If these two don't kill each other, they might fall in love.
Rand hates Jax because he’s the laid-back, vegan-eating, tree-hugging, total-Zen-until-I-get-a-chance-to-screw-you president of Sigma Mu Tau, the nerdy fraternity that’s the sworn enemy of Rand’s house, Alpha Lambda Alpha. What a phony!
Jax hates Rand for being the privileged, rich-heir-to-an-oil-empire, environment-destroying, soul-sucking president of the ALA jocks—but mostly because Rand hated him first. Rand has sent nothing but hateful vibes his way since the day they met. What a douche!
The enemies have never had a single conversation that didn’t involve shouting—until Jax’s old Buick breaks down on a road trip and Rand plays reluctant rescuer. Jax is forced to sit on Rand’s dead cow seats. Rand learns chickens can enter the living room and that Jax’s beliefs are more than skin-deep. The bitter rivals embark on a quest to save a family member and discover that sometimes animosity is a mask for crazy-hot attraction. With this much face time, head-to-head might become heart-to-heart.
HEAD TO HEAD is an enemies to lovers, forced proximity, opposites attract, searching for his sister, clashing cultures, MM romance—with a whole lot of fracking.
Big Bet. Big Trouble. Big Love.
When Felix the Quiz Bowl Champion reveals other oversized assets besides his brain, it takes PJ, the super-wheeler-dealer, to wangle maximum profits from it—in bets, wet jock strap contests, and Wang of the Week.
But winning money turns out to be second to falling in lust, and sexual escapades replace time at the poker tables as the number-one activity of their wicked week in Vegas.
Still, accepting the hospitality of PJ’s father’s client, the mobster Joey Oretano, proves a nearly fatal money-saving scheme, and brings Felix and PJ face-to-face with the serious side of life.
Very. Serious.
Will someone take the chance to be a hero?
Or will someone wind up dead?
BETTING ON HIS BF is a friends-to-lovers, bisexual awakening, what-happens-in-Vegas-can-win-you-money, dash-of-suspense, MM romance—with large assets.
Head to Head #3
Chapter One
Philadelphia
Rand
The elevator doors parted and—
Whoa. A sea of nerds.
I took a step into the hotel lobby, dodging a flow of people, most at least a head shorter than me, sporting khakis, plaid shirts, Star Wars and Marvel T-shirts, glasses… Jesus, there was even a Darth Vader costume. They carried books, tablets, and every variety of super-tech phone invented, and all of them surged in one direction—exactly where I needed to go. To the final Quiz Bowl matchup between Harvard and U of W, Madison. My team. Well, sort of.
One guy in a blue knit beanie, who automatically made me tense because he reminded me of my least favorite person, sported a T-shirt that said, I could explain it to you, but I can’t understand it for you. He glanced up at me like I came from another planet. That about summed it up. Rand Charles, jock stranger in a strange geek land.
Taking a breath, I plunged into the flow of humans and let the river take me.
It wasn’t that I didn’t understand or appreciate intelligence. Hell, I hadn’t made Dean’s List and Summa Cum Laude on my looks, plus some of my fraternity brothers, the Alpha Lambda Alphas, were damned smart. It was just that we also happened to be athletic and didn’t wear our brains on the outside. In addition, we tended to hang out together. Did that mean I’d been living in a bubble? The immediate evidence suggested yes.
I scooted out of the crush and slid into the back door of the room where the finals were happening in time to hear somebody at a head table saying, “This mathematician names a homology sphere which results from +1 surgery on the right-handed trefoil knot.”
Holy crap. Total immersion.
I pressed back against the wall, squeezing between two guys clutching phones. The huge room was filled with people gripping their pens and gazing at the two teams seated at the tables up front as if they could transmit the answer to the question telepathically. As if getting it right would result in world peace and the salvation of baby seals.
My belly clenched with tension, which was clearly catching. Hell, I liked seals.
I caught my breath as Dobbs, the head of “my” team, slammed a hand on the buzzer and said, “Jules Henri Poincaré.”
An official at the head table said, “Correct.”
And I yelled with half the people in the room, “Yes!”
I didn’t know much about Quiz Bowl, but I did get that we just scored a point in a super-tight match in the finals. I clapped loudly. Even more important, I knew that winning this championship would not only fulfill the agreement of my fraternity with Dean Robberts to cooperate with our rivals, the Sigma Mu Taus, it would also mean we won the bet that half the school was invested in. The bet was that our two ALA frat brothers, who’d been placed on the Quiz Bowl team, were just as smart as the SMT nerds and would be able to help them win the finals. Booyah. Sweetest of all, it would also prove, once, for all, and evermore that Jax Johnson, president of the SMTs was a big-mouthed, untrustworthy Poindexter who thought he was god’s gift and couldn’t lead his fraternity to lunch.
Winning sounded damned good.
But we hadn’t won yet.
I focused on the four UW Madison guys at the table, three SMTs plus one awesome ALA jock, aka Jesse Knox, who I was there to support. Jesse was not only my fraternity brother, he was also my friend, to the extent that the super-private Jesse ever made close friends.
