, taken from us before we even got a chance to say goodbye.
Jordan Young
Present day…
I’m standing in the only open checkout lane at the supermarket, trying not to get annoyed and epically failing.
Tired of holding the case of beer, I sit it down by my feet to put my hands on my hips in the universal sign of
you’ve got to be fucking kidding me.
I volunteered to bring the booze to the small backyard barbeque, so by God I’ll stand here all damn day if I have to.
My buddy, Caleb, who I met in the Reserves when we joined up together four years ago, invited me down to his place in Greensboro to celebrate one of the holidays-that-must-not-be-named with his wife Lauren and a few of their friends. The M word probably won’t even come up since his passed away a few years ago from breast cancer, and his wife’s is a worthless piece of shit. And if it does, well, that’s what the case of beer is for. Shit. Maybe I should’ve grabbed two. Then I could’ve started on one while I stand here and wait for the woman holding up the line with her coupons or price matching bullshit.
I blow out a frustrated breath and then have to apologize to the blue-haired lady in front of me when it ruffles her poofy Sunday hairdo. Standing on the balls of my feet, I make my six-foot-two frame a little taller to get a better look at the woman we’re all silently cursing.
She's a small, nothing special brunette with her hair slicked back in a ponytail. Wearing a tattered and faded floral dress, the girl is digging frantically through a canvas tote, her head halfway inside of it looking for something that probably doesn’t exist based on the cashier’s outstretched palm and annoyed expression.
More money.
When the infant in the woman's buggy starts screaming like someone's shoving splinters under its fingernails, my patience snaps.
To hell with this.
I shove my way forward, offering apologies to the other customers I nudge. Yanking my worn leather wallet from my back pocket, I eye the rectangular readout to determine the amount of money owed. Hell, I’m getting off cheap at just fourteen dollars and some change. I pull out a crisp twenty and place it in the goth-looking cashier’s hand. Surprised by my intervention, she doesn’t immediately do anything with the currency for several seconds, just stands there frozen.
“Will that work?” I ask, and she nods, turning back to enter it into her register.
“Oh my God! Thank you,” I hear the small brunette beside me say. Her soft voice is shaky like she’s on the verge of tears. Then I hear her sudden and deep intake of breath. “Jordan?”
Of course my head automatically turns at the sound of my name; but even standing inches away, I blink at the young girl with dark rimmed bags underneath her blue eyes, unable to place her. Suddenly, she reaches over to the spinning baggage area to grab the one containing my recent purchase, before pushing the buggy with the still wailing baby quickly out of the store like her ass is on fire.
“Sir? Here’s your change, sir,” the cashier says to get my attention when I don’t notice she’s offering my money back with the receipt. I’m too busy trying to figure out who that woman was and how she knows me. There was something familiar about those sad, indigo eyes…
Oh, yeah! She dated my little brother, Jason, and her name starts with an M. Megan? Melissa?
It hits me like a bolt of lightning.
Maggie Frasier. Jason’s high school girlfriend. And, damn, the poor girl looks like shit. No wonder I didn't recognize her.
For the past few years I've heard Jason mention in passing about how they're fuck buddies or friends with benefits right up until this past Thanksgiving when he joined the Army, the full-time kind of service, unlike my one weekend a month in the Reserves.
Wait a fucking second.
He's been gone less than six months. The wailing baby couldn’t have been more than a few weeks old. No. No, no, no. She would’ve told him, right? Jason would’ve said something...
I take off running after her, my case of beer abandoned thanks to this crazy as shit notion that I might be an uncle.
Weaving my way around customers, I make it through the sliding glass doors and look around the crowded parking lot for Maggie. I finally spot her sliding into the driver seat of a rusty brown clunker. I can’t even decipher the make or model of it since it’s missing whatever emblems it once had when it was made in the factory several decades ago.
I run across the rows of vehicles to get to her before she can pull away, and I don't stop until I’m next to the car, knocking on her window. The sound startles her, making her narrow, hunched shoulders jump. Her head bows like she’s debating rolling the window down or just reversing her ass out of there.
“Maggie, talk to me,” I say, proud of myself for actually remembering her name. She finally reaches over to hand roll the window down a few inches, releasing the screaming cries of the baby in the backseat. I try to get a better look at the bundle of blue in the rear-facing car seat. It's hard to make out any features with his mouth wide open while he wails, his tiny clenched fists shaking in the air with his displeasure.
“Is he Jason’s?” I ask her pointblank.
After what feels like an eternity, she gives a small, almost unperceivable nod in affirmation.
Motherfucker.
Although in this situation
brotherfucker
might be the more appropriate term, especially on this day in May when the M word must not be muttered.
My little brother’s a father. Josh, Jake and I are uncles to a baby we’ve never heard about. If Jason knew, he would’ve told us, right? I mean, the woman barely looks like she can legally drink, much less take care of a baby on her own.
Ah, shit.
I remember her standing at the register, pitiful because she didn’t have enough money.
“Doesn’t he know? Is he paying child support?” I ask, but the questions are drowned out by the constant howling. “Why is he yelling so damn loud?”
“He-he’s just hungry. I need to go so I can get home and feed him,” she says while looking straight ahead, avoiding my eyes and my other questions.
He’s hungry.
She needs to feed him.
Because my little brother is a sack of shit that’s not helping her take care of his responsibility.
Before I can say another word, I have to jump back so that my toes don’t get run over when she floors the clunker in reverse; and then she’s gone.
Well, fuck.
I stand there in the empty parking space for several minutes, scratching my chin, trying to wrap my head around what the hell just happened.
Nothing else to be done, I head back inside the store and buy another case of beer to go with the one still sitting on the floor at the register. Maybe I should make it three cases.