Read Online Fade To Midnight by Shannon McKenna - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Shannon McKenna
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through him, leaving charred trails in their wake. He wasnât equipped to handle such violent endocrinal activity, after years of floating numbness.
Still, he preferred to call this state emotional overload rather than bugfuck insanity. Not that he could really quantify the difference.
All day, he surfed waves of rage and free-floating terror. When those eased down, aching melancholy awaited him, interspersed with jittery euphoria. And the lust was through the ceiling. Heâd steeled himself to ask Bruno about that, and Bruno solemnly informed him that constant sexual awareness was more or less normal for a healthy guy, and welcome to the club, already. According to Bruno, normal guys thought about sex constantly. All night and all day, porn footage unspooled in their heads. How normal guys managed to get through their days without totally humiliating themselves was a mystery to him.
At night, if he slept at all, his dreams were turbo-charged nightmares that spat him into waking consciousness flash-fried on adrenaline. He was taking a protracted break from sleep. He couldnât take the stress anymore. All-night poker was more restful.
If he could keep his mind on it, that is. He yanked his attention back to see Laker limp in with 200. Kev raised 600, three times the big blind, breathing with his mouth so as not to smell the guyâs aftershave.
Heâd been in this unenviable state since heâd woken from the second coma, the one following the stress flashback. The one which had necessitated reconstructive surgery upon the face of Dr. Prateek Patil, Kevâs neurosurgeon. Embarrassing, considering how hard the guy had worked on Kevâs fucked-up brain. Patil hadnât deserved to get pounded all to shit for his trouble. But life was seldom fair.
He doubted that same fit would come over him if he should see Patil again, but nobody wanted to experiment with that hypothesis, least of all Patil himself. The guy had a restraining order out on him.
On the button, Stevens cold called $600. Kev wrenched his mind back into focus. Stevensâs hand couldnât be that great. His normal pattern was to re-raise big hands, get the blinds to fold, and eliminate random hands that could flop big and crush a high-percentage hand.
Pay attention. Hard to calculate what kind of hand Stevens would be playing with, his head pounding like this. Moriarty folded. His $100 blind went into the pot. Chilikers squeezed his cards and studied them again before he called $400 more. Heâd been an early winner, after he got the stake from Kev. Heâd even gotten ahead by about thirty thousand for a while, but for the last hour heâd been taking beat after beat. Heâd gotten more sullen with each one.
Laker, the limper, called. He was getting pot odds for any two cards. That left four for the flop. Laker, Chilikers, Stevens, and himself.
Chilikers was staring at him again as the dealer burned the top card and flipped up the board. Queen of diamonds, jack of diamonds, two of clubs. Coordinated board. Sucked, for him. Anyone with two diamonds only needed one more to win, or any two connecting cards for a five card straight. His head throbbed sickeningly. He stuck his hand in his pocket, clutching the prescription bottle, but the pills would be useless now. Heâd waited too long, hadnât wanted to dull his edge. He was so nauseous now, he wouldnât be able to digest them. So there was no way out of this shitty headache now but straight through it.
Besides. Seemed stupid to zonk himself into deliberate dullness after years of spending a fortune on extreme sports just to prove to himself that he had a fucking pulse.
Man, he felt that pulse now. Every heartbeat a meat mallet blow to his frontal lobe, thudding against the swelling, the scar tissue, the knitting bones of his skull. The healing process would be slow, though the doctors had assured him that the situation would improve. The pain, nausea,
Still, he preferred to call this state emotional overload rather than bugfuck insanity. Not that he could really quantify the difference.
All day, he surfed waves of rage and free-floating terror. When those eased down, aching melancholy awaited him, interspersed with jittery euphoria. And the lust was through the ceiling. Heâd steeled himself to ask Bruno about that, and Bruno solemnly informed him that constant sexual awareness was more or less normal for a healthy guy, and welcome to the club, already. According to Bruno, normal guys thought about sex constantly. All night and all day, porn footage unspooled in their heads. How normal guys managed to get through their days without totally humiliating themselves was a mystery to him.
At night, if he slept at all, his dreams were turbo-charged nightmares that spat him into waking consciousness flash-fried on adrenaline. He was taking a protracted break from sleep. He couldnât take the stress anymore. All-night poker was more restful.
If he could keep his mind on it, that is. He yanked his attention back to see Laker limp in with 200. Kev raised 600, three times the big blind, breathing with his mouth so as not to smell the guyâs aftershave.
Heâd been in this unenviable state since heâd woken from the second coma, the one following the stress flashback. The one which had necessitated reconstructive surgery upon the face of Dr. Prateek Patil, Kevâs neurosurgeon. Embarrassing, considering how hard the guy had worked on Kevâs fucked-up brain. Patil hadnât deserved to get pounded all to shit for his trouble. But life was seldom fair.
He doubted that same fit would come over him if he should see Patil again, but nobody wanted to experiment with that hypothesis, least of all Patil himself. The guy had a restraining order out on him.
On the button, Stevens cold called $600. Kev wrenched his mind back into focus. Stevensâs hand couldnât be that great. His normal pattern was to re-raise big hands, get the blinds to fold, and eliminate random hands that could flop big and crush a high-percentage hand.
Pay attention. Hard to calculate what kind of hand Stevens would be playing with, his head pounding like this. Moriarty folded. His $100 blind went into the pot. Chilikers squeezed his cards and studied them again before he called $400 more. Heâd been an early winner, after he got the stake from Kev. Heâd even gotten ahead by about thirty thousand for a while, but for the last hour heâd been taking beat after beat. Heâd gotten more sullen with each one.
Laker, the limper, called. He was getting pot odds for any two cards. That left four for the flop. Laker, Chilikers, Stevens, and himself.
Chilikers was staring at him again as the dealer burned the top card and flipped up the board. Queen of diamonds, jack of diamonds, two of clubs. Coordinated board. Sucked, for him. Anyone with two diamonds only needed one more to win, or any two connecting cards for a five card straight. His head throbbed sickeningly. He stuck his hand in his pocket, clutching the prescription bottle, but the pills would be useless now. Heâd waited too long, hadnât wanted to dull his edge. He was so nauseous now, he wouldnât be able to digest them. So there was no way out of this shitty headache now but straight through it.
Besides. Seemed stupid to zonk himself into deliberate dullness after years of spending a fortune on extreme sports just to prove to himself that he had a fucking pulse.
Man, he felt that pulse now. Every heartbeat a meat mallet blow to his frontal lobe, thudding against the swelling, the scar tissue, the knitting bones of his skull. The healing process would be slow, though the doctors had assured him that the situation would improve. The pain, nausea,
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