“Well, it’s one of the ways,” I huffed impatiently.
He cocked his head back, seemingly surprised with my answer. “I actually have no argument for that. You’re right, drugs are one way to go into that much debt.” I smirked at him, momentarily satisfied until I realized he was really a drug lord and he thought I was his client! A client that owed him money! “But that’s not why you owe me money. I’m not a drug dealer.”
Oh, whew. Sure, I knew that.
“Okay, are you a bill collector then? Because I don’t even have a credit card. Well, I have one credit card, but it’s for emergencies only and I’ve never used it. Besides, it only has like a fifteen hundred dollar limit on it. And it’s actually in my brother’s name.”
I grew more impatient the longer he stared at me. It was like all of the anger that propelled him into my apartment to begin with had evaporated somewhere between drug dealer and bill collector.
Now his chocolate eyes lit with amusement and his mouth did that annoying twitching thing again. “And my roommate gets calls from debt collectors all the time. Phone calls- have you heard of those? You seriously did not need to come all the way over here. I could have explained this to you over the phone.”
“I’m not a bill collector either.”
This time I could tell he was laughing at me. The corners of his eyes crinkled with humor and he held his hands up, palms out as if to stop me from guessing anymore. But I wasn’t finished. If he wasn’t a hit man, drug dealer or bill collector but wanted seven thousand dollars from me, that left only one option.
I gasped, “Oh, my gosh, is this about prostitution? Oh, my goodness, are you a pimp?” I shrieked and backed up three steps.
“What?” he burst out in a bark of confusion. “Are you into prostitution?”
“What? Me? Do I look like a prostitute?” I was back to being angry; I narrowed my eyes, cocked my hands on my hips, and scowled in a tight expression.
“Well, no, honestly. You look more like a missionary.” He shrugged a casual shoulder and let his eyes travel over me.
“A missionary!” I spit the word out like it burned me. I clutched at my gray infinity scarf that covered my black and white cowl-neck long sleeve tee. Okay, maybe it was a little conservative, but he seriously did not need to confuse modesty with missionary.
“Would you rather look like a prostitute?” He asked, his stupid dark brown eyes laughing at me.
“Why in the world would you think that?” I demanded. This conversation had the disorienting feel that we were going backward instead of forward; I started to feel dizzy from all the circles and the way his mouth quirked up when he tried not to laugh.
Wait, scratch that. I was only dizzy from the conversation!
“Listen, honesty, I don’t care what you are, I just want my money.” Some of his amusement faded and a wave of exhaustion flashed across his face.
“So this isn’t about prostitution?” I asked just to clarify. It was kind of important that this wasn’t about prostitution.
“If you’re not a prostitute and I’m not a pimp how in the hell could this be about prostitution?” he rumbled.
“Well, I don’t know. I just need to be… sure,” I finished lamely.
He ran a hand over his face again and growled out a frustrated sound. Then he pulled his cell phone out of his pocket and checked the screen. “This is taking up too much time. I just want my money and I’ll be gone. I won’t bother you any more, I promise. Although I strongly suggest that you stay away from anymore poker games. You are obviously not lucky enough to be as careless as you are with your money.”
That got my attention. “Wait.” I held up a hand like I was asking him to stop his vehicle. But then I didn’t know how to go on. Gambling? This sounded way too convenient… way too coincidental.
A man comes to my door, demanding a seven thousand dollar poker debt minutes after my crook of a roommate robbed me blind and headed off to rehab for a gambling addiction? “Okay, I don’t know what you’re talking about, but why don’t you tell me who you think I am. That might make things easier.”
A smug smirk turned his mouth and he said with confidence, “Eleanor Harris.”
That caught me off guard. Because he was right. “Um, Ellie,” I corrected before he stuck to calling me Eleanor. Ugh! Even if he were here to murder me I would make him call me Ellie.
“Fine, Ellie Harris.”
“Okay, you know my name, but you don’t know anything else about me. Like for instance, I don’t owe you any money!” I argued, still wondering how he knew my name.
“Alright, let’s see. You’re a sophomore, originally from farther up north. You transferred to La Crosse spring semester last year. You were originally at University of Wisconsin-Madison but you wanted to be close to your boyfriend who turned out to be a cheating douche bag. He broke up with you two weeks ago for another girl, and since then you’ve gone from being a straight A student with a nearly perfect attendance record to skipping all of your of classes, doing your best to fail out of school and now you’ve apparently acquired a gambling addiction with a side of pathological lying.”
