A Wicked Chance

By Anna Flakk

The urban jungle of New York is tough enough, and the last thing Samantha needs is an angel stalking her as well.

 

Sam is a hot-headed college student who wants nothing more than to become a detective to find her mom's killer. When she loses both her scholarship and her job, Sam thinks it can't get any worse.

 

But it does.

 

After a reaper puts her on hold, and Sam is forced into cooperation with a demon, what other fresh hell awaits? Sam needs to find out whom to trust and what she stands for to navigate through the afterlife—let alone find out what happened to her mom.

 

But is she ready to find answers she is looking for?

 

✓ Supernatural meets American Gods ✓ High-paced mystery, thriller and suspense ✓ Contemporary fantasy

 

⚠Triggers: occasional swearing

★ US English

 

 

 

If you have come to these pages for laughter, may you find it.

If you have come to be offended, may your blood boil.

If you need an adventure, may you be carried away.

If you look for suspense, may your heart race.

May you find what you seek, in this book... or outside of it.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Anna Flakk
• Release date: Oct 8, 2020
• ISBN: 9788269197013

Book preview

One

Before she died the first time, Sam had tired her body with a dedication found in people possessed by a vision. She pressed away from the gym floor as if her life depended on it, jogged, ate balanced meals, even choked on broccoli, stayed hydrated, and studied hard to remain at the top of her class. Although, she’d dropped the ball on a couple of last tests.

Sam winced, shoving her sweaty hair out of her face with trembling fingers. In quick succession, she completed three reps with the weight she held in her free hand, trying to block out the unwelcome reminder of her failures.

Sighing, Sam waited for her friend Nicole, the usually perky law student, to speak her mind.

What's your motivation?

At the question, Sam’s vision blurred. She cleared her throat, then forced her voice to come out strong and steady. What motivation? Nicole, no motivation can compare to anger. Anger makes me work until bloody snot, until ripped-up skin. Sam dropped some weights to a muted thud. The wooden floor would've worked better. All I got in this life is thanks to the banal, effective anger.

Then you should embrace it. Nicole jumped on a treadmill, still speaking as she hooked the emergency cut-off to her tank top. Get angry, get the best grade on the next test, and you'll keep your scholarship.

Don't think it works that way. Money is gone. The board doesn't do backsies.

Nicole stopped. Samantha Clark, she leaned in, holding onto the handles of the machine, you never know before you try.

I don't need it. We are done in a couple of months. Unable to hold tears back, Sam gave Nicole a winning smile, grabbed her water bottle, and headed for the showers. See you over the weekend.

Outside, the sky inked New York City into night, but car lights and commercial neon lamps pushed people around with a vicious buzz. Sam sat down on some worn stone steps and caught snowflakes with her mouth. It seemed to be the right thing to do, to save them from the dirty ground. The cold stung her tongue and disappeared.

She’d moved to New York City to become somebody else, someone better, but the city tried her ambition every step of the way. Sam found herself being not as smart or as quick on her feet as she thought she was. Every day, her wits went on trial. Every day, she seemed to fail that trial but, despite all the cracks in her self-esteem, Sam couldn’t bring herself to admit she was wrong on any point.

The phone vibrated and showed Dad. Sam pressed the green button. Hi. What are you up to?

Nothing. Just checking in. Keep forgetting the difference. Is it late there?

No. I have time.

When are you coming home?

I thought we talked about it already.

We also had a deal that if you lose your phone you would go to the nearest morgue and stay there so I can find you quicker. You know my drill: morgues, police stations, hospitals. In that order.

Sam chuckled. It was last week. I got a shiny used one so—

I'm not comfortable with the once a week chat you are pushing on me. I like to know you are safe.

Oh, Dad, stop it.

I got a cat.

You said you don't like pets.

I miss you, you know. I don't want you in the force. Too dangerous, too many men, too many crazies. Did you consider how horrid the uniform is?

I plan to be a detective. They don't wear uniforms.

A long road there. Why can't you just be a lawyer like other sassy youngsters? The air on the phone between them stilled. That was the original plan, wasn't it? I sheltered you for too long. You have no idea what you are getting into.

Daddy. Her voice vibrated.

Oh, Ducky. You don't have to prove anything to me or anybody else. Can't you find another purpose? Just start living, Ducky. You can't make your mother's death into the meaning of your life.

