Stroke of Luck Read online

  A Total-E-Bound Publication

  www.total-e-bound.com

  Stroke of Luck

  ISBN #978-0-85715-038-7

  ©Copyright Jenna Byrnes 2010

  Cover Art by Natalie Winters ©Copyright February 2010

  Edited by Janice Bennett

  Total-E-Bound Publishing

  This is a work of fiction. All characters, places and events are from the author’s imagination and should not be confused with fact. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, events or places is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any material form, whether by printing, photocopying, scanning or otherwise without the written permission of the publisher, Total-E-Bound Publishing.

  Applications should be addressed in the first instance, in writing, to Total-E-Bound Publishing. Unauthorised or restricted acts in relation to this publication may result in civil proceedings and/or criminal prosecution.

  The author and illustrator have asserted their respective rights under the Copyright Designs and Patents Acts 1988 (as amended) to be identified as the author of this book and illustrator of the artwork.

  Published in 2010 by Total-E-Bound Publishing, Think Tank, Ruston Way, Lincoln, LN6 7FL, United Kingdom.

  Warning: This book contains sexually explicit content which is only suitable for mature readers. This story has been rated Total-e-burning.

  STROKE OF LUCK

  Jenna Byrnes

  Dedication

  To my husband, who still thinks winning the lottery would be the best thing ever.

  I think we already have the best thing ever.

  Trademarks Acknowledgement

  The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of the following wordmarks mentioned in this work of fiction:

  Dodge Charger: Chrysler Corporation

  Ferrari: Ferrari S.P.A. Esercicizio Fabbriche Automobili E Corse

  Jaguar XK: Jaguar Cars Limited

  Lincoln: Ford Motor Company

  Mustang: Ford Motor Company

  Twinkies: Continental Baking Company

  Chapter One

  Steven DeLong blinked. His stare alternated between the TV screen in front of him and the piece of paper in his hands. 03, 09, 25, 27, 28, 45. He’d chosen the same numbers he always had when he bought petrol and a Power Play Lottery ticket. He’d just never read them on the winning screen before.

  Am I seeing things? He rubbed his eyes, noticing his hands were trembling, and looked back at the TV. The numbers hadn’t changed. According to the announcer, he’d just won ninety-seven million dollars. Or possibly a share of the ninety-seven million, if someone else picked the same numbers. I’m not greedy. I can share. He giggled, sounding like a lunatic on crack, and forced himself to stop.

  He’d read a semi-joking article online telling new lottery winners what to do when they first discovered they’d won. Don’t tell anyone was the first rule. Stick the ticket into a resealable plastic bag and keep it safe was another. Proceed with a normal routine. Steven’s heart beat so wildly, he wasn’t sure that last one was even possible.

  From a drawer in the kitchen, he withdrew a sandwich-sized bag and sealed the ticket inside. He placed the bag on his coffee table, unwilling to let it out of his sight. He sat on the floor, knees pulled tightly to his chest, in front of his sofa. Mind racing a million miles per hour, he hugged his legs and rocked back and forth.

  Do I tell someone? There were very few people he’d choose to let in on the secret. The thought of telling his mother made him chuckle. She was an insanely religious woman. Gambling was a big no-no. But then again, so was being gay. Steven obviously hadn’t done everything his mother’s religion recommended.

  Norma DeLong had wrestled with his sexual preference and finally accepted it. He doubted she’d have as big a struggle accepting the ninety-seven million dollars. They might have different views on how to spend it, though.

  Note to self—telling Mother can wait.

  The other person Steven knew he’d have to tell was his brother, Tim. Two years apart in age, they’d always been close and had remained good friends over the years. Tim was going through an especially rough time just then. He and his wife, Cheryl, had recently lost their three year old son to a horrific brain tumour. Matthew had been the light of all their lives, and his illness had taken a toll on the whole family. He’d been a trooper, bright and optimistic, which made it even harder when he’d passed away in his sleep two weeks ago. Tim and Cheryl had been inconsolable.

