Winners Take All

By Magevonna Magevonna

Philip Yen, a previously successful money-management author, is on the verge of losing everything.
Under threat of being dropped by the new management at his publishing house due to a slump in book sales and his unwillingness to participate in promotional events due to unconquerable stage fright, his future looks bleak.
In desperation Phil hires Richard, a handsome and charming stranger, to be the face of the seminars his publisher is demanding. Unfortunately, Richard isn't quite what he seems and the events quickly take a turn for the worse .As the nightmare spirals out of control, can the mild-mannered Phil regain his footing and take charge of the chaos, or will he end up the ultimate loser?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Magevonna Magevonna
• Release date: Feb 5, 2015
• ISBN: 9780990020226

Magevonna Magevonna

Magevonna lives in Los Angeles, California. He's currently working on his second novel.

Book preview

Winners Take All

By

Magevonna

Acknowledgements

I would like to thank God for making it all possible

and blessing me with my imagination. 

Dedication

Jonathan

Moiré 

and

Quan

I love you all beyond words.

Copyright

Copyright 2009 - 2015 by Magévonna

All rights reserved.

For information about permission to reproduce selections from this book,

write to Epic Dream Studio, P.O.Box 811742, Los Angeles, California 90081

Manufactured by Epic Dream Studios L.L.C.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Magévonna, Magévonna

Winners Take All - Magévonna

ISBE: 978-0-9900202-2-6

All rights reserved. In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the publisher constitute unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like to use material from the book, prior permission must be obtained by contacting the publisher. Thank you.

Epic Dream Studio L.L.C.

P.O.Box 811742

Los Angeles, California 90081

Content

Dedication

Acknowledgements

Copyright 

Content

CHAPTER ONE – Red Panties Martini

CHAPTER TWO – Out-of-Print

CHAPTER THREE – No Credit

CHAPTER FOUR – Life Changer

CHAPTER FIVE – Stinger

CHAPTER SIX – Wi-Fi Host

CHAPTER SEVEN – Hotel Life

CHAPTER EIGHT – What’s Your Favorite Color?

CHAPTER NINE – Rusty Nail

CHAPTER TEN – Casanova

CHAPTER ELEVEN – Something’s Different

CHAPTER TWELVE – Buggin’ Out

CHAPTER THIRTEEN – Cross Selling

CHAPTER FOURTEEN – Knock ‘em Out the Box

CHAPTER FIFTEEN – Wake Up Call

CHAPTER SIXTEEN – On the Roll

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN – Scorpion’s Cocktail

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN – The Snowball

CHAPTER NINETEEN - Grasshopper

CHAPTER TWENTY – The Slide Show

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE - TRUST

Chapter One

Red Panties Martini

"Open this door, before I shoot you both in the head,"

said an Amazonian bottle-blonde while banging a solid forearm on the bathroom door. The polished brass doorknob rattled as the door bent alarmingly under her brute force, causing the two men taking cover inside to cringe and press harder to ensure the pathetic piece of fake timber stayed firmly closed.

The smaller of the two practically squealed in terror.

Why me! I have nothing to do with this. He’s the one who cheated on you, he pleaded, indicating the bronzed and blonde surfer beside him, even though he knew the crazed maniac outside couldn’t see him.

Hey, hey, hey! Richard, the surfer dude said to his small, Asian buddy, Philip. Enough with the double-teaming already.

He leaned in closer, hoping the flimsy apartment-block inner door would muffle his words beyond the comprehension of the irate model outside.

Like, whose side are you on, man? Can’t you help me out just a little here? he whispered in his high-strung friend’s ear.

Philip just hunched his shoulders, ashamed in light of the rebuke, refusing to meet Richard’s eyes, but still resolute not to get involved in this fiasco, despite being trapped in the exact same position as his cohort.

Realizing he wasn’t going to receive any back up, the surfer was forced to concede a point to the gun-wielding blonde on the other side of the door.