Of course, he had one other close friend now. Jesse’s arm snaked around Dobbs’s shoulders and gave a squeeze as the team leaned their heads together for what I was figuring out were the bonus questions. Other people watching might assume that Jesse’s gesture was just an “attaboy” from a teammate, but Jesse and Dobbs were newly minted boyfriends, lovers, sex slaves, whatever. It still surprised the shit out of me. Maybe it shouldn’t have since I was also gay, but those two seemed like such opposites. Honestly, though, not as different as another of my frat bros, Bubba, who was now dating one of Dobbs’s Sigma Mu Tau housemates, Sean. While I had to admit, the Poins had a certain brainy appeal, the trend was still highly disturbing.
Our team answered their first bonus question for ten points, and people around me said “Yes” and “Good” under their breath. It was something about the Republic of Imagination, which I’d heard of but couldn’t answer the question about.
Another bonus question. They got that one too. And then the third bonus question was up. I caught my breath. Getting this one right would put Madison ahead.
The moderator looked at a card. “Among the three American novels discussed in Nafisi’s The Republic of Imagination is this 1940 book, in which John Singer—”
Jesse hit his buzzer, then leaned in to the microphone. I felt my lips saying with him, “The Heart is a Lonely Hunter.”
“Correct. Ten points.”
I fucking cheered. Seeing Jesse nail it in this brainiac company was damned sweet.
The score was now 90 to 60 with Madison ahead. The Madison supporters clustered on the right side of the room gave subdued claps and high fives, while the large group from Harvard on the left sent worried glances our way.
As I was looking over toward the Harvard side, a big guy in one of the front rows stood up and made his way to the aisle. I froze, my fist in midair.
Even in a sea of beanies, somehow I’d recognize that beanie instantly.
Sitting in front of the seat the guy had vacated was Jax Johnson—President of the Sigma Mu Taus aka the Poindexters, and the one dude among all humans destined to enrage me on sight, the arrogant, know-it-all, fake, flaming asshole. He’d just given his own fist pump and was knocking shoulders with another guy beside him. Heat filled my chest and I couldn’t help it. My fists clenched—like always. Damn the man. Damn. I should have expected him to be here, but that didn’t mean I liked it.
The Quiz Bowl game continued, but I couldn’t see it because I kept staring at the back of Jax’s head. Maybe the dude’s bald and he just has hair in the front attached to the beanie? Could be that’s why he always wears the hat. Just the thought made me laugh, but it sounded loud in the quiet room. The guy standing next to me gave me a look, and I crossed my arms over my chest to keep my heart from beating so hard.
I should leave, but no way I wanted to bail on Jesse. The team was huddled again so they must have won another toss-up.
Jax leaned over to the guy beside him and whispered something to him that made him laugh. I recognized the guy as belonging to SMT. I thought his name was Jorge. He had dark hair, was kind of chunky, had glasses, and the word “nerd” practically flashing on his forehead. Was he Jax’s boyfriend? Yeah, that’d be about right. Jax was a hipster type, and I knew all about them. They fucked anything that moved. The thought made me catch my breath.
Quit it, Rand. You’re obsessing.
I needed to get out of there, start driving to the flag finals. Somewhere, anywhere Jax wasn’t.
At that second, everybody in the room freaked, some cheering and others moaning. Since I’d lost track of the game, I looked at Jax and he was standing applauding like crazy. That had to mean Madison had just won this round, so I cheered, too, and added a piercing whistle for good measure. That did, however, mean I couldn’t leave Philadelphia yet. Madison was still in the game. No point coming to Quiz Bowl if I didn’t watch the final round.
Come on, Rand. Grow up. You can do this.
I pushed away from the wall and ran straight into PJ Roark. Along with Jesse, PJ was the other ALA human sacrifice that we’d put on the Quiz Bowl teams because Dean Robberts required two of our guys on Quiz Bowl and two of theirs on flag football. The dean thought that would end the decades-long feud between our houses. That, or we’d just kill each other and solve his problem.
PJ grabbed my arm. “We won the round! Now we’re tied with fucking Harvard to win the whole shebang, man. We’re on fire!”
“Yeah, it’s great.”
He pulled my arm. “Come on. We’ve got a little time for lunch. Right after that, the division-two team I’m on does its final, and then the final round for the div-one squad is the big finale. So we need to stuff our faces fast. It’s a long afternoon.” He laughed. PJ’s first priority was always stuffing his face.
We walked into the hall where people were rushing in every direction. As he hurried me along, I said, “You’re really into this Quiz Bowl stuff.”
PJ’s smile faded a little. “Well yeah. You work on something this hard, you figure you ought to marry it and have kids.”
I snorted and we walked into the hotel restaurant. PJ stared around, spied a waving hand in the back, and pulled me toward it. We walked up on a big round table packed with Poins plus Jesse and Bubba, of all people, and some other Madison students that had likely bought tickets from PJ back on campus and were there to see the outcome firsthand.
