Copyright © 2024 by Abby Knox

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  Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is coincidental.

  Edited by Aquila Editing

  Cover Designer: Cormar Covers

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  Roll For Initiative

  LOVE GAMES

  BOOK ONE

  ABBY KNOX

  Roll For Initiative

  Dakota

  A road trip is just what I need to avoid my problems.

  For today, I’m going to have some fun in a new town. Diner food, retail therapy, and a massive distraction in the form of a six-foot-four gamer nerd named Dean? Yes please.

  I know I should go home and tell my parents the truth.

  But I’m not ready to tell them I don’t want to be a journalist.

  They won’t love that.

  And there’s one more teensy problem: my parents are really not going to love the idea of me spending time with an older, protective guy I barely know.

  But those conversations can wait until tomorrow.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Epilogue

  More by Abby Knox

  About the Author

  1

  Dakota

  Do you believe in signs from the universe?

  I didn’t used to, but there’s something special about the billboards on this highway I’m traveling on.

  Every half a mile, I see a variation of the following:

  “World’s Best Cherry Pie.”

  “World’s Largest Ball of Yarn.”

  “Curiosity Spot—Don’t You Wanna Find It?”

  “The Mayor Doesn’t Bite—But He Might Lick You.”

  I feel compelled to pull over.

  See? It’s a sign from the universe.

  Or it could just be that my butt hurts from driving for hours.

  As I signal ahead of the exit, the dashboard screen changes from my music to a phone call from my dad.

  I swallow down my anxiety and tap the answer icon.

  “Hi, Dad,” I say, a little too perky.

  “Hey! How was the interview?”

  If I weren’t driving, I would squeeze my eyes shut out of shame. The most I can manage is to wince as I follow the signs for the place with the cherry pie.

  “It was…uh…memorable?”

  I ignore the pregnant pause while I scope out the vintage neon sign above the busy diner, then park in one of only two open spots.

  “Uh oh. What are you not telling me?” Dad says.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Whenever you’re hiding something, your voice goes up at the end of your sentences,” he says.

  The man is a Pulitzer Prize-winning investigative reporter for a reason. Although he started out writing sports, uncovering a hazing scandal set a fire under him, and he shifted to investigative reporting.

  I really, really don’t want to break this man’s heart.

  “I do?” I ask.

  “Cody,” he says sternly, using one of my nicknames. He hasn’t busted out my middle name yet, so I’m not in deep shit yet.

  “It could’ve been better,” I lie. “I was nervous the whole time, and I flubbed some basic steps during the test article.”

  Dad laughs. “Did Old Mike put you to work during the interview? Still a cheapskate, I see. Anyway, there’s nothing to be nervous about. You are just as qualified to work for the Herald as anybody. Maybe more so.”

  With as many horrifying stories about curmudgeonly “Old Mike” whom Dad used to work with at one time in his storied career, I’m surprised that he would so readily dismiss my nervousness.

  “I know, Dad.”

  Here’s the thing. I don’t want to work for Old Mike. I don’t even want to be a journalist.

  But as my dad, “Beast” Chapman, likes to say, we bleed ink. As the daughter of award-winning reporters—now owning small newspapers nationwide—my career has always been a foregone conclusion.

  “You’ve got the drive in you, kid. Just like your mom. Don’t worry about a thing.”

  Easy for him to say. Both my parents are lifers. As coworkers, they got stranded together during a blizzard and fell in love.

  A year later, Y2K happened. Remember that? Neither do I because Mom and Dad’s favorite cringey story is about how I was conceived on New Year’s Eve at the turn of the century. “We were both so exhilarated that the world didn’t turn upside down. And then you happened, which turned everything upside down in the best way,” as Mom likes to tell it.

  Yeah, my parents are super into each other, even in their 50s. It’s sweet, but I’ve given up any hope of finding someone who makes me feel that instant connection like Beast Chapman and Avery Jacobs had for each other. Most of the guys in my journalism school were way too shy and serious for me. When I decided to take the initiative and ask one or two of them out, they looked at me like I was a leper for even asking. Or like I was the whore of Babylon. As in, how could I even think about dating when the world was falling apart around us?

  Meh. I told ’em all to touch grass and call me when they got tired of working themselves ragged.

  “Seeing a workplace is a lot more intimidating than studying it,” I try on my dad, hoping he’ll get the point.

  “Ah, but you ran the school paper!”

  He’s not wrong, but the school paper was rough on me. First, the office was in a basement, and everyone looked like they hadn’t seen sunshine in years.

  No offense, but there’s a reason my sister Rebel calls them all the mole people. And she spends most of her time indoors throwing imaginary fireballs at dragons. But Rebel’s never been one to shy away from speaking her mind. When Dad offered her an internship, she blinked at him blankly, then went back to writing her ’zine. Yes, you read that right: a physical paper ‘zine that Rebel sends in the mail to about six thousand paid subscribers. She’s been doing that since she was 13, and now at 26, she has so much money socked away that no one can tell her shit.

