Hour by Hour (Games & Diversions #2)

by Natalie E. Wrye

  Natalie E. Wrye

  Copyright © 2015 by Natalie E. Wrye.

  This novel is an original work. It is a fictional writing, a work entirely derived from the author’s imagination. All characters and events are entirely fictional and not based in fact, nor based on any real person(s) living or deceased. Any resemblance or similarity to any real person(s), alive or dead, or event is purely and clearly coincidental. This book contains adult language and in some instances coarse language and, due to its content, should not be viewed by children.

  All Rights Reserved.

  No part of this book may be transmitted or reproduced in any form or by an means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage or retrieval system without the written permission of the author (except for the use of brief quotations in a book review).

  Cover Design:

  Bookin’ It Designs

  www.bookinitdesigns.com

  Table of Contents

  Go Hard or Go Home

  Full House

  The House Always Wins

  On a Hot Streak

  Beating the Clock

  The Wild Card

  Ante Up

  Raising the Stakes

  Going for Broke

  To the Reader

  Acknowledgements

  More about the Author

  Go Hard or Go Home

  Attackers may sometimes regret bad moves, but it is much worse to forever regret an opportunity you allowed to pass you by. - Garry Kasparov

  LUKAS GRIFFIN

  “No! That’s not fucking good enough! You tell that crazy, lying psychopath that I don’t give a damn what she claims!

  “If she can’t come up with a credible alibi by the end of the week, I’ll have her lunatic ass arrested and charged with felony property damage!”

  I slam the phone down so hard that my hand starts to sting from the impact—but I don’t give a damn.

  That private investigator better be damned happy that it’s my hand and not someone else’s face.

  Like his… or Trina’s.

  That psychopathic bitch destroyed my beloved Porsche, and she’s going to answer for it—or the P.I. I hired will.

  He… the police... they don’t know shit, and every day that passes without someone being charged for the destruction is another day that my blood pressure goes through the roof—another day that only adds fuel to the fire of my conviction that I should just take matters into my own hands.

  Chris and Foxx are the only things stopping me.

  Chris steps carefully into my office not a minute later. He stands precariously at the entrance for a few seconds, his reddish-blonde eyebrows rising sky-high.

  “Can I come in?” he says cautiously. “I wanted to knock earlier but I didn’t want to get my head bitten off, too.”

  I manage a laugh from behind the desk, easing up by a fraction. I motion towards him.

  “Yeah, sure, come on in.”

  Chris glances around my office, looking warily at my disaster of a desk.

  “Holy shit. It looks like a hurricane hit this place.”

  “I suspect it’s because one did—me. I’ve been a fucking brute storm ever since my car got beat to shit.”

  “Still no luck, huh?”

  “No,” I say wearily, rounding my desk. “They haven’t found anything yet. No prints on the car—Nothing. This case is turning into a regular bumble-fuck.”

  Chris sighs. “I’m sorry to hear that, man.”

  I shake my head at him, sitting resolutely on my desk.

  “Don’t be. The only one who’s going to be sorry is whoever did this, once I get my hands on them.”

  “Hey, Griff. Watch it, bro. Don’t you get involved in this mess.”

  “I’m already involved… but don’t worry. I’ll only strangle Trina within an inch of her life… I won’t actually finish the job.”

  Chris gapes at me before snapping his mouth shut.

  “Come on, Griff. You don’t mean that. We don’t know who did it.”

  I glare viciously at him.

  “Who else could it be?”

  “I don’t know… but I just don’t think that Trina is the type. She’s too… too docile to do that sort of thing.”

  “Yeah…” I snort. “Docile and doped to the gills. Trina was high off her ass at Foxx’s engagement party. Lord knows what she’s into now.”

  Chris dawdles near the door, lost in thought—perhaps mulling over what I’ve just told him.

  “Yeah, who knows?” he says softly. He looks up at me, his voice growing stronger.

  “But hey, just don’t go around, trying to catch an assault rap while the police and investigator are trying to figure out what’s what. We’ve still got other pressing issues to address.”

  “What issues?”

  “Issues like the access I still don’t have to some sections of the cloud drive.”

  I scowl—confused. “Which parts?”

  “Important ones—like the network drive that has the folder containing the ‘Voyager’ file.”

  I start to stand. “Which Voyager file?”

  “The one I brought to the engagement party, the collaborative piece that’s supposed to be published in Voyager’s July spread.”

  He says the words slowly, hissing out the last words between clenched teeth.

  Oh, fuck. That one.

  “And it isn’t just that file,” Chris continues. “We’ve got a whole host of articles and items in that folder. Things we’re working on. Things we need.”

  “Damn, what do we need to do? Let’s get someone in IT on it now.”

  He crosses his arms. “I have already. They’re looking into it. I’m sure it’s just a small glitch… but it’s still stressing me out.”

  “Everything stresses you out. Too much milk in your coffee stresses you out.”

  His laugh is low when he responds. “Hey, I resent that… but speaking of coffee, I’m starting to think it’s that time of day.” He checks his watch.