They’d left some empty chairs, and Jesse jumped up and pushed one out. “Rand, hi. Glad you came. Sit here, bro.”
“Thanks. You guys did great.” I looked around at all the Poins on the team. Awkward. Sitting on the other side of Jesse was Dobbs, the Poin that Jesse had fallen for while they practiced Quiz Bowl. No accounting for taste, although he was cute in a very Poiny way. Next to Dobbs sat Sean, the little redhead they called Hedgehog who played on our flag football team. Sean was a supposed genius, but somehow he’d gotten to the gooey, teddy-bear heart of giant Bubba Merkofsky, one of our key flag players, and the two were now an item too.
PJ had tucked in on the other side of the table between the weird dude who wore black leather and the uber nerd named Sai who always looked constipated. Both of them were on the team I’d just watched. I had to admit. They were damned good at Quiz Bowl.
Dobbs said, “There’s a buffet, and that’s probably the easiest way to fill up you bottomless pits in a short time, so everybody on the teams go grab a plate. The rest of you can do your own thing, but if you want to see div two, you probably need to buffet.” He took Jesse’s hand and marched toward the buffet line. All the rest of the guys at the table scraped back their chairs and followed.
I let them go first, since it didn’t matter if I got to division two a little late, plus I might bail on the whole thing, go back to my hotel room, and watch a movie. Hell, when did I ever have a chance to do that? As chapter president, living in the ALA house, I was almost never alone.
The buffet had a few too many things made with mayonnaise, but I managed to create a big green salad, add a few hard-boiled eggs for protein, concoct my own dressing from some olive oil, vinegar, and chunks of bleu cheese, and call it a meal. While the Poindexters paid for the Quiz Bowl teams, I paid for my own, walked back to the table, and stopped.
Where there had been an empty chair, Jax sat with a plate piled high with veggie pizza and salad, talking to Dobbs real seriously.
All I wanted was to turn and walk away, but how weird would that look, wandering around the restaurant carrying a plate with no place to sit. The whole place was packed with avid Quiz Bowl fans. Plus Jesse was smiling up at me, expecting me to sit down next to him—and directly opposite Jax. Great.
I sat.
Instantly, I gazed at Jesse. “Good job on that Heart is a Lonely Hunter question. I’m impressed with how you hung in there. Some of those questions, I didn’t even understand the words. Talk about specialized knowledge.” I laughed, viciously keeping my gaze fixed on Jesse. Not a hardship, since he was totally fine.
He smiled in that shy way he had. “Truthfully, I spent hours memorizing questions and answers with Dobbs.”
I must have raised my eyebrows because he barked a laugh. “I swear, that’s what we were doing—most of the time. The SMT guys have been participating in Quiz Bowl since grade school, so they’ve run across variations on so many kinds of questions. I just had to cram the best I could. I’ve learned a lot.”
I gave him a light punch on the shoulder. “I’m proud of you, man. Though I do take credit for being smart enough to assign you to the team.” I winked at him and looked across the table. “You, too, PJ.” Big mistake. Huge. Because looking across the table at PJ meant I was practically looking at Jax.
This close and head-on, I got that reaction I never liked to admit I had. One-half fury and one-half sizzling lust. I didn’t want to remember it, but there had been a time when the hipster-type with beard, beanie, and soulful eyes had done it for me down to the ground. But that was a long time ago, and now, seeing Jax’s smug, cooler-than-thou expression just made me want to smash his face.
Staring straight at me, he said, “Since I’d never be arrogant enough to imply I take any credit for the team’s exceptional brilliance, I’ll just say it’s obvious you all worked really hard. You should be proud of yourselves.”
As red crawled up my neck, Dobbs beamed. “Thanks, Jax. That means a lot to all of us.”
Jesse cast a quick side-eye in my direction. Yeah, he knew that the asshole had just thrown enough shade my way to prevent my tanning for a year. Whether anybody else got it, I couldn’t tell.
I dug deeply into my salad as Jesse and Dobbs and the other team members strategized for the afternoon sessions. It might as well have been bleu cheese-flavored plastic for all I tasted it, but I tried to raise my eyes as little as possible, because when I did, Jax wore a small, self-satisfied smile.
I could hit back. And normally, I would. But I was feeling a little outnumbered at the moment. Besides, I told myself the fucker wasn’t worth it. We were only a couple weeks from graduation, and then Jax Johnson would be a nonentity in my life.
After polishing off some desserts, the team gathered up their stuff to go to the division-two final. PJ was running off at the mouth he was so nervous. The SMT guys Jorge, Billings, and Johnson were also on the div-two team, and even they looked a little pale.
I let them get ahead of me but used their leaving as an excuse to bail. Jax stayed at the table sloshing down iced tea, and I had to go before I grabbed his glass and fucking drowned him in it.
As I followed the team through the hotel lobby, a voice called, “Rand! Hey, Rand Charles.”