  Steven shifted positions. Perhaps this news would provide a distraction for them. Or maybe it would seem like he was flaunting his good fortune in their faces.

  Second mental note—telling Tim and Cheryl can wait.

  The third suggestion from the online article was to proceed with a normal routine. Steven wasn’t scheduled to work at the bar until the next evening, so he had the entire day ahead to figure out what in the hell he was going to do. He knew one thing—he needed some real advice from a live person who could talk him through this and answer his questions. A lawyer? A financial planner? He didn’t know anyone personally and hated to trust just anybody.

  An accountant? He didn’t use one himself, but Tim swore by the guy who handled the taxes for his small construction firm. Tim had tried to convince him to see the man about doing his taxes, but Steven had laughed it off. Single, with no dependants and a job tending bar for a living, Steven figured filling out a short form once a year was within his scope of ability. Now, he had a reason to need a professional. It was getting late, though. The call would have to wait until morning.

  Until then? Steven pulled the afghan his mother had crocheted off the back of the sofa and drew it around his shoulders. It was going to be a long night.

  * * * *

  Steven dozed off and on but never really slept. Shortly after eight, he looked up the accountant’s phone number and called, asking to speak with the man. He was pleasantly surprised to get through.

  “Paul Aspen.”

  “Hey, Mr. Aspen, this is Steven DeLong. You do some work for my brother Tim’s company.”

  “Sure, Mr. DeLong. I was sorry to hear about your nephew. How are Tim and Cheryl getting along?”

  “It’s tough, but they’re coping. Thanks for asking. I was wondering if I could get an appointment with you. I’ve got something I need to get your advice about.”

  The man at the other end of the line hesitated. “Uh, sure. Honestly, I’ll have to transfer your call back to my secretary. She handles my schedule and can book something easier than me. But I’m sure we can fit you in sometime in the next couple of weeks.”

  It was Steven’s turn to pause. “I know it’s tax time, and you’re really busy. But this is serious. Really important. I’ll pay double your usual rate if you can squeeze me in today.”

  Paul chuckled. “That does sound critical. So let’s see, my last appointment is out of here at 5:00. If you can be here then, I’ll tack you on at the end of the day. You don’t even have to pay double. You’ve piqued my interest.”

  Steven sighed with relief. “Thank you so much. I’ll see you then.” He disconnected the call and made note of the address from the phone book. He knew the building, just hadn’t been in it. He suspected this was one of many ‘firsts’ he was going to encounter in the next few days.

  He grabbed the lottery ticket and carried it to the back of the apartment, peeling off his clothes along the way. In the bathroom, he set the ticket safely under a bottle of lotion on the counter.

  In the shower, Steven worked shampoo through his short, black hair and stood under the warm spray to rinse. The reality of his situation hadn’t entirely sunk in yet, but excitement welled in the pi
t of his stomach. A grin threatened to split his face in two. He was lousy at keeping secrets.

  He decided to hibernate all day, forgoing the risk of running into someone who might recognise that, for some reason, he looked stupidly happy. He’d try to eat and sleep and remain calm, not really sure any of the three were possible.

  Steven inhaled the scent of the fragrant bar of soap. The musky aroma, one that matched his cologne, aroused his senses. He ran the bar over his stomach and down to his groin, where his cock had risen to attention. He lathered the area, one hand sliding the skin of his shaft back and forth before reaching lower to cup his heavy balls. As he fingered them, they ached for release, and Steven decided to oblige.

  He put the soap back in the dish and returned his hand to his erection. Leaning against the wall for support, he stroked himself until his length was rock hard. The lather rinsed away, leaving the stark feeling of skin on skin. His cock, with its smooth, soft surface, felt warm in his firm grasp. And good, very good. With everything going on in his life, it’d been a while since he’d pleasured himself. It’d been longer since he’d had a lover to do it for him, but Steven didn’t want to think about that, for the moment. This was too enjoyable to waste even a second of the fun.

