Read Online High Card: A Billionaire Shifter Novel (Lions of Las Vegas Book 1) by May Ellis Daniels - Free Book Online
Authors: May Ellis Daniels
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of Nicorette. Pop the foul-tasting gum in my mouth.
Grimace. Resist the urge to spit it out.
“Fuck. We can put a man on the moon but we can’t make quit-smoking gum that doesn’t taste like ass?”
Alfie giggles. “I have a pack—”
“Oh, shut up. I’m pissed at you already.”
I settle into a quagmire of feeling pouty and pissed off. The Strip’s mostly deserted. The tourons are all safely tucked in after a long day of losing money. Just a few late-night stragglers and hustlers, drunks and druggies. Us full-time Las Vegans, minus our happy-face make-up. Porn flyers spin in the nooks and alleys between buildings, caught in the warm spring breeze.
Do I ever think about getting out?
Constantly. Then I remember my mother.
“So anyway, there I was, sitting in my car, minding my own business…kind of. And who rolls up?” Alfie gives me a you’ll-never-guess look.
“The tool.”
Alfie’s face crumples. “Yeah. Fucking pigs. I was double parked.”
“Bet that conversation went downhill fast.”
Alfie laughs. “Whatever. Me and the po? We’s tight .”
“Sure. Tight like an old married couple about to murder one another.”
“Didn’t come to that. But you owe me a hundred bucks.”
“A hundred bucks?” I almost shout. That’s a fortune to me right now. This night’s going from shit to super-shit.
“Fuckers wanted my laptop,” Alfie says. “Settled for a c-note.”
He takes the old Porsche hard left around a corner. In a few blocks we might as well be in a different world. The fakey glamor, flashing lights, wide boulevards and swaying palm trees of the Strip have been replaced by liquor stores with caged windows, shelters, boarded-up buildings and fast food joints that give me indigestion just looking at them. Everything looks faded and run down, like it’s about to topple over, especially compared to the blistering newness of the Strip.
We drive for a few blocks in silence, both of us lost in our own worries.
Alfie’s worry is that his dad’s a drunk who likes to kick his ass at every opportunity, then spend a few days being overly nice to make up for it until the next time he hits the bottle. That’s how Alfie got the Porsche. His dad won it in a round of poker, then gave it to his eighteen year-old son because he felt bad for breaking his boy’s arm in a drunken rage.
Alfie keeps saying he’s gunna sell the car.
But I’m not sure he will.
It’s the only thing his dad’s ever given him.
“Oh shiiit,” I say, putting my palm over my eyes.
“What?”
“I was supposed to hand in a report this morning. The civil war and blah blah blah.”
“Is it finished?”
“Shit no.”
“How’s school going?”
“It’s going. One class at a time means it’ll take, like, a fucking decade to get my GED.”
“But then you’ll have it.” Alfie slows as we enter an industrial neighborhood of mechanics shops, warehouses and self-storage yards.
“Yeah. I guess I will,” I say, remembering the thrill of seeing the roulette ball nearly hit the payout. School’s a hell of a lot less exciting than grifting, but in the long run it pays better. Plus, you don’t generally risk getting strangled in a back alley by some dickhead of a security tool—
Alfie slows the car beside a closed mechanic’s shop with a steel roll-up door. Hops out, leaving the car running. Unlocks a padlock, rolls the door up, gets back in the car and reverses inside the tiny garage, then kills the engine.
“What time’s your dad’s shop open?” I ask while Alfie pulls the gate down. The shop smells of oil, grease and sweat, long hours and late bills.
“Seven.”
“Time’s it now?”
“Five.”
I swing my legs out of the Porsche’s open door and give them a stretch. My throat’s still tender and my busted finger hurts more now than it did when Blake first broke it. I shudder, remembering the murderous feeling he was giving off. He’s a psychopath,
Grimace. Resist the urge to spit it out.
“Fuck. We can put a man on the moon but we can’t make quit-smoking gum that doesn’t taste like ass?”
Alfie giggles. “I have a pack—”
“Oh, shut up. I’m pissed at you already.”
I settle into a quagmire of feeling pouty and pissed off. The Strip’s mostly deserted. The tourons are all safely tucked in after a long day of losing money. Just a few late-night stragglers and hustlers, drunks and druggies. Us full-time Las Vegans, minus our happy-face make-up. Porn flyers spin in the nooks and alleys between buildings, caught in the warm spring breeze.
Do I ever think about getting out?
Constantly. Then I remember my mother.
“So anyway, there I was, sitting in my car, minding my own business…kind of. And who rolls up?” Alfie gives me a you’ll-never-guess look.
“The tool.”
Alfie’s face crumples. “Yeah. Fucking pigs. I was double parked.”
“Bet that conversation went downhill fast.”
Alfie laughs. “Whatever. Me and the po? We’s tight .”
“Sure. Tight like an old married couple about to murder one another.”
“Didn’t come to that. But you owe me a hundred bucks.”
“A hundred bucks?” I almost shout. That’s a fortune to me right now. This night’s going from shit to super-shit.
“Fuckers wanted my laptop,” Alfie says. “Settled for a c-note.”
He takes the old Porsche hard left around a corner. In a few blocks we might as well be in a different world. The fakey glamor, flashing lights, wide boulevards and swaying palm trees of the Strip have been replaced by liquor stores with caged windows, shelters, boarded-up buildings and fast food joints that give me indigestion just looking at them. Everything looks faded and run down, like it’s about to topple over, especially compared to the blistering newness of the Strip.
We drive for a few blocks in silence, both of us lost in our own worries.
Alfie’s worry is that his dad’s a drunk who likes to kick his ass at every opportunity, then spend a few days being overly nice to make up for it until the next time he hits the bottle. That’s how Alfie got the Porsche. His dad won it in a round of poker, then gave it to his eighteen year-old son because he felt bad for breaking his boy’s arm in a drunken rage.
Alfie keeps saying he’s gunna sell the car.
But I’m not sure he will.
It’s the only thing his dad’s ever given him.
“Oh shiiit,” I say, putting my palm over my eyes.
“What?”
“I was supposed to hand in a report this morning. The civil war and blah blah blah.”
“Is it finished?”
“Shit no.”
“How’s school going?”
“It’s going. One class at a time means it’ll take, like, a fucking decade to get my GED.”
“But then you’ll have it.” Alfie slows as we enter an industrial neighborhood of mechanics shops, warehouses and self-storage yards.
“Yeah. I guess I will,” I say, remembering the thrill of seeing the roulette ball nearly hit the payout. School’s a hell of a lot less exciting than grifting, but in the long run it pays better. Plus, you don’t generally risk getting strangled in a back alley by some dickhead of a security tool—
Alfie slows the car beside a closed mechanic’s shop with a steel roll-up door. Hops out, leaving the car running. Unlocks a padlock, rolls the door up, gets back in the car and reverses inside the tiny garage, then kills the engine.
“What time’s your dad’s shop open?” I ask while Alfie pulls the gate down. The shop smells of oil, grease and sweat, long hours and late bills.
“Seven.”
“Time’s it now?”
“Five.”
I swing my legs out of the Porsche’s open door and give them a stretch. My throat’s still tender and my busted finger hurts more now than it did when Blake first broke it. I shudder, remembering the murderous feeling he was giving off. He’s a psychopath,
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