I looked around and spied a bearded guy in glasses wearing a sports coat over jeans and holding a cell phone in front of him like he was videoing. He yelled, “Hey, Rand, what do you have to say about the charges that American Eagle poisoned the water in Williamsport, Pennsylvania, and injured two kids?”
People around me stopped and stared, like maybe I was a secret terrorist. I held up my hands. “Sorry. I’m a student. I’m not up on the latest developments with my father’s business.” But I sure as fuck was going to find out.
The same guy called, “But aren’t you planning to enter your father’s company when you graduate?”
“I’m going to graduate school next year. That’s all the comment I can give.” I headed straight for the front desk. The clerk looked up, and I said, “Do you have a newspaper?”
“Of course, Mr. Charles. I’ll send one to your room.”
“Thanks.”
Not even daring to look over my shoulder, my heart pounding in my ears, I toggled the elevator button and bolted into the first one that arrived. What the fuck has my father done now? I wanted to get some information before I called him. Scrolling through my phone wasn’t getting me far, but the guy with the newspaper arrived at my room at the same time I did.
“Thanks.” I tipped him and let myself in.
Except for financing extra beer and pizza for the frat, I almost never used my money, at least not conspicuously. But hell, if I got to stay in a nice room with a king-sized bed and view of the City Hall, by myself, after living with twelve guys all year, I’d gladly charge it to my considerable line of credit.
I kicked off my shoes and flopped on the bed with the paper. I sure as fuck didn’t have to search to find the story. Right on page one, above the fold.
Fracking Company Poisons Ground Water. Two Children Hospitalized.
I sighed long and slow and gripped the bridge of my nose. “Oh fuck, Dad.” Flopping back against the pillows, I picked up the phone and pressed send.
It rang twice, and then that familiar voice that was Tommy Lee Charles said, “Rand! My son actually calling me. Whatcha need?”
“I just saw the news. What the hell is going on, sir?”
He blew against the phone. “The Williamsport site was using excessive chemicals and leaked into the groundwater. We caught the chem imbalance and corrected it, but we didn’t know about the water issue.”
“Fuck, Dad. You’re supposed to be testing.”
He was quiet for a couple seconds too long, then said, “We did.” He sighed. “It didn’t get in the drinking water. The kids were in a swimming pool.”
“In April?”
“It was indoor. And the papers make it sound worse than it was. Goddamn bloodhounds. The kids won’t have any lasting damage or anything.”
Je-sus Christ. I forced my fingers to unclench. “Are you at the site now?”
“No, but I will be in the morning. Look, I’m taking care of this. Don’t worry about it.”
No way was I going to not worry about it. Not when reporters were dogging me in hotel lobbies—and when two kids were hurt. “I’m going to meet you there tomorrow. I’m in Philadelphia so it’s on my way.”
“What the hell are you doing in Philadelphia?”
“Fraternity business. I’ll see you at the site. And I hope you have one solid-gold remediation plan and a way to compensate the families.” As if anything could compensate for harming two kids. And what if they hadn’t been okay? What if it had been worse?
“I said don’t worry about it. The lawyers are lawyering. All a part of doing business. No big deal.”
“It doesn’t have to be a big deal to be a big deal. That’s the point. I’ve got one word for you.”
“Plastics?” He laughed at his play on the old line from The Graduate.
“Renewables. We’ve got to move on this, Dad.”
“Yeah well, fracking ain’t going anywhere in my lifetime, junior. And after that, you can worry about it.” He hung up.
I threw my phone across the bed. “Fuck that. I already am.” Frustration burned inside me. I had to find a way to get him to listen. And I would. After I completed my MBA, I’d be around him and the business all the time—enough to make myself heard.
My watch said I’d probably missed the second-division group, but I could still catch the big finale. It’d be nice to just lay back and watch TV for a while, but I’d come all this way to show support for Jesse and PJ, and I shouldn’t blow the chance. After all, they’d obviously worked their asses off for Quiz Bowl. In Jesse’s case, pretty literally.
Man, Jesse and Dobbs doing the deed.
Dobbs was openly gay.
Like Jax.
That thought made me shiver so hard, I grabbed my phone and hurried out the door.
Betting on His BF #4
Chapter 1
PJ
“Oh my God. This is so hot,” I moaned, dropping the morsel in my fingers. “So good, but so hot.”
“Blow on it,” Felix instructed with a nod of his chin at my plate before stuffing a boneless chicken wing in his mouth, his eyes fluttering in ecstasy. His sauce-laden fingers were already reaching for a deviled egg.
Food was one of the supporting pillars of my friendship with Felix Barksdale. A large, fat, juicy pillar. God, I loved food, and I could put it away with the best of them, though I was not quite Felix’s equal. At 5’5” and about 120 pounds, God only knew where Felix put the stuff, but presumably it went down into a bottomless pit.
“Olive-y,” he pronounced, swallowing the deviled egg.
I made a face. “Thought so. That’s why I didn’t grab one.”
Felix looked at me like I’d just kicked a puppy. “You don’t like olives?”
“Nope.”
His mouth gaped open. “Dude! That’s criminal. Have you ever had a muffaletta?”