Okay, I may have cheated on you, but it was a long time ago.

What’s your definition of a long time ago? I found red panties in your glove box this morning, Richard! she said, her voice rising to a screech.

Both men turn to look at the girl sitting on the closed toilet seat lid, casually inspecting her nails and seemingly unperturbed by the situation. Sensing their eyes on her, she looked up. They were both staring pointedly at her lacy red bra and questionably unmatched black, satin panties.

What, she shrugged nonchalantly. They’re not mine.

Realizing her mistake, she slapped her hand over her mouth, eyes wide. Alerting the madwoman of her presence hadn’t been in the game plan for any of them. If only we weren’t on the sixth floor of a high rise, we probably could have all made a break for it out the window, she thought, while staring at the only window in the bathroom.

The two men followed her quick glance, a flicker of hope across their faces as they viewed the tiny square above. Coming to the same conclusion that she had, that it would mean a plunge to certain death, but Phil still considered it anyway. Which was worse, a fall and lights out, or being shot and fatally wounded, bleeding to death on a bathroom floor?

These thoughts took place in the few seconds it took the blonde outside to process what she had just heard. The frantic banging on the door resumed, if possible, even harder than before.

I know you’ve got a girl in there, Richard. Open up right now.

The panties are probably yours, honey. We’ve done it many of times in my car, right, sweat pea?

I don’t wear panties, you asshole!

This time, it was her whole body that slammed against the door, causing the two men on the other side to bounce comically with the force of the hit.

You should know that, so try again, you sleaze ball, the blonde practically snarled.

Richard looked frantically at Phil, with a panicked What now? expression on his face. Phil shrugged; he had no experience of dealing with unhinged, tall, leggy, blonde models.

A pained expression on his face, Richard thought fast.

"Oh wait, you mean those panties," he said with a fake laugh, as if the whole thing was just a mere misunderstanding.

Phil rolled his eyes, backtracking is the choice of a moron; she would never fall for this one, he thought.

Like, yeah, those panties ... duh, the voice outside the door mocked.

I can explain those, honey. They’re not mine, and of course they’re not yours, I totally forgot, they’re his!

Phil noticed the sweat beading on Richard’s forehead as he glanced at him, wondering where on earth he was going with this. Obviously the girl outside had no clue what he was talking about either.

What?

Yeah, I didn’t want to say, but they’re Phil’s.

What! the voice on the outside echoed along with the voice right next to Richard, giving him an earache in stereo.

Richard, are you trying to tell me that you are both gay?

No! No, no, no, they both yelled, competing to be the one who denied it the most fervently.

Outside the girl’s breathing had grown rapid and loud, like a dog panting on a hot day. Richard held onto the vain hope that if she continued to hyperventilate, maybe she would pass out and collapse to the floor and then they could creep from hiding, disarm her and escape out the front door. The sounds of successional metallic clicks dashed that idea almost immediately.

What’s she doing? Phil whispered.

Choking her gun, Vicky, the girl sitting on the toilet answered.

What? I don’t even know what that is.

A choke is something that constricts a barrel’s bore at the muzzle end, improving range and accuracy, she said in a bored voice, having returned to inspecting her chipped, red nails.

How come these chicks know more about guns than we do? Richard muttered to Phil, who only shook his head, more concerned about the implications than the lack of knowledge.

So, did I or did I not sleep with a gay man, Richard?

Of course not, Crystal, how can you even ask me that? You’ve got the most womanly body known to man, if I was gay, I never could have performed, right? Phil’s not gay either, he’s … well, um … he’s a cross dresser! he said triumphantly, finally coming up with what he considered a plausible explanation.

I do not wear woman’s clothes!

Don’t listen to him, baby, of course he’d deny it, Richard called out, and then turned to face Phil to nip his lack of cooperation with a stage whisper. Can’t you just back me up for once?

No! Why don’t you be the cross dresser?

