CHAPTER NINE
1656 Words
Wesley Pierce’s Guide to Dying Young: A Case Study in Poor Life Choices
Step One: Lose all your money in a scam.
Step Two: Lose your boss’s money in the same scam.
Step Three: Have your probation officer breathing down your neck about community service when you might not even live long enough to serve it.
Step Four: ??
Step Five: Die.
Wes stared at his phone, lying facedown on the floor where he’d thrown it in his panic. It was still vibrating, buzzing like an angry wasp as notification after notification came through. He wasn’t sure if they were from his PO, pissed investors, or people laughing at his dumb ass for getting conned.
Honestly, it didn’t matter.
His boss was going to kill him.
And not just in an I’m-going-to-yell-at-you-in-my-office kind of way. No, this was a cement-shoes, deep-sea-diving, Wes-goes-missing-and-no-one-ever-finds-him kind of way.
“s**t,” he whispered, dragging a hand down his face. “s**t, s**t, shit.”
A sharp knock on his apartment door nearly sent him through the ceiling.
“WES!”
Oh, great. Carter.
Wes scrambled to his feet, grabbed his phone, and cracked the door open just enough to peek through. Carter stood on the other side, looking like he had run straight from his apartment to Wes’s—shirt half-buttoned, hair all over the place, panting like he’d just escaped a burning building.
“You better have a damn good explanation,” Carter hissed, shoving his way inside. “I wake up to find the entire city talking about some broke-ass medical company that scammed thousands—including your dumb ass. What the hell did you do?!”
Wes shut the door and leaned against it, rubbing his temples. “Okay, so technically—”
“Technically, my ass! Tell me you did not use the boss’s money.”
Wes’s silence said it all.
Carter’s eye twitched.
“Oh, for f**k’s sake, Wes.” He marched past him, pacing the living room like a man about to explode. “I told you, didn’t I? I told you not to touch his money. I explicitly remember saying that, and yet—”
“It was supposed to be a sure thing!” Wes cut in, throwing his hands in the air. “They had papers, man. They had doctors talking about it! A whole-ass presentation with slides and charts and fancy words—”
Carter pinched the bridge of his nose. “You got scammed because of PowerPoint?”
Wes scowled. “It wasn’t just—okay, yeah, maybe.”
Carter made a sound that was half a groan, half a strangled scream. “I cannot believe I have to share an apartment complex with you.”
“Trust me, I wish I wasn’t me right now either,” Wes muttered. He threw himself onto the couch and stared at the ceiling. “I’m dead. Actually dead. They’re gonna find my body in a ditch somewhere with ‘dumbass’ carved into my forehead.”
Carter crossed his arms. “Oh, you think the boss is gonna waste a perfectly good ditch on you? Nah, man. He’s recycling your ass. Probably selling your organs to make up for the loss.”
“Great, I always wanted to be an involuntary donor.”
Carter sighed and sat down across from him. “Okay. First, we don’t panic—”
“I am panicking.”
“—I said we don’t panic,” Carter corrected, leveling him with a look. “We need to get that money back. Like, yesterday. Before your crazy boss, Luciano, realizes.”
Wes let out a bitter laugh. “Yeah? And how do you suggest we do that? You got a couple hundred grand lying around?”
Carter was silent.
Wes sat up. “Oh, hell no.”
“Wes—”
“No.”
“Listen—”
“NO.”
Carter groaned, rubbing his temples. “Look, do you want to die or do you want to maybe live long enough to screw up again?”
“…How maybe are we talking?”
Carter hesitated.
“Damn it,” Wes muttered. “Fine. What’s the plan?”
Carter leaned forward. “There’s this high-stakes poker game happening tomorrow night. Rich bastards, Wes. The kind of people who don’t even blink at dropping a million on a bad hand.”
Wes stared. “You want to gamble the money back?”
“You lost it gambling in the first place, didn’t you?”
Wes opened his mouth. Closed it. Frowned. “…Okay, you might have a point.”
Carter grinned. “Good. Now, we just need to get you in.”
Wes narrowed his eyes. “Why do I feel like you’re about to say something I’m really not gonna like?”
Carter smirked.
“Absolutely not.”
