No Dice: Baked and Beautifully Broken, #1

By Rylee Shelton

A gambling debt, a mysterious shadow organization, and a kung-fu geese-fighting grandma.

 

Janie's in a predicament and her marriage is a hot mess. But who is the handsome stranger offering her a shoulder to lean on? Can her husband patch things up before she takes the handsome stranger up on his offer? And who is this Devon lady smoking pot at the park like there's no tomorrow, insisting that she can keep Janie safe?

 

As if her life isn't already upside down, she also must decide which is more of a danger to her life: the organization that Devon claims is after her family, or the flock of geese that resent Janie bringing her drama to the park in the first damn place. But don't worry... the grandma warrior, Glenda, will handle that part...

 

No Dice is the first installment of the wacky comedy series, Baked and Beautifully Broken. In this laugh-out-loud story, Rylee Shelton throws us curveball after curveball until we finally figure out the whole picture. Pick it up today and join the adventure!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Rylee Shelton
• Release date: Oct 27, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223522768

Rylee Shelton

Rylee Shelton lives out his days in Oklahoma - the heart of the nation - sipping water and thinking about burritos a lot. He loves to make up humans and have them do things in order to make real humans feel things.  He lives with his son. They have two dogs: one sweet and big, with a brain the size of a peanut, and the other tiny and scruffy who thinks he's everyone's boss. Rylee Shelton likes to relax with his son and talk about how terrible algebra classes are.

Book preview

The wedding ring on my finger is beyond burdensome at this point. It weighs me down and makes me feel gross. And, if I don't soak up some nature and forget the human world of traffic, insurance premiums, and lawn care soon, I'm going to burn down every tag agency and H&R Block on the planet.

Look, I'm sorry to be so dramatic, but my marriage is a prison sentence. Being in your mid-thirties and married to a gambling addict isn't the best place to be. But once upon a time, he talked a smooth game. Also, he was all about art and wrote poetry. When I met him, he idolized Charles Bukowski, and I think wanted to live like him, but not in the slums of L.A. Well, that’s some stupid crap a lot of younger women fall for. Count me as one of those younger women. Basic back-in-the-day bullshit.

Today is the day, however, for me to have one goddamn afternoon escaping my life choices. Just for a little bit. For the love of baby Buddha, just for a little bit.

Spreading a blanket out on the grass shakes away my burdens for a moment, clearing my head. There's this wonderful elm that creates enough shade over me that I won't get too hot, but still allows some sunlight to creep in.

Mitch, you ass basket, I say under my breath.

We lost our car. It got repossessed. A black Accord. Nothing fancy. We're not rich. The only thing we're overflowing with is past due bills.

Because. You know. Mitch burns through all our money.

The day we met proves that sometimes the way your partner changes can be a complete mystery. It was my birthday, six years ago. My old Ford Focus had been on its last leg, so shopping for something newer sounded good. He was car shopping himself. The salesman had spun into such a frenzy, you could practically see the cocaine oozing out of his sweat glands. He'd asked me if I wanted to test drive a new convertible.

No, a slightly older Accord is fine.

But, can you really see yourself driving that? Wouldn't you rather have something with a removable top so the wind can make your pretty dark hair flow behind you?

Are you serious right now?

Totally serious. Everyone loves a removable top.

At this, his eyes directed themselves onto my cleavage. If he hadn't broken his gaze away, I'm sure drool would have spilled out from his lips.

I was on the verge of telling him to fuck off, when out of nowhere this gorgeous man with dark stubble and a dimple in his chin spoke up ten feet behind me. Both the car salesman and I jumped.

If this is your way of making a sale, you may be in the wrong business, my man.

The salesman adjusted the knot of his tie. Uh, yeah. You're—you're right. He faced me again. My apologies, ma'am.

Befuddled, and wondering how it came to be that men run the world, I frowned and said, It's fine. Just... just show me the Accords from a few years back.

After test driving two, I settled on the black one with brand new tires. After turning down add-on after add-on, I walked out with my key fob.

He was standing near my new car (new to me anyway) with folded arms under what appeared to be a beautiful and sculpted chest.

Did he wait around for almost two hours to shoot his shot? That's the only reason he would have waited, right? What a weirdo. The answer was no, for sure.

Before walking to the driver's side of my latest source of debt, he noticed me and came alive, eyebrows shooting up as if to say, 'There she is.'

Hey!

Uh, hi? was all I could muster.