It’d never work; those panties would never fit me. She’s a model, you think she doesn’t know sizes? Besides, sleeping with a drag artist wouldn’t be much of a step up would it? She’d still kill me, you know … Richard pointed a finger at his temple, spinning it around. Woo woo woo.

Did I just hear you making that sound saying I’m crazy?

The voice outside had gone cold and sinister, no longer that of a hysterical female who might just be talked down.

No, no, of course not.

No, we don’t think that at all.

They had both yelled over the top of one another, frantic in their denial, not missing how dangerous Crystal now sounded. They listened carefully, the silence outside suddenly became menacing. Pressing their ears hard to the door to figure out what’s happening, Phil let out a scream as something connected hard with the other side, shattering on impact. He jumped back from the door, and then returned as Richard frantically motioned for him to resume his position and help hold their improvised fort.

What was that? Phil asked.

Lamp or vase I would say, too heavy to be a glass. Oh, that sounded like a book, another lamp, oh, that was a glass this time.

Richard kept up his commentary as the items rained against the door in a constant barrage. When they ceased, he turned to Phil.

We can’t hold off the She-Hulk forever, we’ve got to do something.

Look, why don’t you just go out there and talk to her face to face, turn on the charm?

Richard stared at Phil with a dumbfounded expression, pointing towards the door. "Did you not just here all that out there? She is smashing up my apartment with my stuff! And let’s not forget the small matter of the gun? A choked gun in fact."

Just to prove his point, the sound of random items being smashed resumed.

See, see? Richard points at the door, more defensive now than even.

All of this is your fault, you got us into this, you get us out.

I would have, if you’d just gone along with me instead of protecting your pathetic manhood.

The two continued to argue until the girl sitting on the commode finally had enough of inspecting her glossy nail polish. Looking from one to the other as if watching a tennis match, she spoke in the same bored tones.

Either of you smell smoke?

The two stopped dead, stretching out their neck and sniffing the air like bomb-sniffing dogs in search of a remote danger.

Do I smell smoke? Phil muttered. Why yes, smoke... SMOKE!

"Crystal, what the hell are you doing out there?, yells Richard as he banged direfully on the abused bathroom door, trying to draw their huntress’s attention.

I’m burning your manuscript, Richard, came the singsong voice from somewhere in the echo invoking luxurious apartment.

That sucks, says Vicky, returning to her nails for lack of anything else to do.

Richard, we have got to get out of here!

Yeah, ya think!

Look, on the count of three, let’s both run out. You can grab her and I’ll grab the bag.

Oh right, so I get to tango with the blonde Chewbacca while you run off with the bag and abandon me to my fate … I don’t think so!

Okay, okay, then both of us will grab her, you pin her down and I’ll go for the gun, better?

Richard looked down on Phil with a condescending smirk. You must think I am a complete idiot. I know you, as soon as this door opens, you’ll be scampering out that front door like you got buckshot in the ass. Richard’s smile faded as he pointed accusing at Phil. You wouldn’t even back me up before, no way are you going to help me tackle looney tunes out there now. I can’t trust you, man.

What are you talking about? Than you come up with a better idea then!... Look, we don’t have time for this argument. Phil sighed and ran a hand through his thick, black hair. "Fine, I’ll grab her and you get the gun out of her hand, but you’d better be quick, I won’t be able to hold her for long.

Richard considered his options. He knew he didn’t have much choice, they couldn’t just hang around here indefinitely, but he wasn’t ready to commit to trusting Phil.

I’m about to throw your bag into this nice little fire I got going here, Richard… both of them, Crystal called, still in that disturbing and creepy singsong voice.

Richard and Phil looked at each with wide, panic-filled eyes. The time for disagreements and hesitation was over, they had to act now.

Okay, on the count of three, Richard declared as they positioned themselves towards the privacy lock doorknob side of the door, ready to make their move.