  “Aaaaand it is. Want to come with me while I hit the Starbucks around the corner?”

  I shrug. “Nah, you go. I’m going to go for a walk or something—clear my head.”

  “Alright, your choice. Just don’t commit manslaughter while you’re out.”

  I grin, but there’s no humor in it. “I’ll try to refrain…”

  ***

  A hot coffee sounds like the perfect prescription for my mid-day blues, but today, I’m just not in the mood.

  I actually haven’t really been in the mood for almost a month now. And it’s more than just the case of “who killed my ride.”

  It’s me. It’s Elena. It’s me acting like a fucking fool over Elena.

  I know you can have blue balls, but can you have blue balls of the brain? My mind has been a literal mess since she’s come around.

  I knew something was wrong when I started spouting all that “baby” bullshit with her.

  It had already been three weeks without sex, and suddenly I was spewing sweet nothings over the Internet… and in her ear.

  Add to that three additional weeks that I’ve been sex-less since I slept with Elena, and you’re not just talking about a mess anymore—you’re talking about a natural disaster.

  I go over the days in my head again. Fuck. It’s been three weeks since I’ve even touched a woman.

  The first two weeks were understandable; I was looking for a P.I. who could help me track down the son-of-a-bitch who destroyed my car.

  But the last week? What the hell was that about?

  The cute barista at the local Starbucks practically served her pussy to me on a plat
ter alongside my coffee, and I didn’t bite.

  The only thing that received any mouth action that day was the cookie she’d sold me.

  Maybe I’m sick—coming down with something. I clench a fist at my side. Yeah—a big fucking case of Elena.

  I’d set my sights on certain women before.

  I came, I saw, I conquered—I came. But when the climax was over, so was my interest.

  So, why the fuck am I still thinking about Elena?

  She wasn’t my first one-night-stand, and still… nothing so far has stopped her from being my last.

  A hard-on was never hard to come by, but these days, they were getting fewer and further in-between.

  I must be sick. I’m definitely getting sick—because for the past week, only the thought of one woman has been able to make my cock hard.

  I jacked off that one night to the thought of this mystery woman—to the fantasy of some phantom figure. I’d imagined subduing her into submission, silencing her tongue by placing my mouth—or cock—on it.

  And now that I have for one night, it’s like I can’t get enough.

  I want more.

  The second I watched her walk away, I knew that what we did just wouldn’t suffice.

  I’ve never been one for the difficult type, never understood the appeal of the combative woman.

  But with Elena, there’s always some boundary I’d like to test, some line I’d like to tow.

  Part of her intoxication is not knowing where her limits lie—and I’m dying to push every one of them.

  That last morning we spent together, I was a prick—even more of a prick than I usually am. I went off on her because I was pissed about what had happened to my car.

  It wasn’t warranted, I admit, but how the hell else was I supposed to feel?

  Fuck.

  I kick a rock outside of our office building like an angry toddler. I loved that goddamned racer.

  But the damage was done.

  Elena and I wound up in a shouting match that rocked the entire floor of the hotel. She slipped back into her clothes, promptly smacked me across the face, and took off.

  I watched her climb inside of a cab from my hotel window. I haven’t heard from her since.

  I’ve been too stubborn to call, too pig-headed to even pick up the phone. I’d probably be more apologetic if she hadn’t slapped the hell out of me.

  It’s pretty useless now, though. She’s back in Memphis, and I’m stuck here in Tampa. There’d be no point in reaching out.

  Foxx’s wedding is several months away, and with the exception of Anastasia’s graduation party, there’s no reason for us to even see each other again.

  I stop suddenly, hunching my shoulders amidst a cold breeze.

  Ana’s party. I nearly forgot.

  The youngest Lexington is graduating with her undergrad degree from the University of Central Florida.

  As soon as she does, she’s being whisked out of Orlando and into Tampa so she can attend the surprise party that Kat and Elena are throwing.

  Good fucking grief, this little clique of ours loves surprises parties.

  Foxx and Kat are holding the party at their house. I’m expected to come. I snort at the thought—it’s the last place I’d rather be—but when I turn around to walk back to the office, I feel a twist in my gut.

  Who the fuck am I kidding? I want to go to this party. I want to see Elena again.

  But why?

  She’s been nothing but a pain in the ass since the day we first spoke—a fucking wrecking ball to my personal and professional life.

  Even now. If I concentrate hard enough, I can hear her voice. Her deep, breathy sighs. That throaty laugh.

  It’s a voice that was made for radio… or a phone sex operator.

  There’s underlying lust in each breath she takes, evoking images of a slow undressing behind a closed door, heavy pants and hard strokes—sex in hotel hallways as the neighbors listen in.

  Her voice is a hand under the skirt, a caress below the belt—a whisper in your ear. It seduces you without your knowledge, dropping your barriers before you know what hits you.

  That’s Elena.

  She’s the embodiment of silent seduction… and me? I fell right into it.

