Fold
Book One of the Complicated Parts Series
“EVERYTHING'S A GAMBLE, LOVE MOST OF ALL.” ―TESS GERRITSEN
Three years earlier…
“Human beings are flawed and complicated and messy." — Brit Marling
If they were giving out trophies for the worst forty-eight hours, I'm positive I would win first place right about now.
Gripping the steering wheel, I mentally go down the checklist.
Caught my girlfriend cheating on me—check.
With. A. Chick—okay, maybe that one's not so bad. Hell, it's kind of hot.
Except for the fact that my cheating girlfriend is apparently engaged to said chick—check.
My cheating, lesbian girlfriend then decides to drop an atomic bomb and informs me she's pregnant—check.
My cheating, lesbian, pregnant girlfriend then tells me it's mine—check.
I quickly come to the horrific realization that my cheating, lesbian, pregnant girlfriend is right, because she's...wait for it...cheating on me with a chick. And last time I checked, chicks don't make sperm—fucking checkity, check, check.
And if all that shit isn't bad enough—there's also the fun fact that my older brother had to come to my rescue earlier today and drag me out of a casino—only for me to be right back at it again tonight.
That is until I was on a winning streak of epic proportions and the casino sent one of their goons over to investigate. And by investigate—I mean take me out back and go through my pockets to see if I was cheating.
In the end, the goon didn't find anything to incriminate me. He did, however, find my real I.D.
I was promptly kicked the fuck out without so much as a 'have a nice night' or my substantial winnings.
Blowing out a breath, I turn the radio down and look out the window.
Yup, I'm officially lost somewhere in West Bumblefuck. Awesome.
To add insult to all the injuries of the last two days, the casino I spent my night at was in an area I'm not even remotely familiar with, and thanks to all the hours spent gambling, my cell phone died.
It wouldn't have been a problem, but my cheating, lesbian, pregnant girlfriend borrowed my car charger last week and never fucking gave it back.
I remember the exact day, too...because it was the same day the GPS in my car broke.
Something I'm currently regretting not getting fixed because it's close to two a.m. and I have no idea where the hell I'm going in this godforsaken rundown town that seems to go on forever.
I'd hand in my man card and stop at a gas station to ask for directions at this point, but the only one I passed was about three miles back and it was closed. Other than that, I haven't seen any sign of civilization.
Not until I pull up to a bridge and honk my horn at the car blocking me from crossing.
Who the fuck parks their car in the middle of a single lane bridge? A BMW no less.
I honk my horn three more times, and when the car still doesn't move and I realize there's no one sitting in it, I throw open my door and get out.
With a frustrated sigh, I start walking and take a look around. It's dark out, but the full moon illuminates what looks like a large river below me. And aside from the sound of water rippling off the rocks, it's eerily quiet.
Intuition strikes me and the hairs on my neck prickle—maybe I've stumbled upon a dump spot for the mafia or some shit.
Crossing over to one side of the bridge, I rest my elbows on the poor excuse of a steel barrier and peer down. Yup, this place would be perfect for dumping bodies. It's so far off the beaten path no one would ever find the victim.
Deciding I want no part in being at the wrong place at the wrong time, because God knows I already have my hands full with my ties to the mob, I start walking back to my car. I mutter a curse when I press the wrong button on my key fob and my horn goes off.
“All right, you impatient jerk. I'm moving it,” a raspy female voice shouts.
Curiosity has me spinning around and I'm greeted by a petite and slender blonde. Or rather, partial blonde because the tips of her hair are a very noticeable bright pink. My eyes quickly scan over a few visible tattoos before they settle on the angry scowl plastered across her mascara-streaked face.
And that's when I realize who she is.
Makeup smeared eyes combined with pink hair is what I remember most about the chick I caught my girlfriend cheating on me with.
Okay, maybe not the only thing. The sight of her swapping spit with my girlfriend in the middle of a college cafeteria is firmly reserved in my brain's database.
Fuck, out of all the people in the world who could be standing on this bridge with me it has to be her.
The look she shoots me tells me she's thinking the same exact thing. “What the hell are you doing here?” Her hazel eyes turn hard. “Did Becca tell you about this place?”
I shake my head. “No.”
She puts her hands on her hips. “Then what the shit are you doing on my bridge, douchebag?”
“Christ, what is this, Three Billy Goats Gruff?”
She blinks. “What?”
“Three Billy Goats Gruff,” I repeat with more emphasis. “You know, the story about the troll on a bridge that won't let the goats pass.”
“Did you just call me a troll?”
More like inferred it.
It's on the tip of my tongue to comment on her pink hair, but I think better of it. My issues with her aside, she's the only one around who can give me directions out of here.
We stare at one another for a beat and her angry scowl deepens...and then her lower lip trembles.
I have no idea what to say to this girl, but it's clear she's extremely distraught. I'm about to tell her she's not a troll, but that's when it dawns on me.
She's alone. In the middle of the night. Standing on a bridge.
A mere two days after finding out the girl she thought was her fiancée...cheated on her.
Every cell in my body is telling me this situation isn't my problem and to get the hell out of here. I don't do well with emotional basket cases and I don't owe the girl standing in front of me crying a damn thing.
But the fact of the matter is...someone was hurt in this ordeal. And Lord knows it wasn't Becca and it sure as shit wasn't me.
It's the angry girl with the sad eyes glaring at me like she wants to toss me right off this bridge.
“I'll move my car,” she says sharply.
Before I can stop myself, I utter, “Look, I know I'm the last person in the world you want to—”
“Got that right.” The small hand holding her keys forms a fist. “I hate you.”
“You don't even know me,” I tell her. “Not that you wouldn't hate me if you did. I'm not exactly saint material.” I lean against the hood of my car. “For what it's worth, I had no idea she was with you. I know that won't change your perception of me, but you're obviously upset. Maybe talking to me for a little while will help.” I raise my hands. “Or make it worse. I make no guarantees, but it's worth a shot. After, we can go back to being mortal enemies and pretend tonight never happened.”