  Drops of pre-cum mingled with water to slicken his grip again. Long, languorous strokes turned into fast, choppy thrusts. His belly churned as his balls tightened and drew up.

  Steven inhaled. He could draw it out or just let it happen. Orgasm imminent, ‘letting it happen’ seemed like the best plan. All the emotion of the past twelve hours bubbled inside him and threatened to overflow. Steven gasped and groaned, his back pressed against smooth, cool tile.

  The first shot of his climax arced into the air and landed on the far side of the shower stall. Successive spurts followed, and he muttered and swore as waves of delight tore through him.

  “Yes!” he grunted and, when he could think again, remembered the lottery ticket and the ninety-seven million dollars. Another tingle of excitement zipped through him, prolonging the orgasm until Steven didn’t think he could remain on his feet any longer.

  He rinsed off quickly and snapped the water knob off. A thick, oversized towel waited just outside the stall. He grabbed it and wrapped himself in the plush terrycloth.

  “Yes!” he hollered again, finally allowing himself to react to the news of his win. He twirled around the room like a dervish, laughing maniacally. Sexual and nervous energy spent, he collapsed on the bed, still draped in the towel, and closed his eyes.

  Yes.

  * * * *

  Steven pushed the button for the ninth floor and rode the lift to Paul Aspen’s office. It was nearly 5:00. He caught his reflection in the silver panels on the wall and nodded with silent approval. A man who tended bar for a living wasn’t always taken seriously. He’d needed to rectify that today. A navy suit with no tie and an open collar gave him a business-like, but not uptight, façade. Hair fastidiously mussed and face neatly shaven, he was satisfied he’d achieved the look he was going for.

  A short woman with bouffant red hair and a frilly, white blouse met him at the door of the reception area. “May I help you?” Her eyes looked tired, voice wary. Purse in hand, she didn’t appear too excited about going back inside to her desk.

  “I have a late meeting with Paul Aspen.”

  She nodded and moved back a few paces to a door behind her. “Your appointment is here,” she said.

  “Thanks, Nancy. Good night.”

  “’Night.” She smiled at Steven on her way out, apparently more cheerful now she knew she wasn’t expected to stay. “He’ll be right with you.”

  “Have a nice evening,” Steven told her and waited.

  Shuffling noises stirred from the inner office, then a man in a black suit appeared. “Mr. DeLong?” A startled expression crossed the accountant’s face for a moment, but he rebounded quickly and smiled. “I’m Paul Aspen.”

  You’re also a hunk. Steven tried not to gape at the gorgeous man with thick, wavy brown hair curling around his collar. The tall man’s functional, black suit was slightly rumpled, tie askew. He looked as if he’d been seated behind a desk all day. Which takes nothing away from his rating on the stud-o-metre.

  “Please, call me Steven.” He stepped forward and extended a hand. When his fingers touched the other man’s, sparks flew between them.

  Another surprised expression crossed Paul’s face, and he pulled his hand back quickly. “Sorry about that. Static in the carpet is terrible this time of year. Come in. Have a seat.”

  “Static, huh?” Steven wasn’t at all convinced the electric shock had been caused by the carpet, but he’d let it go. He was there for another reason. Sexy as the accountant was, this was no time for a love connection.

  He chose one of the two chairs in front of Paul’s desk and sat. “Thanks for seeing me on such short notice. I really appreciate it, Mr. Aspen.”

  The accountant slipped into his chair and leant back, rocking it. “It’s Paul. And it’s no problem. I like your brother. And as I told you, I was really sorry to hear about Matthew. I’d intended to go to the funeral.” He paused, his eyes meeting Steven’s. “I hate to say it, but I chickened out at the last minute. No funeral is fun, but when it’s a kid…” He shook his head. “That’s tough.”

  Steven raised a hand in the air. “Don’t worry about it. It was rough. Probably the worst thing I’ve ever been through in my life. I’m not sure how Tim and Cheryl managed it.”