I was familiar with the New Orleans sandwich that had an olive spread. “Uh, no. Because I don’t like olives.”
“Not Greek olives? Not, like, Greek olives and feta on a salad?”
I laughed. “Dude. What part of I don’t like olives offends you so deeply?”
Felix shook his head sadly. “I thought we were bros. Man. I don’t even know who you are right now.”
I kicked him under the table and he grinned. I took a big bite of meatloaf.
“Shut up. There’s gotta be something you don’t eat,” I said.
He shook his head and picked up a greasy slice of Texas toast. “Nope.” He practically crammed the whole thing into his mouth.
Jesus. His mouth was a restaurant-capacity garbage disposal. Kind of like those mukbangers on YouTube. Felix’s mouth had thinnish lips, but, man, did it open wide.
“There’s nothing you don’t like?” I deadpanned. “Bet that’s not true.”
He shook his head, chewing.
“Yogurt? Brussel sprouts? Oysters?”
“Bring it,” he said lustily.
“Liver and onions?”
He hesitated, looking ashamed. “Yeah, not a fan of organ meat.”
“Aha! Somewhere, Anthony Bourdain is pointing at you and laughing.”
That made Felix put down the fried zucchini in his hand. He looked out the window at the neon sign, Big Mack’s Diner, or maybe at the collection of dusty pickup trucks and semis, or maybe at the hot desert landscape. We were still two hundred miles from Vegas, but the road trip we’d been on from Madison, Wisconsin already felt like it was over. And I was ready for it to be, ready for whatever adventure came next, as long as it was fun. And, preferably, profitable.
“Man, that’d be some kinda life, huh?” Felix looked dreamy. “Doing an exotic food show. Traveling all over the world. Having adventures…”
“Yeah, you definitely need to find a way to make money off your appetite,” I agreed, wheels turning. “Have you ever done, like, a pie-eating contest? Don’t they have whole leagues for that kind of thing?”
Felix blinked and gave me a look. “Quiz Bowl is enough competition for me.”
“Quiz Bowl doesn’t pay.” I rubbed my fingers together to suggest moolah.
“The national championship did. We won ten grand.”
“Yeah, and all that money went to the frat house. Hence, my point.”
Felix shrugged. “I’m going back for more.” He slid out of the booth and picked up his plate.
An older waitress in a checkered uniform appeared as if by magic and took Felix’s plate. “Get a fresh one, hon.”
“Oh. Cool. Thanks.” Felix gave her a smile.
The plates were a bit on the small side. I swallowed the last of the potato salad on mine, handed it to the waitress, and went back in line myself.
Buffets are kind of like participating in a large group orgy. The individuals you had sex with might not be your first choice in an ordinary setting, but it was the group experience that was unique and thrilling. Or so I assumed. I hadn’t actually been to a large group orgy. I had, however, been to lots of buffets. There was one close to the Madison campus where we both went to college. Felix and I used to go a couple of times a week until the owner barred us from ever setting foot in the door again lest he go bankrupt.
We’d pulled into Big Mack’s Diner the second we saw the words Buffet $19.95 on the marquee. We were vacationing on a strict budget, and we could fill the tank and then some at that price. The owner of this joint would lose out, but hey, he probably had plenty of little old lady customers who ate like birds to balance things out, right?
Felix went back five times. I went back four. We ate until our bellies were swollen under our shirts. I finally had to stop. I leaned back and breathed hard for a few minutes, backing down the urge to puke.
Across the table, Felix had also given up and looked a little green.
“Just one more mint?” I asked in a bad British accent à la John Cleese in The Meaning of Life. “It’s wafer thin.”
Felix laughed and patted his stomach. “God no. And don’t say wafer.” He burped quietly into his hand. “Fuck. I won’t eat for a week.”
I knew for a fact, he’d be ready for a huge breakfast, but the room was spinning a little, so I didn’t have the energy to tease him.
“Two hundred and ten more miles,” Felix said. “I need a hotel room and a bed. Must sleep this off, like a Sumo wrestler.” He patted his gut again.
“You look more like those cartoons of an anaconda that swallowed a water buffalo or something.” I grinned.
“Accurate.” He puffed out his cheeks in an I’m stuffed gesture. “I’ll get the check.”
He waved down the waitress. Her nametag read Bonny. Bonny took out a notepad and scribbled. She scribbled some more. Felix and I exchanged a look. The check should be straight forward. We’d both had water to go with the buffet.
She put the check facedown on the table. “Pay at the register.” She walked away. Bonny was not the friendly type.
Felix picked up the check and stared. His eyes went huge and his face drained of color.
“What?” I grabbed the check.
I choked on my own spit. The bill was nearly $200.00. “What!” I shouted. I turned to flag down the waitress, but she was now behind the counter getting a coffee pot.
“Oh, shit. Shit,” Felix muttered. He pointed, hand shaking, like some guy in a movie who’d spotted the ghost.
There, on top of the buffet line, a small white sign said, “Buffet is charged per plate.”