  Maybe I should go work for Rebel.

  But this morning, I was determined to go along with my predetermined path, telling myself that I like writing enough that I can make this work. Besides, what else can I do for money besides starting an OnlyFans page? No thank you.

  And yet, when I showed up for the newspaper interview, I smelled the familiar scent of ink and stale coffee. People paced around, some shouting at each other. Others were chained to desks and furiously typing.

  Everyone looked—you guessed it—too serious.

  My stomach plummeted to the floor when I saw my future. I couldn’t go through with it.

  So, I left.

  I just got into my dad’s car and drove.

  I know, I know. I should tell my parents the truth. And I will. I just have to devise an alternative life plan that won’t make their heads explode. So far, I’ve come up with bupkis.

  As I sit here on the phone with Dad, a pickup truck parks next to me, and the driver dashes out. From inside the diner, a server sees the driver and immediately meets him at the door with a big cup containing some type of milkshake, with a spoon and a straw sticking out of the top. He hands the server a few bills and tells her to keep the change.

  The passenger window rolls down, and a pretty woman in her 30s sticks her head out. The server leans out the door. “Thanks, Maya,” says the passenger as the driver hands over the milkshake.

  “You picked a name yet?” asks the server.

  The passenger pats her stomach. “Luckily Harley was happy to stick with keeping the Elvis names in the family,” she laughs. “Lisa Marie if it’s a girl and Aaron for a boy.”

  Maya seems overjoyed to hear it. She clutches her heart. “Oh my god. I hope it’s both!”

  “Twins? Don’t make me pass out, Maya!” shouts the driver, evidently the father.

  The women both laugh. “Keep the Oreo shakes coming, ’cause this craving isn’t going anywhere for a while,” the pregnant one says.

  “Just say the word, and I’ll bring it to the job site next time, Presley,” the server calls out as the couple drives away.

  That. That’s what I want.

  Not a pickup, and not even an Oreo shake. But a nice man with a good sense of humor who would give me babies and drive me around town to satisfy my pregnancy cravings in the middle of th
e afternoon on a Tuesday.

  But how do I verbalize that to my career-focused parents?

  Do you think I’m about to drop that bomb when I don’t have the most essential piece of that puzzle? I’m not dating anyone. Yeah, that’s not gonna fly without a career first.

  “You hearing what I’m saying, Cody Cat?”

  Oh geez, that name.

  “I hear you, Dad. But I don’t think I got the job. Sorry.”

  “Listen, don’t be surprised if he calls you in a few days with an offer. And if he doesn’t? Fuck ’em.”

  Do you see how awesome he is? I just need a few hours—or maybe days—to gather up my courage and tell my parents what I want. And to deliver it in a way that won’t make him disappointed in me.

  But first, pie.

  My stomach growls when I see a server inside the diner scoop a massive slice of something topped with meringue and pile it onto a plate with a truckload of vanilla ice cream.

  “Right,” I say. “Fuck ’em. Fuck ’em all.”

  Dad snorts. “Where’d you learn to talk like that, Sweet Cody Bear?”

  “Interning? With you?”

  “Oh, that’s right…”

  “Listen,” I sigh. “I’m gonna visit some friends while I’m here, okay? Clear my head.”

  Dad murmurs in agreement. “Good idea. Have some fun in Cincinnati. Then, come home to Florida, and the three of us will put our heads together and figure it out. Just like we always have.”

  “Sounds good,” I say, nodding, my eyes darting to the road sign that is most definitely not Cincinnati but reads, “Fate, Kentucky, Population 2,012.”

  I send my love to Mom, we say our goodbyes, and I hang up.

  I don’t know where I’ve ended up, but it’s far enough away from my problems for now.

  For now, lunch and some pie is all I need.

  2

  Dean

  My feet freeze to the spot when I set foot in the diner.

  Who. Is. That?

  Her lips move as she talks to Ruby, the owner. That smile is so bright and pretty; it’s like a bullet straight to my heart.

  “Dean? You need something?”

  One of the servers gently nudges me out of the way as she carries a platter of fries and shakes, yet is nice enough to check on me.

  “Uh, yeah…” I say. What was I doing here again?

  I’m finding it hard to tear my eyes away from the mop of brown curls. The friendly eyes. The cute pantsuit that hugs her every curve.

  Another server, Maya, shouts, “Your order’s right here on the counter, Dean. Three burgers and fries, a pint of banana pudding.”

  Burgers? Who needs burgers when one’s life has just shifted into sharp focus?

  Before I remember what I’m doing here, Maya hands me my takeout bags.

  “Are you feeling okay?” Maya asks.

  Somebody snorts from a nearby booth. I know it’s one of those old retired farmers who have nothing better to do than hang around the diner and collect gossip, harassing everyone in the process.