  Silence hung between them for a solid minute. There wasn’t much more that could be said about the horrible, sad event, and Steven fidgeted in his chair.

  Paul changed the subject. “You mentioned on the phone that you needed advice?”

  Grateful for the new topic, Steven nodded. “That’s right.”

  “How can I be of service?”

  Now that’s a loaded question. Steven could think of several ways, but dragged his mind out of the gutter and pulled two things from the pocket in the lining of his jacket—a newspaper he’d stopped to buy on his way over and the plastic bag with his lottery ticket. The paper was folded open to the Power Play results of the night before. “I’d like you to have a look at these.” He set them on the desk.

  Eyebrows raised, Paul leant forward and studied the newspaper. He glanced at the ticket then back at the paper again. His gaze travelled the same path three more times before he finally looked up at Steven. “Are you kidding me?”

  Steven raised his right hand as if taking an oath. “God’s honest truth. I bought the ticket yesterday at Billie’s Quickie Mart, along with ten gallons of petrol, some Twinkies and a diet root beer.”

  Eyes glued to the ticket, Paul commented, “Diet pop and Twinkies. That’s some great nutritional regimen you’ve got, there.”

  Steven shrugged. “I’m a bartender. I survive on minimum wage and tips.”

  A wry grin spread across Paul’s face. “Looks like you might be able to afford better from here on out.”

  “That’s what I was thinking, too.” Steven smiled.

  Paul held the see-through bag up. “Have you verified this yet? Do you know if there are other winners?”

  Steven shook his head. “I haven’t done a thing. I didn’t know what to do. I haven’t told anybody. I called in sick to work tonight. I’ve just been sitting around, staring at the ticket all day.”

  With a nod, Paul placed the bag gently on his desk. He slapped his hands on either side of it and grinned again. “I think this calls for a celebration. I’ve got a bottle of fine bourbon a client gave me a while back tucked away in a drawer. It’s not something I normally do, but these circumstances seem to exceed the bounds of ‘normal’. What do you say we have a drink?”

  Exhaling, Steven blew out some of the nervous tension that had been building in his gut over the last twenty-four hours. “I’d say I could use a drink. And then that advice. I really have no idea what to do next.”

  Paul pushed back from his desk and ju
mped up, moving with an energy Steven hadn’t expected. He peeled off his jacket, tossed it on an empty chair and loosened his tie. Moving frenetically, he began opening drawers and doors in the cabinet next to his desk and finally came up with a fancy bottle of amber liquor.

  He glanced around quickly and told Steven, “Hang on.” He hurried out of the office and returned with two plastic cups. “Not the ritziest in the world, but they should do the trick.”

  “They’re fine. Allow me.” Steven opened the bottle and poured them each a generous shot. He set it down and handed one cup to his host.

  Paul raised the glass in a toast. “To one hell of a stroke of luck.”

  “Stroke of luck,” Steven repeated and maintained eye contact as they both tossed back their shots.

  “Ooh, that’s nice.” Paul picked up the bottle and read the label. “Had I realised that, I might have opened this sooner.”

  Steven chuckled. “I’m glad you didn’t. I feel special.”

  Paul’s eyes shone with merriment. “You are. Let me tell you just how special.” He shoved the bottle back onto his desk and hurried around to his chair. Using the ten-key machine next to his computer, his fingers virtually flew as he did some calculations. “Your odds of winning the Power Play Lottery were one in eighty-two million, five hundred ninety-eight thousand, eight hundred and eighty.” He glanced up. “How about another shot of that booze?”

  “Coming right up.” Steven poured two more drinks and slid one across the desk. “So, say I get the whole ninety-seven million. I know I might not, and that’s fine. I’m not greedy. But if I do, what kind of a payout am I looking at?”

  Fingers danced over the adding machine one more time. “Tax rates are about twenty-eight percent.” He looked up again and smiled. “Too bad you didn’t buy your ticket in Europe. They don’t pay lottery tax over there.”