Philip nodded and began the count. One …

Before Phil could get any further, he was shoved roughly out of the way by the mismatched-lingerie girl, who yanked open the bathroom door and went streaking past Crystal and down the hall, with her bare feet slapping on the tiled floor and satin-encased butt cheeks jiggling as she barreled out the main door.

They poked their heads out to see Crystal standing in the living room doorway, a few feet down the hall. With her arms folded, they could just see the tip of the barrel of the handgun. Tapping her foot angrily, she stared disgustedly at the two sheepish faces peeking out at her nervously from the bathroom.

Chapter Two

Out-of-Print

Five Months Earlier

Philip Yen stood in the sleek, modern kitchen of his penthouse corner apartment, using his expensive culinary gadgets to assist in the making of breakfast. A glass of freshly squeezed orange juice was already prepared and waiting for him on the marble breakfast bar, thanks to a supposed time saving machine, juice extractor. In reality, cleaning the thing took more time than it would take to squeeze them by hand, but using it was fun anyway. His coffee machine was prepped and all he had to do was flick a switch and wait for the hot water to jet through the little pod and into his waiting mug.

He was currently at the cooktop, scrambling eggs, while his four-slice toaster took care of the rest. The breakfast bar was neatly set with a place mat and coasters, a napkin folded under the gleaming cutlery and a butter dish placed out, allowing time for the contents to soften. There was nothing worse than unevenly spread butter or ripped toast far as his opinion goes.

The kitchen was a pleasing room, like most others in the apartment. It was roomy, with plenty of natural light from the large window placed behind the double, stainless steel sinks. Normally, the sun would be beaming its cheerful face in the window and smiling on the breakfast bar by now, but the day was grey and overcast, even darker clouds advancing rapidly, threatening to turn the constant drizzle to torrential rain.

Regardless of the elements, the kitchen still managed to look cheerful to Phil, but just to help it along, he had turned on the three sets of three spotlights that rested semi-flush on the ceiling, the bulbs held in delicate, frosted glass, tubular shades suspended from stylish, chrome-finished, intricate twists. Each one was positioned to highlight some impressive element within the room, and they shone down upon the black, glossy finish of the counter tops and breakfast bar. Highly polished black marble had been chosen to contrast nicely with the modern, matt chrome finish of the catering grade appliances that also gleamed in the bright beams of light.

Despite being in his early forties, Phil was currently single, but he certainly didn’t need a woman to help around the house. He was almost pathologically neat and meticulous, taking pride in his ability to manage the household chores with ease and aplomb. Not keeping a place as nice as his surroundings looked was unthinkable, and not learning to cook whilst owning this kitchen would have been an absolute travesty. He didn’t agree with the label of Obsessive Compulsive that people had given him over the years, he just felt that everything had a place and that germs had to be eradicated at all costs. He happily tossed the eggs around in the pan with his day, in his mind, nicely already planned out ahead of him.

He was startled when the phone rang shrilly, interrupting his efforts to produce perfectly cooked eggs. Turning the knob down to a low heat, he wiped his hands on a tea towel and headed for the living room. Glancing at the caller I.D. screen, it efficiently informed him it was his agent on the other end of the line.

Hey, Monica! How are you doing this morning? he enthused as he answered the call.

Fine, thanks, came the reply from the other end. I was calling to go over the new contract guidelines and stipulations with you.

Phil wandered back through to the kitchen with the cordless phone pressed to his ear. He pushed the eggs around in the pan, considering his next move. He’d had a good idea of what the call was about, and had already decided he had to take control of the conversation before it really got started. Monica was a fantastic agent but in order to get the best deal, not to mention the best percentage, she wouldn’t hesitate to insist upon stipulations that pleased the publisher but perhaps not her clients.

You know I’m working on another book? Phil informed her, trying to distract her before she got to cut throat terms and conditions.

Great, Phil, that sounds good, I …

I believe this is my best one yet, much superior to the previous eight, he interrupted.

"Look, Phil, I like you, alright, so I’m just going to cut through the chase here. Your sales are dropping and eighth books or