by A. T. Hicks
Peaches and the Gambler
Copyright 2012 A. T. Hicks
All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages for review.
The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Epilogue
About the Author
Dedicated to Joseph White, my husband, partner in crime
and unofficial editor.
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Prologue
Durham, North Carolina is like a bitch on wheels.
Sometimes it’s beautiful and sweet and kind. On those bucolic days, traffic on I-40 trips along at an acceptable pace, the many officers over-policing the streets magnanimously allow for minor traffic infractions, and the drive-thru line at Bojangles’ Famous Chicken and Biscuits is unusually short.
But on other, darker days, traffic snarls up, speeding tickets are handed out like promo fliers at a nightclub, Bojangles’ runs out of fried chicken after you stood in line for a million years and your boss fires you.
Today was just such a day.
“You’re fired.”
Peaches Rebecca Donnelly stared blankly at her boss.
“I’m sorry? I don’t understand.”
She had worked as an administrative manager at Benson Applications, a small upstart tech firm in the Research Triangle Park, for the past five years. It was boring work, but paid well and had the added perk of giving employees five paid weeks of vacation and an excellent Cadillac of a medical and dental insurance plan. She hadn’t been aware any layoffs were coming down the pipeline. Thus, this information was not absorbed in the lightening fast way she normally processed new data.
Peaches shivered. It was early spring. Temperatures were already getting into the balmy seventies, but year round the air conditioning in the office was kept at a frigid sixty degrees. She had tried to anonymously report the icy work conditions to OSHA, but the customer service agent had dryly informed her that cold AC was hardly a reportable offence.
Despite the cold, Steve still managed to somehow sweat in the barely habitable arctic environment. Rings of moisture actively developed under his arms, dampness already making its inevitable route toward his neckline.
The fat bastard with the cheap, wrinkled suit and tree-trunk sized legs shifted, his immense bulk constantly at odds with the specially ordered, extra large office chair that still wasn’t quite big enough for his girth.
“Sorry—I guess fired’s the wrong terminology.” He raised his hands, a Jug O’ Diet Coke clutched in one chubby fist. “I have to ‘lay off’ some folk and you were at the top of the list,” he air-quoted unapologetically.
“But I just got that quarterly update,” she sputtered, angrily. “It said, and I quote: ‘stellar worker.’ And the newest person here is Mary, why isn’t she getting laid off?”
“Peaches,” he said, gazing at her as if she were silly. “Because I’m sleeping with her, of course,” Steve said, voice low and conspiratorial.
Peaches mouth fell open.
“Don’t act like you and everybody else didn’t know,” he said, running a hand over his thinning blonde hair.
“Does your wife know?” she shot back, finding her voice. She didn’t particularly like his wife, but damn, what an asshole.
“Nope. And if she did, it wouldn’t matter. Haven’t slept with her in well over a year. Somebody’s gotta do the dirty work, eh?” He winked saucily. Peaches fell speechless again.
Peaches found herself wondering if Mary, a tiny brunette with an unprepossessing manner and less than ‘stellar’ work ethics, had to play Where’s Waldo to find Steve’s dick beneath his gigantic waistline.
“So,” he continued, picking up his jug and slurping loudly. He examined a sheaf of papers on his desk. “Your severance package is verrrry generous. You’ll have medical for an additional sixty days after termination. We will pay you for the vacation time you still have, plus two months salary.”
She took a moment to allow it all to sink in, stewing in anger as she adjusted the wide strap of the expensive purse she had just purchased from the Coach Outlet in Smithfield. The strap of her brand spanking new designer wedge’s dug hellishly into the back of an ankle. She felt a blister forming on her big toe.
Thank God she had kept all the receipts.
“Fabulous, Steve. Just great,” she said, her tone double-dipped in sarcasm. “Maybe while you’re at it you can throw in a box of the company pens. A girl can never have enough of those.” She opened the office door all the way, raising her voice slightly. “And maybe when I get bored enough from not being gainfully employed, you, me and your mistress Mary--” this last was nearly shouted. “--can have a nice little threesome on the shabby bed of some seedy motel.”
She got the savage satisfaction of watching his mouth drop open before stalking out of his office.
Stomping past the dozen or so cubicles with fiercely whispering hang-mouthed employees, she furiously arrived at the space she had considered hers for the past two thousand, one hundred and thirteen days.
Haphazardly tossing personal belongings in the box someone had oh-so-very nicely supplied for her, she muttered about being the last one hired and the first one fired, fueling a previously untapped supply of black American angst. Even though, in her case it was more like the first one hired the first one fired, which was just as screwed up.
Hearing a sound, she looked up. A slightly flushed Mary was standing there, a box of her belongings balanced in one thin arm. She lifted her chin defiantly, but her eyes slid to her mule shod feet.
She was moving to her desk? Unbelievable.
