Hard Luck (The Vegas Obsession Series, #1) (3 page)

“No. I haven’t talked to her.”

“Oh...” she said, seeming surprised.

“Why is that so surprising?” I asked. “We aren’t together anymore.”

“Just curious. Often, the closer a couple gets to their court date, the harder it can become. If either of you are having second thoughts, I want to be the first to know.”

“It’s been two years this Saturday since I’ve seen her,” I replied, tightening my hands around the steering wheel. “And no, nothing has changed. Did you need anything else?”

“No, but don’t be late. I don’t know if the judge will be as understanding this time.”

“How many times do I have to tell you? I was saving...”

“I know, I know,” she interrupted him. “You were saving a puppy from getting run over on the highway. You told me more than once, but the point is... if you hadn’t had such an understanding judge you might have been thrown in jail for contempt.”

I laughed. “You’re too dramatic. You know this isn’t criminal. But I promise I’ll let future puppies die just for you.”

“You better see to it that you do,” she warned, but with levity in her voice.

She hung up before I could give another smartass remark.

Pulling into my complex, I parked and headed up to my apartment. Inside, I yanked off the annoying tie and looked around the living room. I lived the bachelor’s dream. I had splurged and bought brand new furniture after I left her; all in dark leather. It was as sexy as it was comfortable.

I needed a beer.
Damn, I deserve this.
It wasn’t something I did often. I worked out too damned hard keeping this body in tip top shape to throw it all away on a six pack of beer. But once in a while it was good to throw back a cold one. Working out was my thing, and had been since my teenage years.

Thinking back to Shannon’s call, the memory of Tasha flooded back and felt like another sucker punch in the gut. I collapsed on the couch and propped up my feet on the coffee table, almost knocking her picture over.

Fuck.

As I picked up the frame, I couldn’t help cursing all over again for keeping it out. For the five years we were together, she was everything to me. I didn’t know why I never put her picture away. In no time, I caught myself lazily trailing my fingers over her features, from her red hair to her gentle smile. And then I remembered. That gentle smile could turn to a seething grimace of pure wrath at the drop of a hat.

There was a time I was so sure I could make it work. Until the claws came out that very last time – because I was upset that she cheated on me -and I promised it would never happen again. A man can only take the verbal abuse for so long, and then, no matter how good the sex is, it was not worth it anymore.

She was definitely in the drama zone, but at first, like most smoking hot women, she started out in the marriage zone – gorgeous, funny, fun to be around, not too talkative, and oh so low key before they got hitched. Maybe it was me who didn’t see the warning signs. There had been phone conversations in the early days when we were dating, where she would rant about her parents or girlfriends. To me, it was pretty normal, considering so many women I knew did the same thing, my sister included.  Maybe she was so hot I put blinders on and hoped for the best. Marshall would have pegged her as a
drama-zone-wolf-in-marriage-zone-clothing
. For a long time after I left, I wondered how I managed to keep it together for five years.

She turned out to be a pure bred vixen, fitting every stereotype there was about redheads to a tee.
Some stereotypes are so fucking true.
I set the picture down, turning it so it faced the counter. At least for the moment I wouldn’t have to remember.

It was hard to believe only two years had passed since we split up. The nightmare of the marriage had turned to the shit-storm of a separation. Her email blame game, the guilt-tripping, the barrage of questions to figure out our finances, and the repeated middle of the night sexting from Tasha made the first six months feel like a whole lifetime of hell on earth. Thankfully, she rented the house and moved to Arizona to be close to her mom. I landed a late night news anchor gig here in Dallas. At least she never took to social media to let out any dirty laundry, given I worked in the media and that shit would have been damning.

But just as suddenly and intensely as she had pursued me after I left, she went dark. The woman stopped all communication one day and I never heard from her for a year. A full three hundred and sixty-five days of the silent treatment was damn good, but so uncharacteristic of her. I figured she was finally over it and went to Shannon to legally do what made sense at the time – tying up the loose end that was our marriage. Bad idea.

