About Making Your Own Luck
by Sean Michael
35 pages
/ 10400 words
ISBN: 978-1-60370-767-1, 1-60370-767-0
Available file types - html, lit, pdf, prc, epub, Sony-optimized pdf
Isaac is the superstitious type, and his Friday the Thirteenth is shaping up to be the worst kind of nightmare. The one good thing it brings him is Rusty, a sculptor who seems perfectly willing to buck Isaac's trend of bad luck to get to know him better.
Rusty thinks Isaac needs to plan for good luck instead of bad, so he sets out to do what he can to make Isaac's life better, one day at a time. A series of catastrophic dates can't deter Rusty from his mission, but can Isaac overcome his disaster-prone ways long enough to take advantage of Rusty's care?
Sample
Isaac stared at his hands.
Honestly, when he'd woken up this morning, he should have just turned over and gone back to sleep. Well, okay, he'd sort of done that, which was part of the fucking problem, wasn't it?
Yeah.
Fuck.
He'd gotten out of bed on the wrong side; he'd stumbled over the edge of the rug and landed against the dressing table, sending his shaving mirror, his scissors, and his shoe horn flying. The mirror broke -- great -- the shoe horn was still missing -- fucking fabulous -- and the scissors fell, which would have been way more upsetting if he'd had a damned lover to be unfaithful, which he didn't.
Or he had, just not anymore because sometimes superstitions came after the fact and, if he dropped scissors around Justin now, he'd drop them on the cheating fucker's balls.
Point first.
Damn it.
After all that, he'd headed for work at the university, only to make it halfway there before his tire blew, leaving him stranded on the median on Pickney road, watching the traffic zoom by. His cell was out of juice, his students were undoubtedly leaving his classes like lemmings, and...
Well, he'd gotten reamed by the head of his department, lost his lucky rabbit's foot, got a rejection on an article he'd submitted on the power of suggestion to Zen Today magazine (too academic, not approachable enough), and then walked to the closest place to his goddamn office to have something to eat before he went to hide for the rest of the day.
He had a blister on his finger from trying to change the tire, a cut on his other hand from hitting the car out of frustration when the lug nut stuck, and...
And if his fucking coffee and water and chicken salad sandwich didn't show up soon he was going to have a meltdown of mammoth fucking proportions!
Isaac slammed his hand down on the table, the salt cellar turning over with a thunk, salt spilling out over the bright red tablecloth.
"God damn it." He snarled out the words, snatched up the salt and threw it over his left shoulder.
"What the hell?"
He half-turned to discover the low, growly voice belonged to a very large, very buff stud of a man with the greenest eyes.
"Uh. Sorry." Fuck. "Spilled salt. Bad luck. You know?"
"I know it was bad luck for me." The guy made a show of wiping the salt from his shoulders and out of his military short brown hair.
"Sorry." If he got his ass kicked, he was going to...
To...
Throw a ladder at the growly son of a bitch.
The guy stared at him for a moment. "You really believe in that shit?"