It’s like you don’t know me at all. What should be the meaning then?

Should it be any? Meaning is putting you in the box. You say you'll find out what happened, and that is your meaning. Others say it is in money or love or God. We put ourselves in a box. I don't think there's a meaning in life. There is no finish line you have to reach, and this, I believe, is more important than any imagined meaning.

Sam could hear him smile through the phone. She imagined him close to dancing with a cup of traditional evening tea. What does he know about not having a mother? He had both parents for a long time. Do you understand we are talking about my life here? She tilted her head back to avoid running mascara.

I know. Come back home. We will figure out something else.

I lost my scholarship, but it doesn't matter now. I'll find the money. I picked up extra shifts.

Listen, you can try to do it on your own. I admire that—

Would you lend me some? We are talking about just a couple of months. I'll pay you back.

I am not lending you a dollar to do this. You went to that city, screaming and banging doors to do the thing I do not approve—

I will ask my rich friends then.

Name one friend who isn't a character in a book.

Sam took the phone from her ear and disconnected the call. The fatigue burned a hole inside her. She struggled to put her backpack on and threw it on the wet asphalt. She dropped her arms and leaned her head back, but a clock on a building across the street flashed half an hour past resignation time.

Sam tramped down to the station as if she wanted to punish the ground. Thin sneaker soles gave way, forced her to lighten up the step.

Two

March snow cocooned New York in for the night. Dark poured into the bar each time a customer left. The phone showed past twelve, but the loyals stayed, scratched the floor with stools, lifted their fingers, and signed for a refill.

Coming right up. Sam shook her head.

I like you better on the weekends. Jack sat at the bar in his blue parka and sipped in the foam.

You'll have to get used to this, said Sam. I will work more from now on.

You are more fun on weekends, he said, and you ask me about my day.

How was your day? Sam packed away the limes, lemons, mint, and syrups, items she took out at the beginning of each shift, along with the liquor, but the fancy guests never showed. The umbrella cocktail drinking people passed by the Scottish pub windows dressed in checkered curtains, probably rushing to the trendier places with loud music.

…and that's how I got the money. He hit the polished counter.

Sam shook her index finger. Mr. Jack, you better stay away from trouble.

No trouble here, ma’am. He raised yellowed nicotine fingers above his head.

I'll watch you.

Know what? Jack glued his hands to his drink, slurred the words, You need a boyfriend.

Oh, no. Don't start this again. Honestly.

A boy will bring back the smile.

Or he will bring me lots of trouble.

I thought a girl like you has only nice boys around.

A girl like me? It doesn't matter if they are nice or not, Jack. I don't have time for nonsense.

Ah, you are that kind.

What kind?

Today is Thursday, right? Jack swallowed the rest of his drink fast and loud, made his Adam's apple jump with excitement. A weekday cleared everything up for me. You are fiery. You need a rich man. Only they can afford expensive excesses. I knew a wealthy man once. His wife was both beautiful and had a horrible temper. Many only dream about such luxury.

I had a boyfriend, but it didn't work out.

Why?

Jack, it is time to go home.

I'm not leaving until you tell me. He signed for another beer as a form of threat.

Relationships are tricky. First, you see an amazing trailer, but what you really get into is a full-blown foreign art movie.

Not the answer I'm waiting for.

Oh, Jack, so hooked up on others’ drama.

You are a stubborn old man. I realized he was a bit too small for me, not the right size. Sam put a tip from her apron-pocket in a tip jar. In his eyes, my clothes were wrong, my thoughts and actions were out of place. She lifted her pink nails. He criticized the color of my manicure.

Disrespecting my taste, that’s what it was.

Huh, said Jack.

Right? I decided not to spend any more time on him. He prevented me from breathing, confined movement. What kind of relationship is it? An awkward movement, and it creeps at the seams. When I have to give up habits in favor of his jealousy and sacrifice my ambitions, well, it means a man is not my size.

Just let it go, don’t say shit. It’s not worth it.

There are, of course, women who like this. A peculiar corset allows them to look weak and feminine. My position, a partner, should be like a nice warm sweater, close to skin, but he can’t be tight.

Or cheat. That son of a…

Sam tightened her grip on tip jar.

Jack chewed on his lower lip. I might be stubborn, but I'm not tight. He winked and pushed his empty glass forward with two dollars in it.

Another one?