All hell broke loose the day Tasha received her notice of divorce. Denial and isolation soon turned to a knock-down, drag-out, one-sided war. She was out for blood and took every opportunity to
accidentally
drain and depreciate what was left of our shared assets by any means necessary. From crashing the car into the garage door, to
losing
the George Rodrigue lithograph worth in the vicinity of six figures, to setting a small fire in the kitchen of the house we had called home for five years, she spared no damaging expense.

Then there were the angry calls and midnight threats. I was damned if I did and up shit’s creek if I didn’t. Finally, there was the bargaining and her self-diagnosis of depression. Maybe there was something to it, but it didn’t help that she would threaten to kill herself
immediately
after threatening to reach through the phone and slit my throat from ear to ear.

Wrenching myself back from the past, I let out a breath I didn’t know I had been holding in. The divorce hearing was finally back on the table, thanks to Shannon’s legal prowess, and soon I would have my life back. For now, I needed to get the edge off. Cursing again, I dug out my phone and scrolled through my contacts. It was time to get over this shit. Pushing the call button, I smiled. I knew exactly what would take my mind off of it.

Leslie

I
filled in my numbers, one by one, until I got to the last one. I had been playing these lottery numbers for years. My ex, Brad had gotten me into the habit, and eventually I began playing in a lottery pool with Monica and three co-workers. Lately, I’ve been playing alone.

As I filled in the final number, I thought about my ex, and how it had become our ritual. We enjoyed the suspense of it all, the finger-crossing, hope and dreams moment before learning whether we won. We never did; not even a few dollars. When we broke up, I thought about stopping, but ended up playing out of habit. I couldn’t let him ruin another one of my guilty pleasures.

I stared at each number again. There were six that had been randomly picked by members of the pool. The seventh, we had chosen by a draw. It just seemed fitting to keep playing the same numbers until I quit... eventually.

I stepped back and turned to Monica, who was flipping through a fashion magazine while she waited.

“Are you sure you don’t want to put money in for this one? I feel it will be lucky.”

Monica rolled her eyes and let out a mocking laugh.  She had played for a while and was the first to bail.

“Breaking news: they always feel lucky, Leslie. I love your positive attitude, but geez you have never won anything. You know I feel it’s a complete waste of time and money, babe.”

I wasn’t convinced. “I’m telling you, Monica. I can feel it. Sooner or later my luck is bound to change.”

Monica put back the magazine and began to play on her phone.

“Les, do you realize you have a better chance of being struck by lightning twice? I mean, I have just as much of a chance of winning whether I buy a ticket or not. Hun, I make my own luck. Besides, if you win you can always take me out to dinner.”

“The jackpot is twenty-eight million,” I answered as the cashier took my credit card, processed my pick and issued a ticket. “If I don’t win, this is the last time I’ll ever play. And if I win, I’ll buy you a whole lot more than just dinner. We’re flying first class to Vegas and I’m splurging on the two of us. We’ll stay in the presidential suite at Cesar’s Palace and there will be no limits on the blackjack table. Or the wine. Or the hot men. And wait! We’re finding a way to get into a taping of
The Billionaire Takes a Wife: Las Vegas Edition
—even if we have to storm the set. And no matter what we do, we’re making time to get front row seats at whatever Cirque du Soleil show is playing, and definitely the Johnny Vegas show at Wynne Las Vegas. And
that’s
a promise.”

“You know I love Johnny Vegas, Les. Careful with your promises. I’ll hold you to them.”

“Oh I’m sticking to this one if we win. I want us to let loose and meet guys and drink away all my frustration until I throw up on some sexy guy’s muscle shirt. It won’t be complete until we wake up hung over in a trashed presidential suite, with a live chicken walking around and an anaconda in the Jacuzzi tub.”

Monica burst out laughing. “Sounds like the Vegas trip from hell. But I’m in!”

The gas station attendant handed me the ticket and I kissed it. That was part of the ritual too. If this was the last time I played, this ticket was special, and so was this kiss. I pulled out my phone and took a selfie with the ticket. The picture sucked – I was not photogenic so I looked like a pale rat – but I was going for the memory, so I let it slide.

“Lottery ticket selfie? Okay you’ve officially gone off the deep end, Les.”

