ON THE RELEASE OF SHORT STORY
(also part of BOLLOCKS: A Wayward Ink Publishing Anthology)
Ted has just won 15 million quid.
Or at least, he would have won 15 million quid if he could find his bloody lotto ticket…
“BOLLOCKS!” Those were his numbers. His numbers! He should be jumping up and down, dancing on the bar, yelling like a git right now, but… but—
Where was his bloody ticket?
Ted shoved his hands in his jacket pockets a second time, turning them inside out. His barstool wobbled as he chased a fluttering piece of paper to the ground. Dammit, just an old receipt, for… a squash racquet. He came up with a curse, elbow knocking the underside of Jenson’s stool. “Ouch.”
“One beer,” Jenson said, one brow arching wickedly, “and you’ve gone bonkers.”
Ted rubbed his throbbing arm and glanced toward the telly in the top corner of the room. The rugby was back on, but not two minutes ago the curly-haired bartender had changed the channel in the adverts for the weekly lotto draw.
He couldn’t fucking believe it. Those were his numbers: 14, 16, 20, 23, 29, and his two stars: 1 and 10. Had been all year.
But, his numbers or not, without his ticket it meant nothing. He wanted to clap Jenson on the shoulder and tell him this was why he’d momentarily gone drunk-monkey-with-a-gun, ravaging through his messenger bag and digging around in his pockets, but… well, if he said anything aloud, he’d have half the bar scrambling to find the ticket first.
Not that it seemed to be here. Damn it.
Jenson grabbed his pint and drained the lot before twisting toward him, knees banging lightly against Ted’s thighs.
Jenson’s navy shirt stretched tightly over his firm chest as he folded his arms. Curiosity sparked in his hazel eyes. “Funny though, how you’ve been getting weird every time I try to talk to you about—”
Ted grabbed his bag and slung it over his shoulder, flipping up the flap to rummage through once more.
Jenson yanked the flap down, catching Ted’s hand in the bag. “That’s it, ain’t it?” Jenson said quietly.
Ted glanced over the bar at the rows of bottles and wished he’d ordered something stronger than a beer. The fact was, he really didn’t want to hear what Jenson had been trying to tell him all day. Because he knew it already…
- A born and raised New Zealander, Anyta Sunday has been exploring the literary world since she start reading Roald Dahl as a kid.Inspired, stories have been piling up in her head ever since. Fast forward to her mid-twenties and jump a few countries (Germany, America, and back again), and she started putting pen to paper.When she’s not writing or chasing her kid around, she’s reading, hiking, watching Joss Whedon series, attempting pilates, or curling up with her two cats.
Updates on her projects can be found on her website.