“What!” I would have made a terrible reporter. “I am not a liar! And I have never gambled a day in my life! And I’m not trying to fail out of school. A girl is allowed to take a few sick days after her three-year relationship ends! How can you possibly know so much and so little about me at the same time?” This was possibly the most exasperating conversation I had ever had.
“I make it a point to know all my players, Ellie. Especially ones that come into the game waving money around like you did,” he explained patiently with that same cocky smile on his face.
I had the strongest urge to smack him. And I had never, not in my entire life, ever felt like hitting anything before!
“Clearly you have me confused with somebody else because I have no clue what you are talking about!”
“That is not going to work on me!” the anger simmered under the surface again. His eyes turned almost black with emotion.
“Okay, okay, okay,” I backtracked quickly. “I can see that. So, just for fun, how about you explain to me exactly how I came to owe you all this money and then we can figure this out together. I want you to get your money just as badly as you do. I promise, alright?”
He seemed to think that over for a minute. His face relaxed back to movie-star-stranger instead of serial-killer-hit-man. It didn’t take a genius to figure out which version I liked best.
“Alright, fine. We can do this your way. Especially if you promise you’ll help me get my money,” he said evenly and then waited for me to answer.
“Yes, I promise. I mean, I know I don’t owe you the money. But if there is any way I can assist you with it, I’d be glad to help.” What I didn’t say was that as long as I didn’t have to shoot, stab or bury somebody I would be glad to help. Really, I meant like a stern, authoritative letter I could put a stamp on and mail for him. Plus, these were mostly just empty promises until I could get him out of my apartment, lock the two deadbolts, slide the chain into place and call the police.
“About a week and a half ago, you contacted me about joining the game. I had heard your name around campus and knew that your request was entirely out of character. So I started to ask around about you and that’s when I found out you just got dumped. It made sense then, why you would want to play. Even if I didn’t think it was a good idea. I’ve been dumped before, I guess I could relate in a way.”
“You’ve been dumped?” I scoffed before I could stop myself. He was gorgeous, all testosterone and muscles, standing in the middle of my kitchen with his gray t-shirt, loose jeans and flip flops. Plus, he was more than just a little intimidating. I could hardly believe a girl found enough courage to break up with him.
He seemed to find this more amusing than anything and actually broke into an eye-twinkling grin. Yes, his eyes twinkled. I was so shocked by the expression I had to look away. He was more dangerously go
od-looking than ever and a strange heat lit a fire in my belly. So obviously, I cleared my throat and pretended that never happened.
“Sure, I’ve been dumped.” His smile turned wicked and I suddenly felt like he was laughing at an inside joke. “So I know what it’s like to do something reckless after the heartache.”
I snorted. “There wasn’t that much heartache. Trust me. You were right when you called him a cheating… uh, you know.”
“Douche bag?” he questioned.
“Yes, that.” I blushed a deep red. I wasn’t a missionary. But okay, sometimes curse words made me uncomfortable. Which was kind of surprising since I grew up with three brothers that basically existed with “R” ratings attached to them: strong language, violent behavior and sexual content.
He let out a soft chuckle at that. I was becoming unending entertainment for this guy and I was suddenly hit with a flash of irritation. He didn’t know me!
Although… he kind of did know me. Or at least a lot of random facts about me and it was definitely weirding me out.
“Anyway, when you proved you had the buy-in, I decided to give you a chance. I mean, who was I to judge your methods of coping, am I right?” he asked and actually waited for my agreement.
“I guess so.” But an ugly foreboding feeling started to unfurl inside my chest and I suddenly found it hard to breathe.
“In fact, if you remember, I even advised you to hold back some since I didn’t want to see you lose everything at once.”
“And you advised me how?” I clarified, trying to piece this together. Except I wasn’t even sure what he was talking about. Buy-in? Game? None of this made any sense.
“Private message.” When I gave him a blank look, he continued, “Online.”
“Online,” I repeated.
“Yes, online. But you didn’t listen to me. And then you got in way over your head, lost big time, and now you owe me seven thousand dollars,” he finished arrogantly; I almost expected him to take a bow.
“I lost in a game of…” I prompted slowly, so afraid of the answer my hands started to tremble.
“Five-Card-Stud.” When I continued to stare blankly at him, he finally added, “Poker. Online poker.”
“Oh, my goodness,” I winced. Suddenly the puzzle was pieced together and in front of me. I was going to be sick. I was going to be really sick. I reeled in a circle, desperately searching for a place to sit down, but all of my furniture was gone.
