Dirty roulette, p.1
Dirty Roulette, page 1
Dirty Roulette
S.M.MARIE
Sanctuary Community Books
Copyright © 2025 by Stephy M Marie
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Names, characters, and places are products of the author’s imagination.
Printed in the United States of America
Publisher: Sanctuary Community Books
ISBN: 9798333259615
Edited by Brittnie Smith
Cover art by A.J Wardens
Trigger Warning
Dirty Roulette is a new adult sports romance where students play a hazing game that is taken too far. Reader discretion is advised as this book contains.
Alcohol consumption
Drug use
Suicide
Aggravated assault
Sexual Assault
Dedication
Thank you to all the members of the Blue Ball Literary Society. We've been writing together for years. I wouldn't have been able to overcome my blue balls of writing without you guys.
Contents
1. Payton
2. Ryder
3. Payton
4. Ryder
5. Payton
6. Ryder
7. Payton
8. Ryder
9. Payton
10. Ryder
11. Payton
12. Ryder
13. Payton
14. Ryder
15. Payton
16. Ryder
17. Payton
18. Ryder
19. Payton
20. Ryder
21. Ryder
22. Payton
23. Ryder
24. Payton
25. Ryder
26. Payton
27. Ryder
28. Ryder
29. Payton
30. Ryder
31. Payton
32. Ryder
33. Payton
34. Ryder
35. Payton
36. Ryder
37. Payton
38. Ryder
39. Payton
40. Payton
41. Payton
42. Payton
43. Ryder
44. Ryder
45. Payton
46. Payton
47. Ryder
48. Payton
49. Ryder
50. Payton
51. Ryder
52. Ryder
53. Payton
54. Ryder
55. Payton
Chapter one
Payton
It never happened.
Or, at least that’s how I plan on treating tonight.
I’m going to cram all the awful things about tonight into a tiny little box and slap a padlock on the latch just like Mum taught me. Say nothing. Forget. And remember – nobody gives a shit because it never happened.
A perfect ring of orange embers sears the fresh joint of bad decisions that never happened. The mischievous glint in Charlie’s gray eyes matches the intensity of I Prevail blasting through the speakers in her brother’s Jeep Wrangler we borrowed. I have zero regrets about the grand theft auto, only because I’m jamming out next to my best friend.
Herbal pools of smoke dance out of her nostrils like clouds. She passes me the joint, and I inhale, letting the sweet sativa brand my lungs.
Plump blue numbers blink 11:46 on the dashboard. In the distance, Fat Bastard’s long-lost twin works his rolls around the steering wheel of a rusty BMW on the dark side of the 7-Eleven we pulled into.
Mr. Clorox.
Charlie shoves a hand in the pocket of her denim shorts and unveils the note tossed at her during freshmen orientation. My pulse pounds as she unfolds it.
HOW TO GET A SLEAZY CHEERLEADER DRUNK
1. DRESS LIKE A HOE.
2. PARK AT STALL THREE AT 7-ELEVEN AT 11:46 TONIGHT.
3. FLASH MR CLOROX, AND POCKET YOURSELF A TREAT.
- ANONYMOUS
I stretch my head out the window and pump number 3 flickers above us with drunken-brown beetles buzzing. “Dude!” I groan and sink back into my seat. “Who wrote the note?”
“Why? Are you salty?” She arches a brow as she blows out another puff of smoke.
Two-point-five-seconds pass and I lunge over the center console, but she twists away, the note crumbling in her grip. “Give me that!”
“What’s your problem?” Charlie asks, with the joint wedged between her lips.
“That note is!” My palms sweat as I reach for the note, but she presses herself against the window.
The embers burn orange in the reflection of her gray eyes as she chuckles and coughs. “It’s just a piece of paper. Chillax!” She tosses the note, and it hits the bridge of my nose. Like a feral cat, I rip it to shreds in my lap.
“That dude is a freak! We have baby faces!” I smack the back of my skull against the headrest.
“Do you wanna be part of Cheer Phi or not?” She asks, lifting her shoulders to her cheeks.
I run a hand through my hair. “I do...”
“Then relax. I’m flashing, you’re looting.”
I release a sigh, cemented to the seat with a heavy weight overflowing in my chest. Charlie knows exactly how to kill me and I’m about to flatline.
“I dunno.”
“Stop tripping.” She twinkles with a sly smile and her iconic dimples cave into her plump cheeks. “Nothing bad is going to happen.”
With a thumb and index finger, I pluck the joint out of her hands and take a hit. “I’m not into this stupid initiation shit Brittni put you up to.” I roll my eyes.
“It’s a silly game. We are just having a little fun. Plus, she guaranteed us spots for the sorority house next semester,” she gushes.
I take a long hit until my lungs sizzle and cough up a puff of smoke.
“Yeah, if we sleep with one of the seniors and film it,” I argue.
Charlie snatches the joint, bats her thick eyelashes and whispers, “Come on, have a little fun with me tonight. It’s the end of summer. Please.”
“They have cameras in there.”
