F ck my luck, p.1
F*ck My Luck, page 1
F*ck My Luck
Olivia Dove
Copyright © 2024 Olivia Dove
All rights reserved
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Illustrations: Seajart
Contents
Title Page
Copyright
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
also by olivia dove
CHAPTER ONE
Bethany
“Come on Bethany, spill. How was your date last night?” asks my eternally effervescent colleague Amy, as she slurps her acai berry smoothie through a bright orange straw.
“It was good, thanks. He was nice, and we had a great time, but I don’t think there was any spark between us.”
“Awww, so you’ll be staying on the market longer,” she says, her bottom lip curling down with such genuine pity that I regret ever telling her about the date.
Amy is peppy perfection, has been in a happy relationship for two years, and if she ever found herself single again, would have a line of men wrapping around the building desperate to date her. I could hate her for it, but she’s just too damn nice.
“Looks like it,” I say, forcing a smile.
“At least you had fun last night,” she says, squeezing my shoulder and then winking. “He must have kept you up late. You look exhausted.”
“Thanks,” I say to her perky behind as she spins around and bounces out of the design studio toward her desk, too ashamed to admit that I was actually tucked up in bed by 9 pm.
Suddenly the oxygen feels like it’s been sucked out of the air, a few tense seconds pass, then a husky voice calls out from behind the computer screen opposite.
“So, Kiddo. What really happened?”
“Exactly what I said,” I reply, a little too fast and high-pitched to sound convincing.
A bird-like face with enormous green-rimmed glasses and earrings so large they could knock tower blocks down appears from behind the Mac Screen.
“You can keep trying to sell me this story, but I’m never going to buy it,” she says, and I can tell from her voice that she’s probably raising her eyebrows, but in all honesty, her glasses are so gigantic I’m not sure if she even has eyebrows behind there. If she does, nobody has ever seen them.
“Why not?” I ask, desperately clinging to this narrative even though I know it’s futile. Nancy is like a pit bull, and now she’s locked on, there’s no way she’ll let go.
“My first clue was you said he was nice. And as I keep trying to tell you, all men are pigs,” she says, pursing her fuchsia lips together.
Nancy’s opinion of men is so low there are worms tunneling through it, which is exactly why I didn’t tell her about my date in the first place and chose to confide in every-guy-on-the-planet-wants-to-date-me Amy.
“They’re not all pigs,” I protest, but Nancy makes a rattling sound in her throat like she’s about to cough something up and rolls her eyes.
“Okay then, let’s hear it. Tell me about this guy from last night. What was so great about him?” she says, fixing me with a stare so intense that it vaporizes the last few drops of commitment I had to my lie.
“He didn’t turn up,” I say quietly, averting my eyes from her gaze as I flush hot with embarrassment.
“I sat at the restaurant for an hour, then I gave up and went home. But the server gave me a complimentary slice of cake, so it wasn’t a total loss,” I say, trying to force an entirely humorless laugh to stop myself from crying.
“Like I said, they’re all pigs,” snarls Nancy, tutting and shaking her head as she grabs her bag from the back of her chair and starts rustling through it.
“You’re better off without him, Kiddo,” she says, lighting a cigarette and taking a long drag.
“Nancy! You can’t smoke in here,” I gasp, rushing to close the studio door before the fumes make their way out into the main office.
“What are they going to do, fire me? I retire in a week anyway,” she says, with an irreverent wave of her hand. “And this is a stressful situation. I need my smokes to get me through.”
“How is it stressful for you? I’m the one who got stood up.”
“I know, but you look like you’re going to cry or something and then I’ll have to hug you. You know I don’t do hugs, so this is all very stressful,” she says, and I snort out a laugh.
Nancy hasn’t exactly got the most gentle of approaches, but she’s always truthful and I appreciate her acerbic take on things. It feels much better than pity.
“You know what you need? A bourbon. Come on, let’s go to a bar,” she says, pushing out her chair and snatching up her purse.
“It’s only 9.30 am, and unlike you, I do care about getting fired.”
“Oh fine, be a goody-good. Care about your “job”, she huffs, her bony fingers making inverted commas in the air as she drops her tiny body back down onto her chair. “But the minute it gets to 5 pm, you and I are going out. You’ve got a face like a sad bunny, and you know I’m a sucker for animals.”
True to her word, at 5 pm on the dot, Nancy appears behind me, switches off my computer, and drags me to the closest bar where she orders us both a whisky on ice.
“So, tell me why you hate your life so much that you want to make it worse with a man,” she says, knocking back her drink in one gulp and then gesturing to the barman to bring two more over.
“I don’t hate my life,” I chuckle, wincing as I take a slow sip and feel my insides start to burn. I’m not a whisky drinker, but I know better than to say no to Nancy. “I just think it would be even better if I had somebody to share experiences with.”
“Mmmm,” she says, pursing her lips together like I’ve suggested eating raw liver. “I can’t relate.”