Jack studied the empty benches. A guy in the corner snoozed over a full glass, dipped his nose inside and shook it off, fought to open closing eyes.

Hey, Grey, Sam is closing. He went over, shoved his buddy in the shoulder. Up, you old rat.

Sam wiped sticky moons off the bar counter. If they were to fight, she could put them out and close earlier.

You know, Jack paused in the door, holding Grey up, there is always space for a new person or an idea in life. It can even be fun.

As soon as the beer brothers stumbled out, Sam cleaned the tables and put chairs in place. She calculated the number of shifts needed to cover the tuition fee and rent. The numbers devastated, and she would need all her kidneys to pass the medical examination when she applied to the police academy. Sam needed a new plan. As she moved towards Grey's spot, she hoped he didn't stain it with urine like the last time he fell asleep.

The door behind her screeched open.

Hi! Sam cruised back to her original spot.

The crack widened, and a small man appeared in the gap.

Come in, come in. Don't let the cold in.

The door closed behind him. He scanned the place. Are you alone?

The Scott's Pub is open until one o'clock, she made sure to put emphasis on the one o'clock, or the last customer. What would you like?

Dark brew.

In a worn jacket, he didn't look like a tipper. Holes in his gloves didn't scream paying customer, either. Sam pulled a clean glass from a washing rack and held it under the tap, gave him time to show her a wallet as he came close. Instead, the man grabbed the tip jar and dashed out. A sudden coldness hit her core. Sam gasped, then chased him with a glass still in her hand.

Through the window, she could see him jump on a bicycle that could have been called a wreck on its best days. The bike was missing the back tire, and the guy rode on the rim, kicking-up sparks over bare asphalt. He progressed at a slow pace, and Sam could've reached him, but she hesitated to leave the bar. In desperation, she threw the glass.

Hit!

The glass bounced off the cyclist's back and popped when it hit the ground. The hit didn't do much, but the loud smashing of the glass made him fly off the bike into the road.

Sam checked both ways. No one on the street. She sprinted over to the spilled jar. The thief grabbed bills and waved a can opener at her. Sam picked up the jar and raised it above her head, assuming a threatening posture.

Sorry, man. I am hungry. He climbed up to the sidewalk on his knees. Sam stood with her hand in the air like the Statue of Liberty and sized the guy up.

The petty thief backed away, waving his weapon.

"Better get a job like everybody else. Coming here, taking my cash. I worked for it! Sam motioned. Stop shaking this thing in my direction. Take whatever you got there and go."

The man walked backward.

If I see you again, I'm calling the cops.

When the thief ran, Sam grabbed cash from the ground and stuffed it back into her apron. No one around. Only some windows cast warm light into the March night. The cold crept in, pushed out adrenaline. The air froze inside her chest, and her body started sending strange signals to the brain—it seemed as if the wind got hot and burned her skin. There was no way those sensations were a good sign, she hurried back to the bar. Under buzzing streetlamps, she let the door fall into place and locked it.

Inside, her bare hands started to itch, she put the jar on a scratched-up table and did a couple of jumping jacks. She counted the rescued tip, checked her bank balance on the phone and, despite the wreck that night turned into, she decided to stick with the hand dealt to her. Her prospects narrowed, but the embarrassment from possible failure stressed her more.

In the toilet with a low hum from the light above the mirror, Sam washed her face with cold water. Lucky. No one knew which rusted tap would be working at any given moment. In the mirror, red eyes. More water. She wiped off running mascara with the last paper towel and made a mental note to fill up the dispenser when a hurried knock on the glass front door reached her.

Blue lights zoomed in and out of the bar as one of the officers continued his knocking. The man talked to his partner, gestured with a free hand, and nodded. He only stopped banging when Sam made it to the door.

Ma'am, did you make the call about a street fight?

Shaking her head didn't help. The officers wanted in. She unlocked the door, and two huge men in dark blue, with weapons of justice in their belts, pressed inside and leaked in around her. One walked around the location as the other flipped up a notebook and showed her a seat.

I’m Officer Johnson, and this is Doyle.

Coaxed into telling her story, Sam gave them a report.

Thank you for your time. Johnson ran out of questions and slightly tapped Sam's shoulder with a gigantic hand.

Sam twitched. The unexpected gesture from a stranger, more than she had gotten from anybody lately, filled her up with hope. Warmth spread throughout her body. Sam dreamed of being able