He jutted out his hand, and I did the same so we could shake. That's when confusion spread over his face.

I glanced down at his hand. Shaking my hand hadn't been his goal at all.

My house keys dangled from his fingers.

You dropped these in the lot earlier. I was far enough away I couldn't catch up in time, so I waited for you to come out of the office.

Oh.

His face looked as if he was the one weirded out. So, I did what anyone would have done: explained my awkwardness, thus making it much more fucking awkward.

You see, I thought you were trying to ask me out on a date. Not that there would be anything wrong with doing so, but it would have been weird. I mean, I don't assume a guy who waits around wants to ask me out, I just... I think I misunderstood and I thank you for the kindness. You're welcome.

A pause.

I'm welcome?

My palm went to my face. I—I don't know why I said you're welcome after thanking you. I should go.

As I opened the car door, I was mortified and wanted nothing more than my comfy couch and an episode of Better Call Saul. Perhaps a nice little nip of cabernet.

Before I could close the door and inhale the aroma of a recent detailing, he held out his hand again as if asking me to stop.

Keeping the door open a crack, I studied at him with trepidation.

Wait! Sorry. Uh, I'm not very good at this. But, like, maybe I do want to ask you out. Did you ever think of that?

You want to ask me out, I repeated.

I mean, yeah, maybe, I don't know.

Yeah, maybe, you don't know?

Only if you're not already spoken for.

Spoken for? Ha! Laughter erupted from me. All the timidness left as I cackled at the thought of me being 'spoken for.'

If I'm not spoken for, might you court me? Might we go steady?

He frowned. What?

You wanna be my beau?

"Your beau? What are you, ninety?"

Dude, you're the one talking weird.

You talk weirder than me, weirdo.

With that, I was sold. At least for one date.

Well, that one date turned into wedding vows. Now, here I am at Hafer Park, trying like hell to figure out what to do. His charm may have worked at the car lot and continued to do so the more we went out on dates, but now I need to divorce him. The need to end this marriage nags me more than my own mother ever did.

Somebody behind me clears their throat, interrupting my thoughts.

"Ah!" I jump out of my skin so hard, I nearly knock over my lunch bag and bottle of iced tea.

What’s worse than me jumping out of my skin, however, is my privacy being invaded. Heaven help me.

I am so, so sorry to startle you! he says.

It’s… it’s fine, I manage through a few jagged breaths. But, it’s not fine.

What I haven't told you is I'm the easiest person to scare in the world. For real, I once screamed when a parakeet landed on my shoulder at the tropical bird sanctuary. This tiny thing had said in its croaky parakeet voice, Pretty, pretty. This caused me to jump, which caused it to fly away, shrieking and calling me names in its tiny head (it did; don't dispute me).

Also, there was that old lady who began singing opera in the hallways of the old folks home when I went to visit my grandpa. It was this quiet, stale hallway. Nothing happening other than the occasional beeps from machines and urine smells. The woman was walking behind me. She broke out into a high-pitched cadence, her vocal cords vibrating with the power of a siren. Any cats lingering outside would have scattered.

Anyway, the man says, snapping me out of my memories of all the times my heart nearly stopped. Sorry to bother you, but would it be okay if I do what you're doing?

Craning my neck to take a gander, I can’t believe my eyes. The voice is coming from the most gorgeous man. His shoulders are broad and he's chiseled in all the right ways. Wearing a forest green shirt and brown corduroy pants, he's a mother flippin' snack and a half.

Heaven help me, I say, this time out loud, facing forward again.

If this man is about to invade my space, it’ll ruin me. Ignoring him will be impossible. I just want to picnic alone, damn it!

If it bothers you, I'll find another spot.

My habit of nervously grinding my teeth kicks in. Without thinking, I answer in such a way that I'll regret.

Yeah, you're fine.

Stealing a glance at him again, I see his smile light up in gratitude before he goes about minding his own business.

Why the hell do I think everything is about me?

Trying to pretend he isn't there is going to be impossible. My eyes keep shifting his direction.

It's amazing to see what he unpacks for his lunch! He has a sandwich oozing with thick layers of fresh avocado, tomatoes, and sprouts. Grapes, a handful of chocolate-covered almonds, and a homemade lemonade that would make anyone’s eyes widen in admiration. But my favorite part is the platter of small, crispy empanadas.

Then I think: Who packs that much food for a picnic in the park?

No matter how hard I try to focus on my own meal, the man's presence is going to overpower