Read Billionaire's Seduction: BILLIONAIRE ROMANCE (Alpha Billionaire Romance Collection) (BBW Pregnancy Marriage of Convenience) for Free Online Page A
Authors: Betsy Poole
difference was that I walked away with two thousand dollars. The third time, well, by that point I started using the mantra, and suddenly it didn’t seem all that bad. Of course, I was making some serious money betting against and for these poor birds. By the time I hit my fifth cock fight, my roosters hadn’t lost once and I was up ten grand, and to be honest, I was starting to enjoy the camaraderie of the fights.
The thing with cock fighting is this, most of the caucasians who go to them are just like me, they love to gamble. They’re also just like me because they’re not welcome anyplace else in the city except for where they have cock fights, dog fights, and bare knuckle boxing. (And most of them aren’t welcome there, either, because bare knuckle fights are usually run by gangsters like Junior, or one of his more blood thirsty competitors.) They’re gamers who’ve run into a bit of bad luck and can’t go back to their bookies until they pay up a wad of cash that they don’t have.
What’s great about being around these guys is while the fights are going down, you don’t have to watch, you can just hang out by the makeshift bar and down cheap Mexican beers and talk stats. You talked about who’s on the injury list this week, who’s being picked up in the draft, who your teams are in the final four. All of the usual bar chatter, the only difference is instead of the sonic blare of a dozen different TV’s, you have hundred or so Mexicans screaming at the top of their lungs and the squats and cries of dying birds.
After a while, I was just another face in the crowd, a regular, and a well liked regular at that. The kid who ran the fights, Pablo, was a good guy who comped me at the bar anytime I walked in the door. Pablo was Spanish, not Mexican Spanish, but actual from Spain Spanish, and he looked like he could be a male model. 6’2, maybe 180 lbs, blonde hair, blue eyes. He was the type of kid Hitler had in mind when he talked about the “master” race. He told me that his father used to think that his mother fooled around and that his real father was most likely an American tourist. His old man would mention it at least once a week until Pablo turned sixteen and knocked his teeth in and stole a couple of thousands bucks from him so he could head to the states.
In a lot of ways, Pablo reminded me of Sal before he sold me to Junior, quick with a smile and a story, and more than willing to spot you some cash if you wanted to bet big on one of the fights. Unfortunately, this is what got me in bigger trouble than I already was.
I’d been going to the cock fights for around four months, and I’d only ever had one loser in the entire time. All totaled, I’d won thirteen thousand dollars. I was rolling and I was a natural when it came to betting the roosters. On my last night, I’d brought the entire wad and I was planning on either doubling it or tripling it and then handing the whole wad over to Junior and seeing if he would take a deal on a lump sum of cash for my debt. I doubted he would do it, but I was hopeful. But my biggest hope was that once he had the cash he would start letting me place bets on my teams again. Because even though I was a natural at betting the cockfights, it still made me a little queasy when I heard a bird in its death throes.
The reason I was feeling so confident was because of a two-year-old rooster named Coco. The thing was a giant among birds. It was nearly two feet tall and weighed twenty pounds. It was the Andre The Giant of Roosters, and he was going up against a five-year-old bird named Tandy. Tandy was a longtime veteran, had one eye and had been fighting three years, which is ancient in cockfighting. Most birds lasted six months at best, but Tandy had survived and had become something of a legend. Despite the advantage of age and weight, Coco was the 9-to-1 underdog. But I’d won a couple of grand off of Coco’s first fight, and the bird was absolutely vicious. He
The thing with cock fighting is this, most of the caucasians who go to them are just like me, they love to gamble. They’re also just like me because they’re not welcome anyplace else in the city except for where they have cock fights, dog fights, and bare knuckle boxing. (And most of them aren’t welcome there, either, because bare knuckle fights are usually run by gangsters like Junior, or one of his more blood thirsty competitors.) They’re gamers who’ve run into a bit of bad luck and can’t go back to their bookies until they pay up a wad of cash that they don’t have.
What’s great about being around these guys is while the fights are going down, you don’t have to watch, you can just hang out by the makeshift bar and down cheap Mexican beers and talk stats. You talked about who’s on the injury list this week, who’s being picked up in the draft, who your teams are in the final four. All of the usual bar chatter, the only difference is instead of the sonic blare of a dozen different TV’s, you have hundred or so Mexicans screaming at the top of their lungs and the squats and cries of dying birds.
After a while, I was just another face in the crowd, a regular, and a well liked regular at that. The kid who ran the fights, Pablo, was a good guy who comped me at the bar anytime I walked in the door. Pablo was Spanish, not Mexican Spanish, but actual from Spain Spanish, and he looked like he could be a male model. 6’2, maybe 180 lbs, blonde hair, blue eyes. He was the type of kid Hitler had in mind when he talked about the “master” race. He told me that his father used to think that his mother fooled around and that his real father was most likely an American tourist. His old man would mention it at least once a week until Pablo turned sixteen and knocked his teeth in and stole a couple of thousands bucks from him so he could head to the states.
In a lot of ways, Pablo reminded me of Sal before he sold me to Junior, quick with a smile and a story, and more than willing to spot you some cash if you wanted to bet big on one of the fights. Unfortunately, this is what got me in bigger trouble than I already was.
I’d been going to the cock fights for around four months, and I’d only ever had one loser in the entire time. All totaled, I’d won thirteen thousand dollars. I was rolling and I was a natural when it came to betting the roosters. On my last night, I’d brought the entire wad and I was planning on either doubling it or tripling it and then handing the whole wad over to Junior and seeing if he would take a deal on a lump sum of cash for my debt. I doubted he would do it, but I was hopeful. But my biggest hope was that once he had the cash he would start letting me place bets on my teams again. Because even though I was a natural at betting the cockfights, it still made me a little queasy when I heard a bird in its death throes.
The reason I was feeling so confident was because of a two-year-old rooster named Coco. The thing was a giant among birds. It was nearly two feet tall and weighed twenty pounds. It was the Andre The Giant of Roosters, and he was going up against a five-year-old bird named Tandy. Tandy was a longtime veteran, had one eye and had been fighting three years, which is ancient in cockfighting. Most birds lasted six months at best, but Tandy had survived and had become something of a legend. Despite the advantage of age and weight, Coco was the 9-to-1 underdog. But I’d won a couple of grand off of Coco’s first fight, and the bird was absolutely vicious. He
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