Smoke swirls out of Charlie’s nostrils and an imperious grin wraps around her cheeks. “Mr. Clorox isn’t gonna call the cops if you show him tits. Come on, the girls on the team have done this every year. All you have to do is act hot – which we both know you are.”
“Fine... fine.” I open the passenger door and slide out. Charlie pats out the joint, scrambling right behind me.
I glance over and she sashays in red velvet stilettos. Inky curls bounce up and down her back as she plops in a stick of gum. She throws the wrapper over her shoulder like she rules the world. We strut down the parking lot, to the gum-stained sidewalk. A bell dings over our heads as the door swings open.
The air conditioner blasts, and I lock eyes with Mr. Clorox licking a thumb repeatedly as he counts bills. The insides of my brain melt like a failing nuclear reactor.
Fluorescent lights beam off his greasy hair, and chunks of dandruff flop onto his sleeve. His fat, round, classic pizza face and beer gut screams pervert-living-in-grandma’s-basement. I bet he eats expired frozen dinners, too.
He smirks, checking us out. Sweat curls up between my toes, meeting the stench of cat piss seeping off him. His eyeballs look like they are about to burst out of their sockets as they crawl up our tan legs to our tight high-rise denim shorts and matching Korn crop tops.
“I’m gonna grab a drink.” I elbow Charlie in the arm. She winks.
“Hey, you!” Charlie flips her long locks over her shoulder and smiles at him. She leans against the counter, and the minty gum swirls around her tongue. Then she pulls up her top as planned.
“Whoops.” She flutters long lashes and slides him a crumbled bill stashed in her cleavage. “Can I get twenty on three?”
A wide grin molds across his face. It takes every ounce of my being not to choke on the vomit dancing in my throat. He’s got a sewer-pipe-broke kinda stench. Someone needs to invent the bleach bucket challenge and pour it all over him.
I turn on a heel and stroll down the aisle with racks full of candy bars and make a sharp right to the fridges in the back. The damned thing I call a heart acts like a bird trapped in a cage. My clammy fingers scrunch against the strap of my purse and I open the fridge. Glass clinks as I weasel out a thick bottle of Fleischman’s vodka. Four liters of pure Satanism.
I gaze up at the mirrors above, and a cold shudder crawls down my back to the marrow of my bones. The front entrance dings, and two old, gangly men stagger in. I curse to myself to hurry. The fridge seals shut, and I shove the bottle in my purse, zip it, and find the biggest jug of orange juice.
I’m saturated in sweat when I reach the register. The jug thuds on the counter, and I pat down my pockets, searching for cash. I swear I shoved it in there. Charlie nudges a hip into mine, digs in her purse, and pulls out another twenty.
“Can I get two packs of Camel Blues as well?” Charlie tilts her head and smacks her gum. Mr. Clorox doesn’t say a word. He flashes us an unnerving smile while he strokes the wall, knocking down several packs of cigarettes.
“Oops, u h, sorry,” he says.
Charlie picks up a little pack of Big Red gum from the impulse-buy row of random merchandise on the counter. “And these too...” she gnaws at her bottom lip. Sweat drips down Mr. Clorox’s forehead, which he wipes with the back of his hand. Spotting the dude’s raging boner poking out from his khakis strangles me from within.
“See ya later.” Charlie wiggles fingers and shoves pennies and the cigs into her purse.
We strut out of the store and stop the facade the moment we link arms. Our heels clank against the concrete, racing to the Jeep.
“Did you catch sight of his boner?” Charlie giggles, popping open the gas cap.
“Oh God!” I gag. “I think I threw up a bit.”
“Oh, shut up,” she slithers in the gas nozzle to fill the tank and leaps into the front seat as we wait. “Have some gum, bitch.” She tosses me a piece.
“How did you keep a straight face the entire time?” I ask.
“I’m not sure, but all I think when I see him is, where’s the Clorox when you need it?” Hence, his nickname. Her cheeks burn, and she combusts into laughter and slaps a hand over her lips, until tears pool in her eyes. “I’m going to hell!” She wipes them away with care.
“He smells sooo bad!” I laugh as I unzip my purse a little, and Charlie purrs, pawing inside.
“Tonight is gonna be lit!”
“Only if I’m not holding your hair later,” I stick out my tongue. Charlie punches me in the shoulder as I close the passenger door.
She slips out and finishes filling the tank. I flip open the glove compartment, where I stash a music collection in a black CD case for our late-night adventures. Charlie talks non-stop-shit when I pull this sucker out. I ignore all the yada about how it’s easier to store music on phones and connect it to the car, but this seems more authentic. I love the smooth, reflective metallic color I stain with my fingertips when I slide it out of the case.
Once Charlie leaps into the Jeep, the perfect mix is wedged between two fingers. We peel out, and I slide the CD in.
Chapter two
Ryder
I’m stoned like a biblical whore with a joint wedged between my lips. Since summer started, there hasn’t been a day that I’m not numbing myself. I always thought my life was on the right path, but the choices I made threw a potato sack bag over my head and dumped me off on the wrong road.