“No,” I said. “No, no, no. Motherfucker.”
“I was so hungry, I only saw the food.” Felix lowered his voice to a whisper and leaned toward me over the table. “Holy shit, PJ. We’re fucked. That’s, like, most of my cash allowance for the entire week.”
My nostrils flared as I stared at the offending sign. “They’re totally scamming people That sign should be sitting on the plates. No way people will see that.”
“Yeah, well, it’s right there. You gonna argue with Big Mack?” Felix jerked his chin across the diner. I turned around to follow his gaze. There, at the register, was possibly Big Mack himself. Or Big Someone. He had to be 6’5” with bulging, tattooed arms shown off in a black tank top, head shaved bare. He was watching us, eyes narrowed, as if daring us to say something.
I turned back around and slunk lower in the booth. “Totally a scam,” I repeated, pissed off at myself for not seeing it. Me, of all people! I can smell a scam a mile away. Like Felix, I’d been distracted by all the hot, fragrant food. I didn’t like feeling like a fool. I didn’t enjoy being hooked like any old rube.
“We’ll have to turn around here and go back,” Felix said disconsolately. “Sorry, PJ.”
“Dude, we’re almost to Vegas. We’re not going home now.”
“But I barely have enough cash to cover my half of this bill. And I can’t put too much on my card.”
“We’re going to Vegas,” I repeated firmly. “You make money in Vegas.”
Felix looked doubtful. “We don’t have enough to gamble with. Anyway, we’re more likely to lose money than earn it by gambling.”
“Just let me think, okay?”
Felix wiped his mouth with his hand, looking like he wanted to argue. But he didn’t say anything. I thought.
Big Mack had quite the racket going here—roping in the tourists. Could I scam him back? I sure as shit wanted to. Fucker. But how? What were our assets at the moment? What did we have on us? What bluff would a guy like that have any interest in? The stuff I was used to doing at school wouldn’t work. He wouldn’t be interested in test answers or bets on sporting events. There wasn’t time for that kind of setup. Whatever it was, it had to be done right here and now.
I thought of the nice little moneymaker Felix and I had going on last year at school, taking bets on whether the Alpha Lambda Alpha house—aka the Jocks—or the Sigma Mu Tau—aka the nerds—would win their respective championships in flag football and Quiz Bowl. Dean Robberts had forced us to swap players in an effort to end a decades-long feud. Felix and I had made a couple of grand off that scheme. Of course, that was a year ago, so that money was long gone. But that was how Felix and I, supposedly sworn enemies as nerd and jock, became friends. When he heard about the bets I was taking, he was interested—not just in placing a bet, but in the whole operation. It was like he wanted to be a mini-me, fascinated by my every move. He became my wingman.
Felix was the only person I’d ever met who never shook his head at me like I was a weirdo or sociopath because I always had some enterprise going, because I liked moolah and lots of it. Yes, my folks were rich, but my dad preached that nobody got anywhere by being given things. So aside from my tuition and a few other basics, I made my own way by my wits. Felix seemed to get that and even admire it. As a wingman, he was smart as hell. And he was always game—for anything.
For anything.
I narrowed my eyes at him thoughtfully.
“What?” Felix asked. “You’re fucking creepy when you get that look.”
“What look?” I said innocently.
“That PJ Roark I’ve got an idea look.”
“My ideas are good!”
He grimaced. “Yeah. So far. But, seriously, don’t mess with that dude. He looks like he could snap us in half.”
“Brains are superior to brawn.”
He gave me a quirked eyebrow. “I’d like my brawn to remain in one piece. My brain too.”
“Oh come on. Your lack of faith in me breaks my heart.” I leaned around the booth to look again at the guy behind the register. “Big Mack. Guy’s got an ego. Bet he thinks he’s the shit around here.”
“So? He probably is.”
A slow, wicked grin spread across my face. I leaned back into the booth and looked at Felix. Yes, I had an idea. A fucking brilliant idea. “You’ll back me up, right?”
Felix pursed his lips. “Um… In what sense are we talking?”
“No blood shed. I promise. Cool? Cool.” I slipped out of the booth.
“PJ!” Felix hissed, but I was already on the move.
Projecting confidence, I slapped our bill on the counter in front of Big Mack. “I bet this meal ticket that my friend—that skinny little guy—has a bigger dick than yours.” I said it loud enough that several tables close to the register could hear me. The men sitting there looked like truckers—baseball caps, T-shirts, beards. Bonny the waitress was also interested. She lingered near a table with the coffee pot in one hand, eavesdropping shamelessly.
Big Mack folded his arms over his chest and stared at me like I was speaking Portuguese. “What the fuck did you say?”
“You heard me. A friendly little wager. That guy versus you—in the dick department.”
“Fuck, kid. Just pay your damn bill,” Big Mack growled.