“Do you have a hard time finding his dick?” Peaches abruptly asked, leaning a hip against the desk after stuffing the last item in the box.
“Wha-whaat?” Mary stuttered. Her face flushed a dark, ugly shade of ocher that spread down her throat like a river during high tide.
“Do…you…have…a…hard…time…finding…Steve’s dick?” she enunciated, enjoying Mary’s extreme discomfort. “He’s big as a fuckin’ house so I imagine it might be a bit of a problem.” The New Jersey accent that was still there after more than fifteen years in the south, resurfaced in her aggravation.
Mary swallowed hard, backing away. No, she thought inanely, his dick is very easy to find because it’s gigantic
and sticks out well past his navel. It definitely made sex uncomfortable. But one did what one must in order to move up in the world.
Sauntering over to the now cringing Mary, Peaches peered into the box clutched in her slightly trembling arm, plucking a bobble-head Barbie figurine from atop a stack of well-thumbed through romance novels. Examining its ridiculous visage, she gently shook it, watching its head move around crazily on the spring loaded neck, before dropping it carelessly back on the desk.
She turned on Mary saying, “Don’t act shy now, sweetie. You are fuckin’ the boss. You bought yourself a little extra time. Congrats. All hail Mary.”
Mary, staring up into what used to be the coolly efficient face of the woman who had trained her, ran her eyes over the dark-brown skin, menacingly narrowed eyes and shoulder length hair, terrifyingly flashing back to an elementary school beating at the hands of a towering, black fifth grader named Amanda Barnes.
With a small squeak, she turned tail and fled, not stopping until she reached the co-ed restroom. She slammed the door, locking it securely behind her.
She wouldn’t emerge for more than two hours. And then, only after having one of the few friends she had made at the company, assure her via a whispered cell phone conversation that Peaches had long since vacated the building.
Chapter 1
Lenny Richards the third was in seventh heaven.
“God damn, girl. God daaamn.”
Loud, muffled hip-hop pumped through thin walls as Lenny watched, eyes half closed, as a girl he only knew as Melinda moved her head energetically up and down in his lap. Her lips and hands worked their magic as large naked tits rubbed erotically against his bare, scrawny kneecaps. He screamed shrilly as she bought him to a shuddering climax.
“Damn! You loud as hell.”
“Was I?” he slurred, squinting.
Melinda ‘Moony’ Jacob’s, a short, curvy woman with shiny brown skin and dark, flashing eyes, inelegantly stood from her kneeling position.
Adjusting her bronze wig, she pulled her thin top up, surveying her second client of the evening with disfavor. A thin, nervous man with uncombed hair, his pores reeked of the cheap gin and Colt 45 he had been drinking all night. He was, to say the least, unattractive. And the large mole located smack dab in the middle of his forehead was positively disgusting. Melinda wearily contemplated when and if she would ever get out of this game. I should’ve charged this one double, she thought, regretfully.
“Good thing the DJ’s playing that music so loud. Otherwise the police’d be up in here fo’ sho!”
“Sorry,” he mumbled, smiling sheepishly.
Trying to pull his pants up and stand simultaneously, he was suddenly dizzy and nauseous. He sat down hard, legs trembling. When he closed his eyes and reopened them, two unsmiling Melinda’s appeared. Maybe I should lay off the alcohol for the rest of the evening, he thought weakly.
“One hundred.” Melinda stuck out an imperious hand topped with shiny gold nails matching her earrings, toes and a few of her teeth.
“But I already done paid them seventy-five at the front,” he protested.
“That was their fee. This is mine.”
“But--,”
“Do I need to call Anton?” she asked, softly. Anton was the three hundred and fifty odd pound brute who worked the front door of the strip club and impromptu bordello Lenny found his way to on nights like this.
Lenny tried staring her down, but when you’re as inebriated as he was, you’d be lucky to stare down the wall. Finally capitulating beneath the ball withering glare of Melinda and the looming threat of a very uncomfortable beat-down á la Anton, he dropped his somewhat wavering gaze.
“Fine, fine. You don’t need to do all that,” he grumbled. He reached inside his underwear, going down, down, down to a small pocket he had sewn into his pants.
“You keep your money in your drawers?” she exclaimed.
“Yeah. What’s it to you?” he asked, a tad defensively.
“It’s nasty.
“You paid to suck people’s dicks and you talkin’ bout I’m nasty?” He thrust the money in her direction and she gingerly took it, the tips of her nails clasping the bills like crab pincers. “That’s like callin’ the pot black.”
“The kettle black,” Melinda corrected.
“Huh?”
“Nothin’,” she said, sighing grumpily. “Come on. Let’s go. Not like I got just you as a customer.” She drummed her nails impatiently on the wall, wondering if that new bitch Gina was hussying up to her best clients.
Lenny finally managed to pull his pants all the way up. Standing unsteadily, he leaned one hand against the wall for support.