Afterward, we left, walking back to our cars still parked at the diner next door.

“So,” Monica started out of nowhere. “I’ve been doing some thinking and... are you going to mention to Mr. Barkley that you’re interested?”

We hadn’t talked about work while we ate, and I expected Monica to avoid the conversation, given my past results.

“What do you think?” I asked, wondering where she was serious.

“I think it could be good for him to see you making an effort. Pitch yourself. Show some balls.”

“What, you think I need to grow some?” I joked, but then grew somber. “Do you really think I should?”

Monica nodded. “Yes. I don’t want you to wonder or have any regrets.”

I grabbed her hand when we got to our cars, thankful for her support. Monica was right; I needed to give it an honest try.

“Okay, as soon as I get a chance in the morning, I’ll go to him.”

“Perfect!” Monica smiled. “Good luck, sweetie. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Thanks hun!” I called, getting into my car.

I slipped the lottery ticket into the glove compartment and gave it a good luck pat before starting the car. I couldn’t wait to talk to Mr. Barkley. I knew everything would work out. It had to. Chipper as ever, I pulled out of the parking lot and headed home, suddenly tired after a really long day. Monica and I worked the early shift.  With a start time of four in the morning, I already longed for comfy pajamas, a glass of wine and cheesy TV by two in the afternoon.

When I pulled into the apartment parking lot, there were several cars I hadn’t seen before.
Probably that apartment next door got rented.
I hoped whoever eventually moved in there would be quiet. The walls between our units were paper thin.

Within ten minutes of getting in, the place smelled heavenly. Popcorn was my thing. Wine and popcorn didn’t exactly go together, but I didn’t care. Soon, I was settled on the couch, feet kicked up and happily munching. I was pathetically happy as I took in the daytime dramas. Watching the soaps was another guilty pleasure. It was my way of shaking off the lethargy of my job. Heck, I could live vicariously through the Brittneys and the Sophias of daytime television, and I wasn’t afraid to admit it.

After finishing my glass of wine, I set the alarm for eight at night so I could be up and ready for my favorite reality series. Sleep came easily, and in what felt like a few minutes, the buzz of the alarm clock rocked me out of my peaceful slumber.

The show began with the two remaining women reminiscing over the time they had spent in the mansion. The show producers sent the two showgirls and the hot billionaire on a few tours of various Vegas landmarks, mixing up the two-hour finale to keep it interesting for viewers. Just as it was getting juicy, I heard loud music coming from the other side of the living room wall.
Shitty. Loud neighbors.
I turned up the volume, but the music seemed to get that much louder.

“Are you serious?” I said to the wall, still unable to clearly hear what the two lucky finalists were saying.

The music overpowered my show.

“This is
not
on!” I shouted, getting up from my comfortable couch. It was time to make sure they got schooled. I stormed out of my apartment and beat on the door, still wearing my pajamas and probably with full blown bedhead. This wasn’t the best way to meet new neighbors, but I wasn’t sure I wanted to be friendly with people so inconsiderate. I had to make a stand early on or the noise would never end. I didn’t want to be stuck listening to loud music every night.

I banged on the door until it finally swung up. A girl in her late teens or early twenties stood before me. Her spiked hair, Goth clothing and black eye shadow were unexpected.

“May I help you?” the girl asked.

“I... I’m your neighbor,” I stammered, forgetting the rage I first felt, and pointing to my apartment door. “Look. Welcome to the building. I work some crazy early shifts and I would appreciate it if you would keep your music down.”

I could see the people behind the girl. They were drinking and having a wonderful time, throwing a housewarming party, no doubt. I looked back to the girl and only saw a blank stare.

“Yeah, I’ll get right on that.” The Goth girl laughed and started to close the door.

I reached up and pushed on it to stop it from closing.  I was tired of being overlooked.

“This building has always been quiet. We’re not used to the noise or disruptive behavior.”

The girl stared at me. “Look, ma’am, we’re just having a little fun and maybe someone like you...” the girl looked her up and down, “...wouldn’t understand that. Maybe you should join us. You know? Roll with the punches and shit.”