  My eyes dart left, and sure enough, one of the old men in the feed store cap has a twinkle in his eye. “Go talk to her, son. The population boom around here is starting to slow down.”

  “You mind your own business, Merle,” clucks a familiar voice that can be no one but Ernestine Jenkins, town matriarch and top-tier busybody. She then turns her sharp gaze to me. “But he’s right. You should go talk to her.”

  Talk? I can’t talk to a strange woman. I’m a mess. Lately, my life has been all about getting my new game store ready to open. I’m covered in paint and dust. Hell, I don’t think I remembered to brush my teeth or put on deodorant today—I’ve become one of those reclusive forest dwarves who’ve been alone for so long they don’t remember what touch feels like. I went to seed eons ago, and now I eat bugs and build shelves. Well, I don’t literally eat bugs, but that would probably be better for my health than the constant flow of burgers and fries and banana pudding that’s been sustaining me lately.

  I’ve stood here for a second too long. Ruby has disappeared into the kitchen to put the woman’s order in, and now the stranger has caught me staring.

  Shit.

  She holds my gaze for a beat, and her beaming smile fades. Just barely, but enough for me to catch it. Of course, because I look like a freak with all this food.

  “You’d make pretty babies,” murmurs Ernestine. Oh god. I suddenly feel aware of eight pairs of elderly eyes on me, like every bored retiree in Fate is willing me with their minds to give them all something to talk about.

  I consider my options, but one factor supersedes everything. I smell. I reek of paint and body odor.

  Even if I could take the initiative and talk to a pretty girl, I’d kill her with my armpit stench. What’s more, up close I look like a serial killer with red paint spattered on my clothes and dirt under my nails.

  Nah. This isn’t happening today. I need a shower and lots of therapy first.

  “Where is he going?” I hear muttered among the crowd of regulars as I bolt out the door and head back to my shop.

  Downtown and safely done with my quest for food, Forrest and Rhys act like I’ve been away for hours.

  “Finally!” grunts a paint-smudged Forrest when I shove the bags of food onto the counter by the register at Love Games.

  “We’re starving!” exclaims Rhys, looking men’s-magazine perfect in his designer sweater and tailored trousers — less than ideal for lifting boxes and building shelves. Rhys is more concerned with arranging the coffee station than he is with actual work related to the purpose of the store: fantasy tabletop gaming merchandising and events.

  Ernestine’s seen-everything voice echoes through my head. You’d make pretty babies…

  She’s not wrong.

  Forrest catches me staring into space as he and Rhys dive into their burgers and fries.

  “You gonna eat that?” Forrest asks this through a mouthful of beef as he points to my food, which remains wrapped in its packaging and abandoned by the cash register.

  I shake the virtual bees from my brain. “Ah…no. You can have it. I’m not hungry.”

  “Suit yourself,” Forrest says with a shrug. “You?” he asks Rhys.

  Rhys shakes his head, says, “Have at it,” then aims his gaze at me.

  “Stop staring at me like that; it’s freaking me out,” I say, turning away from him and heading to the front window to rearrange the display of cosplay weapons.

  “Something happened to you,” Rhys says.

  “Not now, Rhys,” I mumble, switching a double-sided ax in the mannequin’s hand for a mace.

  “Yes, now.”

  Here we go. We’re gonna talk about feelings.

  I grumble, “This is a game store. We steal gold from dragon lairs. We collect custom 20-sided die and the bones of our enemies. We do complicated nonsense to power up a steampunk airship time machine. We don’t pry about real life.”

  “You’re grumpier than usual. What happened?” Rhys hovers nearby, his lunch forgotten, as I begin disrobing one of the mannequins. The leather and faux fur barbarian costumes in the window seem to draw people in who think this place is a sex dungeon, so I need to do something about that.

  “Nothing,” I grunt, struggling with the latches on the fur and leather bra.

  “Uh-oh. Girl trouble.”

  I turn and shoot him a look of death, which was a mistake.

  “Oh. Big-time girl trouble. Was it Kim? Did Kim text you again? I told you to block her; you know what she does to your psyche.”

  With one arm hooked around the front of the mannequin, I abruptly turn toward Rhys, my jaw set. “It’s not Kim,” I spit out. And who would not feel irritated at their friend for bringing up the name of the person who cheated and then thought they could booty-call you post-breakup? She tried. Didn’t work on me.

  Maybe Rhys is right; I should have blocked Kim’s phone number years ago. But I haven’t. Not because I want anything to do with her. Her occasional messages remind me that, at one time, I was a hopeful young dude of 30 who was ready to settle down and start a family. Who believed in love.

  Maybe I’ll get there again. One day.

  “The only other explanation for this mood swing has to be either the tax assessment came through, or you’re brooding about a woman. And since a silent partner should be informed of any and all financial circumstances in this business, there’s one alternative.”