“Come on,” I said with a cheeky grin. “Double or nothing. I mean, just look at him.” I pointed across the room at Felix. He wasn’t close enough to hear what we were saying, but he looked nervous as he tried to figure it out. He seemed even smaller from here. The black leather motorcycle jacket he always wore fit him well and didn’t add bulk. It was unzipped and he had on a fairly tight black T-shirt underneath showing his skinny frame and anaconda-full belly. His thick, dark, longish-layered haircut and those dark eyes only emphasized the narrowness of his face and the biggish size of his Roman nose. He looked a little fragile, which, I figured, was one reason why he always wore that black leather jacket and biker boots. He had to toughen up his image somehow.
“You must be fucking nuts.” Big Mack shook his head.
I shrugged. “What have you got to lose? A little bit of food at cost. You probably throw half the buffet out at the end of the night anyway. Come on.”
“Do it, Mack,” a guy at one of the tables said with a chuckle.
“Yeah, like the kid said, what have you go to lose?” said another one. “Li’l pipsqueak probably has a button dick.”
They all laughed at that.
Felix must have picked up enough to get the general idea because his eyes went wide and his face pink. He shot daggers at me.
I turned away from him and leaned my back against the register. Initially, I’d just thought to add a little social pressure to Big Mack’s decision. But the crowd seemed truly interested in the proceedings, and the smell of blood in the water made me drool. “Yeah? Could be. Could be. Care to place a bet on that? Anyone? I’ll take two-to-one odds in Mack’s favor.”
“Hell, yeah!” A guy in a John Deere cap took out his wallet.
“I’m in!” said a guy in a red plaid flannel shirt with the sleeves ripped off. He took a twenty-dollar bill from his pocket and slapped it on the table. “Even if the skinny kid is packin', which he probably is or you wouldn’t be so damned cocky, I’m betting you bit off more than you can chew with Big Mack here.”
A couple guys yelled, “Yeah.”
“Damned straight.”
I kept my grin plastered on. “So put your money where your mouth is.”
“Hey, now, hold on!” said Big Mack, holding up his hands. “How can we… I’m not gonna… This is stupid!”
I thought fast. “No biggie. You and my friend go in the back room. We just need one witness to play judge. Ladies and Gentlemen, do we have a volunteer?”
The men all looked at one another. They were stricken dumb. Betting on dick size was one thing. Looking at other mens’ dicks was another.
“Come on!” I scoffed. “It’ll just take a glance. Okay, worst-case scenario, a brief comparison with a ruler, but that probably won’t be necessary. So who’s gonna officiate? I’d be happy to, but clearly I have a stake. We need someone neutral.”
“Is there a doctor in the house?” Bonny said dryly. Okay, she was funnier than I’d given her credit for.
“I’ll judge!” A woman held up her hand. She was in her early twenties and sitting in a booth with a girlfriend.
Her friend slapped her arm, mouth agape. “Miranda, no!”
“Nope,” said John Deere Cap. “This is a low flagpole contest. This ain’t about showers or growers or any of that BS. Flaccid, right, kid?” He looked at me.
“Yup. Utterly on empty.”
“So no dames. Judge has gotta be a guy,” John Deere pronounced.
I went to the first table and collected money, taking photos of each guy holding up their cash so I could remember who bet what.
“Fuck it, I’ll judge,” said a young guy with a blond beard. “That way I can make sure this ain’t no con. If I can judge, I’m in with forty.”
“Excellent reasoning,” I said. “Good for you. What’s your name?”
“Er… James.”
“So, listen up! James is our official judge. The kid in the black leather jacket versus the handsome stud at the register. Biggest dick wins. Who else is in?”
I was calling Felix kid on purpose. The guy was twenty-one, same as me, but hey, setting perception was everything.
“I never agreed to this!” Big Mack half-heartedly complained, but all the men in the diner waved him off with mutters like he’d passed gas, excitedly talking about their bets. A few guys got up to walk closer to Felix and take a better look, eyeing him up and down and rubbing their chins while Felix stared at the ceiling, face red.
When I was collecting money from the booth closest to ours, Felix came up to me and grabbed my arm. He hissed in my ear. “I will fucking. Kill you.”
I gave him a smirk. “Why? This is pure gold, man! Do you really want to spend two-hundred for our bill?”
He still looked daggers at me, his lips pressed tight, but I knew the answer.
I leaned in closer. “Dude. Not only will we eat for free, but I bet we walk away with three hundred. Maybe five. Seed money for Vegas, baby!”
He grimaced and looked around nervously. “How do you even know about…that?”
I scoffed. “The man. The myth. The legend. Everyone on campus knows about your dick, Felix.”
When I leaned back, he was blushing. He shivered once, not meeting my eyes. “Fuck. This has got to be the stupidest thing I’ve ever done. I can’t believe you just went up there and… and said that.”
“Worried you won’t win?” I teased. “I dunno. Big Mack could be hung.”
Felix met my gaze, eyes blazing. “I’ve never met anyone bigger than me.”
Why did that send a hot flush through me? I shook it off. “Well, okay then. We’ve got this.”
“But he’ll know he’s been played. He could kick our asses.”
I shrugged. “He won’t wanna look like a sore loser in front of all his customers.”