They managed to make it out into the hallway before another strong bout of nausea gripped him. His stomach began heaving dangerously.
“Bathroom!”
Melinda whipped around irritably, took one look at his greenish face and jabbed an urgent finger to a door at the end of the hallway.
Wasting no time, Lenny took off at a run, his badly zipped pants loosening up and dropping to his ankles. Melinda’s “You betta not throw up on that floor!” ringing in his ears as he stumbled into the bathroom, pants pooled around his legs. He made it to the toilet just in time to violently retch up all the BBQ and Buffalo wings he had eaten upstairs. Weak, he rested a moment before standing up and firmly zippering, then buttoning his pants.
“Hurry up, fool! Time is money,” Melinda demanded once Lenny exited the bathroom.
Melinda crossly watched Lenny’s slow, deliberate hobble as he scooted along the wall. Soon as they got back upstairs, she was going to have Anton throw him out. She was tired of looking at him and smelling him.
She had hit rock-bottom. She had given a blow job to a man who for all intents and purposes was a bum. He smelled so bad, she had forced him to spray on some of the perfume she always carried in her purse. Her favorite perfume.
After tonight, she was quitting. Yeah, she’d have to go back home with her two kids, grovel to her mama and work a dead-end job, but anything was better than getting down on your knees to give a guy as disgusting as Lenny a one-off.
As a matter of fact, he could find his own way back upstairs. Though it was against club policy to leave clients unattended in the lower levels, she was beyond caring at this point. She had already decided to quit so the fear of getting fired no longer existed.
Decision made, she threw Lenny one final impatient look, then stalked toward the stairs leading back to the main part of the club. When she ascended the stairs and opened the basement door, the first thing she saw was new—younger—exotic dancer Gina, jiggling and giggling upon the lap of her best paying customer.
Previous thoughts of quitting flying the coop, the adrenaline flow of fury took its place. She’d show that bitch about screwing with her clients! Setting her jaw, she went about making sure Gina knew who really ran this place.
Downstairs, Lenny was making maddeningly slow progress towards Melinda. At least, he thought he was. Through double vision, he watched as she abandoned him, disappearing up the flight of stairs with a disgusted flick of her golden nails.
He had nearly made it to the foot of the stairs, when the wall abruptly gave way beneath his hand. He cart wheeled, bumping and cursing down a short flight of stairs, landing in a heap against a hard, plastic covered wall.
“What the hell?”
Furiously rubbing at his smarting shoulder, he fumbled his way to his feet, peering into the dimly lit recesses of a cool, musty room. Unable to see more than shadows and darkened shapes, he irritably massaged his sore hip. Just where the hell was he? In his disorientation, he bumped into another of those hard plastic walls. Trying to get his bearings, he inadvertently leaned against it, sticking one arm out. Did walls move? Because this one was coming right at him.
Crashing into him hard enough to take his breath away, hard blocks of something tumbled down on him, one of them exploding in his face. Lenny coughed and wheezed, swiping at
the feather light substance covering his hair, face and neck. While sneezing, he inhaled some of it, then violently coughed again. A strange numbing sensation began moving up his nasal passages. He felt euphoric.
**
When Lenny was discovered an hour later, huddled in the corner and gabbling like a madman, the man who walked in cursed, then made a call on his cell phone.
“This night just got a lot more complicated.”
**
Later that evening, another man smiled when the phone call telling him everything was taken care of came in. He hung up, pleased.
“What you happy about, man? We’re about to have one of our toughest matchups this season in just a few hours.”
“I get that. But there’s always something to be happy about. You just gotta find it.”
‘Damn, this dude is just so Zen. Maybe I should start meditating, too.’ Stephan Young laughed, discarding the thought as foolish. He did way too much partying and pussy hunting to focus on anything holistic.
The two finished dressing. They walked out of the locker room chatting amiably about nothing in particular and onto the basketball court in the American Airlines Arena in Miami, Florida to warm up for their match against the Miami Heat.
**
An elderly couple, out for their daily morning exercise near the Old Durham Bull’s Stadium, were disrupted from their light bickering by the frantic barking of their overly excitable dog, Money Penny.
“My God!” the woman’s husband complained. “Why does that blasted dog always have to bark so much?” They had recently adopted the animal from the local shelter, something he had been staunchly against.
His wife, a huge fan of James Bond, particularly when played by Sean Connery, thought it would be very fitting to name the Maltese/Bichon Frise mutt after the secretary in the films. Hating this idea, her husband had promptly vetoed the name.
She in turn, had promptly vetoed him back. He had lost. Again.
“Why do you always have to talk so much?” his wife snapped.
The two began sourly squabbling again, neither paying attention to Money Penny.
The dog, on an extendable leash, suddenly bound into a thicket of bushes, barking maniacally. When her quibbling owners went to disentangle her from the tree she was wrapped around, the sightless eyes of Lenny stared up at them.