Another wave of clarity rippled through me and my stomach actually lurched this time. I took off for the kitchen sink and gripped the stainless steel basin. I ignored the anal retentive voice inside me screaming about germs, not because I wasn’t worried about them, but because thinking about them made it worse. I choked on a gag and dropped my head forward so I could breathe in and out deeply through my nose.
“You’re not going to…? Are you going to be sick?” the guy asked from behind me. He didn’t sound concerned, just really grossed out.
I waved an aggravated hand behind me, hoping he would get the hint and just leave. He didn’t, or if he did, he ignored it and instead walked over to the fridge and opened it. I heard him rummage through the practically empty appliance.
My college-size budget didn’t cover much more than a value pack of Ramen Noodles. I heard the telltale sign of a pop can opening, then the fizzy bubbles of ginger ale tickling my nose.
He placed the can to my lips and tilted it back before I could protest. I took a small drink and stood up before he could force anymore down my throat. The carbonated beverage settled in my stomach and coated the nausea with something soothing.
Okay, that felt all right.
I took the can from his hand, my fingers accidentally brushing over his before I took possession and sipped another soothing drink.
“That wasn’t me,” I finally choked out, squeezing my eyes shut.
“What?” he asked. I jumped by how close he stood.
I took a step back, opened my eyes to meet his and said more slowly, “That wasn’t me. I didn’t place a bet, or play a game or whatever. It was my roommate. She must have… stolen my identity! I swear to you, not even an hour ago, I found this note that said she had a gambling addiction and she was going to rehab. She owes me money too! “
A long, very still moment of silence stretched between us before he said, “She stole your identity?”
“Yes!” I squeaked. Even I could tell how high-pitched and annoying that was, but I couldn’t help it! “And my furniture,” I said with further emphasis.
“I was actually wondering about that,” he said pensively.
“So you see? It’s not me that owes you seven thousand dollars, it’s her.”
“But she’s gone? To rehab? With all of your furniture?” His phrases sounded like questions, but they didn’t feel like questions. It felt more like he was trying the words out, rolling them around on his tongue and deciding whether or not I was lying.
“Yes!” I answered anyway, hoping he would believe me.
“You can see why your version of what happened is hard to believe.” He sighed and if I didn’t know better, or if maybe I wouldn’t have slapped my hands over my eyes, I would have been able to assure myself there wasn’t a hint of amusement in his voice, or the sound of him smiling. Those things were all products of my delusional imagination.
“Yes, I could see why, but it’s the truth,” I promised, struggling to peek from behind my fingers.
“Regardless of what happened, your name is still signed on my contract. You still owe me my money,” he stated finally.
“Contract?” I croaked.
“Online document, your initials were used. Unless you have a way to prove to me that it wasn’t you who signed the document, I have to assume it was. I mean, that’s a lot of money. It’s not exactly like I can just look the other way.”
“But it wasn’t me! I’m sure I can prove it, I just need… time,” I pleaded. My head spun with every kind of crazy thought to get out of this.
His hand went up to cup his chin in thoughtful silence for a while. His eyes roved over me again, taking in every piece of me as if to weigh it on his internal truth scales and decide whether to trust me or not. Finally, after several minutes of quiet, he said, “I’m a nice guy-”
“You’re not a nice guy! You’re a scary guy,” I confessed honestly and probably a little frantically before I could think better of it.
A rush of laughter fell out of his mouth before he could compose himself, “You don’t even know me!”
“You’re right! I don’t even know your name,” I pointed out, suddenly realizing that should have probably been the first thing I found out.
“Ah,” he stewed on that for a moment and said, “Finley Hunter.”
I gulped. “Finley Hunter?” Okay, the online gambling thing made sense now. Because Finley Hunter, a senior track star, rumored to go through girls like Kleenex during flu season and ditch more classes than he attended, was also rumored to run an online on-campus gambling site the university had no idea about.
“Fin,” he smiled at me. “You can call me Fin.”
“You are a nice guy,” I drawled.
His grin widened to wicked trouble. “So nice, I’m not going to make you give me my money tonight.”
“You’re not?”
“No, I have a solution that will help both of us get what we want,” he announced confidently.
“You do?” I asked dryly with so much less confidence at the same time, I wondered what it was that he thought I wanted.
“Just don’t forget, you promised you would help.” The hard, authoritative look returned to his eyes and a shiver of nerves climbed up my spine.
I nodded because there was nothing left to do. I needed time to think this over, to hunt down Tara and strangle her until dollar bills popped out her eyeballs.
Rachel Higginson, Consequence
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