…
Wes glared at his reflection.
Carter, standing behind him, clapped a hand on his shoulder. “You look great.”
“I look like a goddamn rich boy cosplayer,” Wes snapped. He turned, waving his arms. “A suit? Really? This is your plan?”
“You gotta blend in, man.”
“I blend in just fine in my normal clothes.”
Carter snorted. “Yeah, because nothing says classy underground poker game like showing up looking like you just rolled out of a crime scene.”
Wes grumbled but didn’t argue. The suit was uncomfortable, sure, but if this was his best shot at not dying, he’d deal with it.
Carter handed him a fake invitation. “Alright. You just gotta get in, find a table, play smart—”
“You know I’m s**t at poker, right?”
Carter patted his back. “That’s why I brought a backup plan.”
Wes groaned. “Do I even want to know?”
Carter grinned. “Nope.”
The poker game was in a private club—one of those places that smelled like expensive whiskey, old money, and questionable life choices.
Wes walked in, trying not to look like someone who had never been anywhere this nice without stealing something first.
He was halfway to a table when he spotted someone familiar.
“Oh, f**k me.”
Sitting in a prime spot, drink in hand, looking like he owned the place—was him.
The wheelchair guy.
The one Wes had nearly decked a couple hours ago. The one who had called him a thug.
And the one who was now staring right at him.
Their eyes met.
Wes considered turning around and walking straight back out.
Too late.
The guy smirked.
“Small world, huh?” he called, raising his glass.
Wes plastered on his most fake smile and sauntered over. “Oh, yeah. Real cozy.”
The guy leaned back. “Didn’t take you for a high-stakes kind of guy.”
“And I didn’t take you for the kind of guy who enjoyed talking to thugs,” Wes shot back.
The guy chuckled. “Touché.”
Wes sat.
He was so screwed. This guy clearly knows that he isn’t someone who could afford high-stakes bets like these. It’s not like the suit is fooling anyone but with him knowing for sure, it’s only gonna be a matter of time before he snitches on him and gets his ass kicked out.
And it’s not even like this is an ‘if’ situation. It’s a ‘will’ and ‘for sure’ type.
“So, I haven’t formally introduced myself—”
“I’m not interested.”
Rude ass piece of s**t.
Wes huffed. “Okay, Sunshine. Not interested in knowing you either.”
The guy—because Wes still didn’t know his damn name—narrowed his eyes. “Did you follow me here?”
Wes let out a short, humorless laugh. “Oh, please. Your ego’s so big you think I’m out here tracking you?”
“Well, you did say I wouldn’t see you again. And yet, here we are.”
“Coincidence.”
“Sure.”
Wes rolled his eyes. “Oh, come on. You really think if I wanted to see you, I’d pick a place like this?” He gestured around. The dimly lit bar, the half-empty glasses, the washed-out smell of spilled liquor—it wasn’t exactly a five-star joint.
The guy’s expression didn’t change. “What do you mean by that?”
“I—” Wes hesitated. There was no good way to say it.
The guy’s gaze sharpened. “People who are dying like me aren’t allowed to go out?”
“Hey, you said that.”
“That’s what you’re implying.”
Wes groaned, rubbing his face. “Man, why do you always make everything sound like a damn after-school special?”
“You’re the one making a scene.”
Wes looked around. “We’re literally in a bar. Making scenes is kind of the point.”
The guy actually chuckled. “I’m ruining your night? That’s rich.”
“Well, yeah,” Wes said, throwing his arms up. “I was this close to pretending my life wasn’t falling apart, and now I’m stuck here with you.”
“No one asked you to stay.”
Wes smirked, leaning forward. “But it’s so fun pissing you off.”
“You’re unbearable.”
“And you love it.”
“I hate it.”
“You will love it.”
“Not in this lifetime.”
Wes stood, stretching lazily. “Alright, Sunshine, I’m out.”
“Stop calling me that.”
“Nope.”
The guy groaned, running a hand through his hair. “God, I hate you.”
Wes threw a lazy wave over his shoulder. “We’ll see.”
Then he walked off, ignoring the fact that he was still very much screwed. But hey, at least he had a new favorite hobby—getting under that guy’s skin.
- Writer