  But I’m no victim; I’m a willing participant, eager for more—and I need to see…

  I need to see if our one night was a fluke—if it’s been worth a month of waiting.

  I stop before I re-enter our office building, looking down at what used to be my dick.

  Is that what you’ve been doing? Waiting for her? You useless piece of shit. I can’t believe you.

  It was just sex. She’s not even your type.

  And besides, if you haven’t forgotten… we don’t even like her!

  ***

  ELENA LEXINGTON

  You don’t even fucking like him, I repeat to myself.

  You met him. You kissed him. You sexed him.

  End of story.

  You thought he was a prick—he proved himself to be a prick. What more do you need to know?

  Besides… the sex can’t be as good as you’re remembering it. It just can’t be.

  FOUR orgasms?

  I count on my fingers. One… two… yup. I mean, no. That can’t be fucking right.

  Can it…?

  Damn.

  I kick a packed box, grabbing my hair into a tiny bun. If only I could get this fucking dick out of my head—the man and his member.

  It’s bad enough that I’ve been thinking about both of them for the past three weeks; now, I have to see them in several days.

  Wait…

  Not them. Just him.

  I don’t want to go anywhere near the other one… for the most part…

  Lukas doesn’t deserve an encore performance with me—not after the way he’s acted. And I have no intention of giving him one.

  In fact, the only encore he might get is another slap in the face. Please, God—let it come to that.

  Still…

  Kat doesn’t know what we did; Ana can barely hold it in, and Foxx’ll probably rip Lukas a new one if he knew.

  The less drama at Ana’s party, the better.

  I’m going to try to get through this graduation party without putting my hands on Lukas at all—in every sense.

  My cell phone rings while I shuffle a moving box around. When I see that it’s Linda, I pick up the call. I nearly drop it by mistake when I hear the shakiness in Linda’s voice.

  “Elle?” she says.

  “Hey, it’s me… Linda, what’s wrong?”

  “I—I don’t know what’s going on,” she stammers. “It’s j-just that I, uh… someone, uh…”

  “Linda, spit it out. What?”

  “It’s Hercules!” she blurts.

  “Hercules?” I ask, bewildered. “What happened to Hercules?”

  Hercules is my black-and-white Chihuahua. He’s been my pet/best furry friend since I bought him a few years ago. I purchased him from a local animal shelter—the same shelter where I met Teddy, my now-defunct ex.

  I’ve been letting Linda doggy-sit Hercules while I take care of a few things. I can see now that getting a person who doesn’t own any animals might have been the wrong move.

  “I let him run around in the front yard,” Linda continues. “I had just let him loose. I was only behind by a couple of seconds.”

  My blood runs cold.

  “Linda, where is he? Tell me where my dog is…”

  “He’s fine. He’s here. He disappeared for about, uh… a day.”

  “A day?!”

  “Or so…” she says, ignoring my hysteria. “But when he came back… he had something on him…”

  “God, Linda. Thanks for the notice…” I wait silently. “Well, what was it?”

  “A note,” she says gravely. “A nasty note attached to his collar.”

  Talking to Linda today was like pulling teeth.

  “Linda, please. Tell me what it said.”

>   “It said that…‘a bitch like you doesn’t deserve him’.”

  The note shocks me into a hush. I fall silent, letting my eyes roam around the room while I think about just what the hell is going on, when it dawns on me. Teddy.

  He always did believe that Hercules was half his, and on top of that, he had threatened to take him.

  I guess he got stoned and pissed enough to do something about it.

  He took my dog. For a whole fucking day.

  And who knew that tree-hugging hippies like him used such language?

  I thought only miscreants like me had that sort of foul mouth.

  He’d never talked like that around me. In fact, he was quite… docile—almost to a fault.

  Maybe I’d underestimated him.

  He managed to get his hands on Hercules within a span of a few minutes—faster than I thought was possible for most spaced-out potheads like him.

  I didn’t even know stoners like him could move so quickly.

  And to make matters worse… I never told him that Linda was taking care of Hercules—which means he must have been watching her… or me.

  The prospect causes an unsettling chill to run down my spine. I go into rescue mode.

  I figure he won’t dare be seen at my house after pulling some shit like this.

  I tell Linda to get my hidden spare key and instruct her to take Hercules back to my house where they can safely hide out in relative peace from Teddy’s watchful eyes.

  I swear to God, if he ever puts his hemp-rolling, flower-picking, tie-dye shirt-making hands on Hercules again, I will break every freaking finger he has.

  I continue to shake my head while Linda recounts the rest of the story. Who would have known that Ted was capable of such a thing?

  My hippie ex-boyfriend—a foul-mouthed, potential dog-napper?

  God, was I wrong about him…

  Full House

  Life is not a matter of holding good cards, but sometimes, playing a poor hand well.— Jack London

  LUKAS

  There’s a special silence that resides in the communities of the rich—a sort of natural serenity that sits beside them, eats at their tables… sleeps in their beds.