It’s a little past midnight and I swing a leaky trash bag into the rusty dumpster reeking of bullshit and rotten pizza. I’m ready to break out of this jail called a job, but it’s like digging a hole with a plastic spoon to freedom. All night I’ve delivered wrong orders left and right in a shitty Honda that the Pizzeria is forcing me to drive. The kitchen staff is tripping on acid and incapable of putting together a simple pepperoni pizza without screwing something up.
I light up the remainder of the joint, then pull out a handful of tips. I’ve collected four Lincolns, and half a dozen quarters after ten hours. A chuckle creeps under my breath at the irony of picking up a double shift for money and being thrown scraps. I fold the bills and stow them in my front pocket. I slide to the backside of the dumpster, inhaling a deep hit and letting the weed settle into my lungs until they catch fire.
My phone buzzes in my back pocket and muscle memory has me pulling it out. Lovely. My ex sent me a video on Snap. Brittni. I’m tempted to leave it unread, but curiosity gets the best of me. She’s drinking again, and that’s not a surprise. Throwing her head back, she’s downing a shot and sucking on a lime. Pretty blonde hair tumbles over her shoulder blades, her rosy red lips beam into a smile. Then Brody comes into focus and my blood runs thin. He’s lifting a bottle of beer, cheering, and I can’t shake off the simple fact that she cheated on me with him. All while he was dating my little sister, too.
Brittni always tasted like sugar, and I was always closer than the dress on her skin, but now I’m divided from her by the screen on my phone. The single label hasn’t betrayed me as I scroll through pictures and videos of thirsty girls sending pictures of their cleavage and undies, but I can’t get myself to be interested in any of them.
A loud thump of a trash bag flies into the dumpster, and I peek over the edge, spotting Jared, my teammate – a wide receiver that cleat-chasers cling to. He is my best mate. “Are you working late too?” I ask, soaking in another hit and offering it to him.
“Yeah, it was a shitshow. I hate working during happy hour and on a Friday night.” He runs a hand through his curly brown hair and pries the joint from my fingers. Lucky him, he works across the street at a local bar, where he delivers shots and peanuts.
“While you’re getting chicks drunk, these dumbasses didn’t even put barbecue sauce on the wings.” I chuckle and relive the nightmare playing on repeat, but it’s always chaos here. “Twenty in tips, and I’m making six an hour.”
“I managed one-fifty tonight.”
“Shut up, man! All my orders were fucked. I had cooked dough. No sauce, no toppings, and it wasn’t even cut. They just put bread and banana peppers in the box, dude.”
Jared laughs in the midst of releasing a wave of smoke. “Just come work with me. You’ll have chicks riding you after your shift.”
He hands back the joint and I take in a bit more. The next wave settles into my bloodstream, and the tips of my fingers tingle. “No, I ain’t gonna work there with that prick.”
“Brody? You’re still not over him screwing your girl?”
“Fuck him and fuck her.”
“Dude, we start practice on Monday. You’re gonna have to let it go. Come on, I really don’t want a damn losing streak because your head is up your ass.” He licks his lips.
My skin turns cold. The ugly truth is, any girl worth getting with has already hooked up with Brody. All summer, I’ve tried to wash myself clean of Brittni, knowing we will never be together after what she pulled. Refusing to let the thoughts of her cheating run rampant in my brain again I change the subject.
“I shouldn’t have picked up the phone when Karen called.”
Jared chuckles. “That’s why you don’t pick up the phone. Her name is literally Karen.”
“I need the money.”
“Are the ‘rents on your ass again?”
I take off my cap and run a hand through my hair as I lean into the brick wall stained with grease residue. “I came home this summer and my dad was gone. Charlie doesn’t know when to quit. I was completely blindsided.”
“Damn... he really left?” Jared asks.
I take in a long drag and hold it in as long as I can until I’m coughing up a lung. As smoke billows out my nose, I say, “Yep. And for some bitch young enough to be my sister.”
“That sounds like an intense mid-life crisis. I’m sorry man. But I have to ask, do you know what your sister is in for tonight?”
“What do you mean?”
Jared puckers his lips as I hand him the rest of the joint. “Don’t be mad at me.”
I bite the inside of my cheek and my voice drops an octave. “What?”
He presses the joint between two lips and pulls out his cellphone, showing me his screen. A video post shows Charlie screaming along with the lyrics of a heavy metal song in the Jeep. My Jeep... that she stole. I glance into the distance where I parked and... yep. It’s gone. I run a hand down my face.
My gaze goes back to Jared’s phone. Charlie’s taking pictures with Payton and the vodka they magically got at a gas station. And since they are being thieves tonight, I bet they stole that too. The cherry on top is her smoking a cigarette and flaunting it like candy.
“Fuuuck.” My head falls back. Freshmen and little sisters mixed have a gift of pushing limits, and Charlie is the queen of them. I’m positive I’ve witnessed the devil himself pocket her soul in a to-go bag.
The funny thing is that before I left for my shift, mom had a screaming match with her about not being responsible enough to move into the dorms. Charlie refuses to follow rules when she didn’t create them. She surrounds herself with stupid ideas and bad decisions.
“I overheard through the grapevine about a house party on the south side of town. You have to bring booze to get in. It’s Roulette dude.”