“You hope,” Felix said doubtfully, but he didn’t argue any more.
I collected close to three hundred before the well ran dry. Bonny brought me a to-go bag to stick the cash in, and everyone placing a bet got their photo taken. I did a quick calculation. Only four people had bet on Felix. Fourteen bet on Big Mack.
“Okay!” I said at last. “We’re ready. Mack, do you have an office in the back? Or even a restroom’ll work.”
He frowned at me, looking uneasy. He clearly wanted to back out, tell me to fuck off. But he’d look weak in front of all his customers. It was too late now. He glanced again at Felix, eyes lingering on his groin. But there wasn’t much to see there. Felix wore his jeans loose.
I had a moment of doubt. Honestly, I’d never seen Felix’s dick myself. What if it was all an urban legend? Like the dog choking on a burgler’s finger or whatever? But fuck it. Never let them see you sweat.
“Office.” Mack turned and went back through a gray curtain. James followed him. And lastly, Felix, shooting me one last look that I wasn’t sure how to interpret. I told myself he looked confident.
Forks were put down, pie half-eaten, dinner plates forgotten, as we waited. The room was silent.
“Dang. I wanted to judge,” Miranda muttered, clearly not meaning for it to be heard.
“Oh to be a fly on that wall,” Bonny agreed laconically.
“I wanna change my bet,” said John Deere.
“The book’s closed,” I said firmly, folding my arms over my chest and not removing my gaze from the curtain. My heart pounded against my forearm. I was worked up over this. Why?
If Felix lost, it would sting. I’d have to cover most of the Mack bets at two-to-one. And then there was the food bill. The total damage would be over a grand. I didn’t have that much cash on me. Could I use a credit card? My dad would kill me.
The curtain stirred and then was swept aside. James came out first, followed by Felix with no expression and Mack, whose face was red.
James held up a hand and the diner held its breath.
“Big Mack’s hung like a stallion, folks. No lie.”
A round of cheers and high fives accompanied the announcement, and I wanted to barf. So reputations could be exaggerated and hung was in the eye of the beholder. I pictured the long drive of defeat back to Madison with barely any money for food. Damn it, PJ. Never bet on less than a sure thing.
A couple of guys moved toward me, a mercenary gleam in their eyes.
James held up a hand. “Hang on. I said Big Mack’s big. I didn’t say he won.”
One of the truckers who’d been inching toward me snarled, “So? Just tell us.”
I held my breath. James grinned. “Big Mack is impressive, but the kid? The kid’s got a fucking torpedo.” James pointed at Felix. “He wins.”
Eli EastonHaving been, at various times and under different names, a minister’s daughter, a computer programmer, a game designer, the author of paranormal mysteries, a fan fiction writer, and organic farmer, Eli has been a m/m romance author since 2013. She has over 30 books published.
Eli has loved romance since her teens and she particular admires writers who can combine literary merit, genuine humor, melting hotness, and eye-dabbing sweetness into one story. She promises to strive to achieve most of that most of the time. She currently lives on a farm in Pennsylvania with her husband, bulldogs, cows, a cat, and lots of groundhogs.
In romance, Eli is best known for her Christmas stories because she’s a total Christmas sap. These include “Blame it on the Mistletoe”, “Unwrapping Hank” and “Merry Christmas, Mr. Miggles”. Her “Howl at the Moon” series of paranormal romances featuring the town of Mad Creek and its dog shifters has been popular with readers. And her series of Amish-themed romances, Men of Lancaster County, has won genre awards.
Eli has loved romance since her teens and she particular admires writers who can combine literary merit, genuine humor, melting hotness, and eye-dabbing sweetness into one story. She promises to strive to achieve most of that most of the time. She currently lives on a farm in Pennsylvania with her husband, bulldogs, cows, a cat, and lots of groundhogs.
In romance, Eli is best known for her Christmas stories because she’s a total Christmas sap. These include “Blame it on the Mistletoe”, “Unwrapping Hank” and “Merry Christmas, Mr. Miggles”. Her “Howl at the Moon” series of paranormal romances featuring the town of Mad Creek and its dog shifters has been popular with readers. And her series of Amish-themed romances, Men of Lancaster County, has won genre awards.
Tara Lain believes in happy ever afters – and magic. Same thing. In fact, she says, she doesn’t believe, she knows. Tara shares this passion in her stories that star her unique, charismatic heroes and a few adventurous heroines. Quarterbacks and cops, werewolves and witches, blue collar or billionaires, Tara’s characters, readers say, love deeply, resolve seemingly insurmountable differences, and ultimately live their lives authentically. After many years living in southern California, Tara, her soulmate honey and her soulmate dog decided they wanted less cars and more trees, prompting a move to Ashland, Oregon where Tara’s creating new stories and loving living in a small town with big culture. Likely a Gryffindor but possessed of Parseltongue, Tara loves animals of all kinds, diversity, open minds, coconut crunch ice cream from Zoeys, and her readers.
Eli Easton
Betting on His BF #4
Series