“But you hate everyone,” I say with a grimace as I force down another gulp of whisky.
“That is slander. I don’t hate everyone. I like you and I like Mr. Binx.”
“I feel honored to be on the same level as your cat,” I say honestly, knowing how much he means to her, and as compliments from Nancy go, that is a pretty big deal.
“Nobody is on the same level as Mr. Binx. Don’t flatter yourself, sweetheart,” she says with a wry smile, as the bartender sets down our next two drinks. “But you’re a close second.”
The next drink slides down more easily, and I’m not sure if it’s due to Nancy’s confession or the alcohol, but I’m starting to feel kind of warm and fuzzy.
The third drink goes down like water as does the fourth, and then I lose track until the barman says happy hour is over, and Nancy commands that we leave.
“It’s criminal how much they charge for drinks around here. I could have a whole bottle at home and all without the bother of other people around,” she tuts, walking out of the bar with her back as straight as a rod while I stumble along clumsily beside her.
I’m not sure where this tiny woman puts it all, but she seems entirely unaffected while I can barely see straight.
“Thank you so much, Nancy. I needed this,” I say, reaching out to hug her as drunken love consumes me, but she darts away like a ninja.
I don’t give up though and manage to catch hold of her, clinging to her like a baby koala while she pats my back awkwardly.
“I’ll allow you this hug, but try not to make a habit of it,” she says, as she peels herself out of my arms. “Now go home and cheer yourself up with your vibrator.”
“I don’t have a vibrator,” I say, and she throws her hands up into the air with exasperation.
“What am I going to do with you? No wonder you want a boyfriend,” she says with a shake of her head, then walks away tutting and muttering to herself, “Twenty-two years old and doesn’t even have a vibrator.”
I start the walk back to my apartment, hoping the fresh air might sober me up but the alcohol is still hitting me and if anything, I feel drunker than before.
My vision is blurred, I’m unsteady on my feet, and when I cross the street to get to my building, I catch my heel on the curb and topple sideways into a bush.
My hair tangles in the branches and my elbow clunks onto something hard. I assume it must be a rock, but when I move my arm to check for injuries, I notice something gold and shiny.
Rooting around in bushes for trash wouldn’t be something sober Bethany would do but drunk me is fully invested in whatever this mystery item is. I grab hold of it, teasing it out from the leaves to discover it’s a golden lamp.
I haul myself out of the bush in the most unladylike of fashion, earning myself a fair few scratches along the way, and then take a better look at my prize.
Maybe it’s just the alcohol talking, but this lamp is spectacular. It looks like an antique, encrusted with shimmering red gemstones and an intricate patte
rn etched into the gold. It’s going to look divine on my bookshelf once I’ve shined it up a bit.
I totter into my building, lurch up the stairs, then spend longer than I’d like to admit drunkenly trying to navigate my key into the lock.
When I finally get into my apartment, I head straight to the kitchen in search of food because my whisky-drenched stomach is famished. I dump the lamp on the counter, then pull open the refrigerator to be greeted by the most horrendous sight imaginable. Lean meats and fresh vegetables when all I want is a big fat dirty burger.
I make do with a slice of cheese for now, shoving the whole thing into my mouth as I pull out my cell phone to order take-out. I open up the delivery app when the lamp catches my eye again. It’s probably just my drunk brain, but I swear it’s shimmering and beckoning me toward it.
I slide my phone back into my pocket, and walk over, almost hypnotized by its beauty, and grab the closest dishcloth to give it a shine.
As I start to rub, the lamp begins to shake and glow as bright as a sunbeam. The light is blinding, and the shock makes me let go of the lamp, so it clangs onto the floor.
A plume of blue smoke rises out of the spout, and then suddenly a muscular blue genie appears before me. He’s got the chiseled face of a Greek God, a thick manly beard, and long dark hair fastened back with golden clasps and trailing down his powerful back.
Holy shit. I’m drunker than I thought.
CHAPTER TWO
Zeno
I’m usually indifferent to the humans that summon me from the lamp, but the first thing I notice about this one is that she’s beautiful. Spectacularly so.
Long brown hair tumbles down past her shoulders with the occasional decorative green leaf weaved into it. Her eyes are ocean blue and framed by dark lashes, and her lips are plump with a perfect bow shape at the top. She looks like an angel.
“What the hell? Did I press a button or something?” she mutters to herself, ignoring me entirely as she picks the lamp up from the floor and turns it over in her hands.
“I am the genie of the lamp,” I announce in a booming voice to introduce myself.
“And I will grant you three wishes,” I say, extending my arm with a flourish that has delighted all of my previous owners.
This new one simply snorts out a laugh and says, “Toys these days are so cool.”
“I am not a toy. I am a genie, here to grant wishes,” I repeat, folding my arms across my chest and cocking an eyebrow at this puzzling beauty.
“How are you talking to me? Is this AI or something?” she says, screwing up her face and looking at me with confusion.
“I am not familiar with this AI of which you speak. I am talking to you because I am a genie and I -”
“Yeah yeah, grant wishes. I heard you the first time. But that can’t be real. Ugh. I’m never drinking with Nancy again,” she groans, pressing her palm against her forehead.
“Let me prove to you that I am real, and you are my new owner. Make a wish,” I say, but she simply grimaces like she might be sick.
“Don’t call me your owner, it’s weird. My name’s Bethany. What’s yours?” she says, and the sound of her name sends a crackle of excitement through me that makes my blue skin shimmer.
“Okay, Bethany,” I say, rolling her delightful name around on my tongue. “My name is Genie.”
“You are not called Genie,” she scoffs, rolling her eyes. “That would be like my name being Woman. What’s your real name?”
I’m momentarily stunned as I try to think back. I’ve existed for seventy-two thousand years, and this is the first time in my existence that somebody has asked for my real name.
“Zeno,” I say slowly, the word feeling unfamiliar on my lips, like the faded memory of a dream.
“Cool name,” she shrugs, peeling a slice of bright yellow cheese from a plastic package and shoving it into her pretty mouth.
“Okay, Zeno. So tell me about these wishes,” she says in a muffled voice between chews. “Can I really wish for anything?”
“Almost anything. There are rules. You may not wish death upon anyone, and you may not wish for more wishes.”
“Such a cliche, now I know you’re a toy,” she snorts with another roll of her enchanting blue eyes.
“Fine. Let’s play your game and see if you’re telling the truth because this cheese just isn’t hitting the spot,” she says, dumping the packaging back on the counter. “I wish for a burger. A big juicy one with cheese, pickles, and mustard.”
“Bethany, you can wish for anything in the world. Change this meager wish for something bigger before it is too late,” I say, flexing my muscles as I try to contain the magic building inside of me.
“In that case, I don’t just wish for one burger. I wish for a shit-ton of burgers,” she giggles. “As many burgers as I want for the rest of my life.”
“Bethany, no,” I groan, trying to force the magic down, but it’s too late. It ruptures out of me, a blue bolt of magical lightning shooting out of my fingers, and then her cabinet door bursts open, and a continual stream of burgers shoots out of it.
They land on the floor in a series of soft thumps, and as I watch the pile grow, the only relief I can take is that they are each wrapped in wax paper.
Bethany gasps, and her hands fly up to cover her open mouth as she stands frozen on the spot.
I burn with shame for letting her waste her first wish, certain that this magnificent beauty will now hate me.
“Oh. My. God,” she says slowly, enunciating every word.
“I am forever sorry, I could not -”
“This is so fucking cool!” she says, shooting forward and dropping to her knees. She grabs a handful of burgers and throws them into the air like confetti as they continue to rain out of the cabinet. One hits her in the face, and she laughs, while I use my powers to shut the door to prevent any more from assaulting her.
She snatches up a burger and tears open the wrapper, then takes a huge bite and moans, “mmmm, this is so damn good,” as sauce dribbles down her chin.
“Seriously, you’ve got to try one,” she says, holding one out for me to take.
Nobody has ever offered me anything before, and it stirs an unexpected feeling of warmth inside of me.
“Thank you, Bethany, but I do not eat.”
“Really? That’s gotta suck,” she says before cocking her head to the side and musing. “Although I guess you never have to worry about what to make for dinner.”
A laugh rumbles out of me, another unfamiliar feeling that I can’t remember happening before.
“Is deciding what to select for dinner troublesome for humans?” I ask, one of my thick black eyebrows raising as I find I’m genuinely interested in knowing the answer.
I’m not concerned about the behaviors of humans in general. Throughout the millenniums of my existence, I have witnessed them change and I do not care to keep up with their trends. But this human is different. She’s special, and I want to know everything about her.
“It’s the worst,” she says, wiping the corner of her mouth and licking her fingers clean.
“I was supposed to have chicken salad tonight, but who the hell wants salad when you’re drunk?” She giggles, before pointing a finger at me and saying in the most serious tone I’ve heard from her mouth so far. “Never go drinking with Nancy. She might be small, but she’s lethal.”
“I will take heed of this advice,” I say with a smile, before adding. “But just as I do not eat, I do not imbibe either,” I say, gesturing to my muscular, but semi-transparent body.
“Of course, you don’t,” she says, thumping her palm against her forehead and then laughing raucously again. “This really is the weirdest dream.”
“This isn’t a dream, Bethany,” I say, floating closer, wishing I could reach out and touch her so she would believe that I’m real.
“Of course it is. Genies aren’t real. My kitchen isn’t filled with burgers. I’m probably passed out on the couch or something.”
“That is not what is happening Bethany,” I sigh, a pain twisting in my chest when she continues to deny my existence. The happiness I felt from the use of my name and the offer of a burger means nothing if she doesn’t believe I am real.
