Leo Melikian, a smart but naïve 25-year old stuck in a lowly white-collar job in the South of France, finds himself living each day twice. In the last chapter, Leo uses his power to win 2 million euros in the lottery – and he now proceeds to have a ton of fun with his newly padded bank account.
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Chapter 4: Rule 3: Go Wild on Day As
“Sorry,” said the vendor, looking me up and down for the second time since I had approached him, “We don’t offer test drives.”
“I don’t want a test drive,” I ignored the fact that he hadn’t called me sir, “I want to buy this one.”
It was 10 a.m. on Thursday, April 26th, Day A, and I had decided that today I would buy a Ferrari. The huge purchase would disappear when I woke up the next morning, but in the meantime I planned to have a lot of fun.
I had called in sick on Tuesday, driven to Marseille, and opened an account with Crédit Suisse’s private bank. As soon as I had flashed the Lotto check, they had rolled out the red carpet, and a few hours later I had left with a new bankcard, a new account with 1 million euros cash on it, and another million that was in the process of being invested. I had stopped by Orange Telecom’s closest shop, and paid for the latest iPhone by card, no contract, and driven home.
The following day was Wednesday, Day A, so I had bought as many apps as I could, tried them out, and made a mental list of the ones I should buy again when they disappeared from my phone on Day B. Just for the kick of it, I had spent around 16,000 euros on Clash of Clans to max out my village in a little under an hour. It had made the game absolutely pointless, but it did keep me busy for a while. I had also went online to look for a new laptop to buy on a Day B, as the one that BNP had provided me with was an HP that would overheat so much I had become genuinely worried that it might explode.
I had ended up choosing an Alienware, the elite of gaming computers, and looked at what it would cost me if I selected the most expensive options for each category: the latest 8GB graphics card, a bigger battery, 64 GB of RAM, a 4 TB hard drive… I added on all of the accessories for good measure: a Bluetooth controller, headphones, and a backpack. I couldn’t bring myself to buy Microsoft Office Suite though; I had been using pirated versions for my entire life, and saw no reason to change now. The total came out to a little over 4,000 euros. I had blinked a couple of times when I saw that the price was pretty much equivalent to two months of my salary. What the hell, I’ll buy it anyways.
When I had woken up on Wednesday Day B I had decided that I should go to work. If Rule 2 was to live hidden, I had to keep up appearances. Weirdly enough, I had also been looking forward to it. It had felt like I was returning after a long vacation. Which was actually pretty accurate. Although I had technically missed only two days of work, the combination of the weekend and the Day A/B dynamic meant I had just had 9 days off.
That early enthusiasm had lasted me all of half an hour. I had immediately become absolutely and utterly bored. It had just been hard to focus on spreadsheets analyzing consumer data when I all I could think about were the things I would do with the 1 million euros sitting on my bank account. As usual, I had lunch with Thierry and we talked about his daughter, Alina. The day before, she had proudly proclaimed to her parents that she had three boyfriends but cared for none of them. She was four years old. I had told him she would break an untold number of hearts by the time she was 18, and he had protectively answered that he would probably break just as many heads.
After three more hours of Excel work, I had had enough. I knew that with the Day A/Day B dynamic, my job was sure to become more interesting with time. The Alicante meeting had shown me that with the right advantage, I was going to skyrocket through the ranks. But that would take time, and that time was mind-numbingly dull.
That only needed to be on Day Bs though. Unless there was something important like the Alicante meeting, I didn’t even have to come in to work on Day As. Better yet, I decided, I was going to make Day As the complete opposite of Day Bs. Since nothing I did on Day As counted, I could go absolutely crazy and do everything I had always dreamed of. And in the meantime, I would just have to diligently focus on my career during Day Bs. I would be getting the best of both worlds. Work harder, play harder. I got back to work, although I did allocate the last hour to online shopping and a little research for the following day.
This reasoning was what brought me to the difficult discussion I was currently having at the Ferrari showroom off the highway of Le Cannet. The vendor had seen me park my beat-up car up front, and had been looking at me suspiciously ever since I had walked in and begun to look at the cars on show. I was certain that if I even tried to touch one, he would jump in to stop me.
“Buy one?” he sneered, “Do you even know how much a Ferrari costs?”
I was relishing his attitude. I had chosen my outfit to create this exact situation. With my jeans, black t-shirt with a Pokeball logo, and scuffed black leather shoes that I had gotten three years ago at a discount store for my first internship, I didn’t look like I had a penny to my name. I wanted this vendor to judge me, to look down upon me, and then to have to swallow his pride when I drove out with the Ferrari. This was my small revenge on a lifetime of being looked down upon.
That being said, he was right: I had no idea how much a Ferrari actually cost.
“What’s the price of this one?” I pointed at the one I had selected. I didn’t understand much about luxury cars, or cars in general for that matter, but this one was low to the ground, had a retractable roof, and just looked absolutely beautiful. The curves were almost sexual, the hood wide and muscular. It was as graceful as it was powerful. It looked just like the ones I had seen in front of the Casino while visiting Monaco, or cruising down the main avenue in Cannes with that deep, low rumble. I wanted it.
“This one is the Ferrari 488 GTB sir,” said the vendor, emphasizing the sir to show complete condescension, “And it costs over 300,000 euros.”
“OK,” I deliberately marked a pause and pretended to hesitate, “I’ll take it.”
The vendor, who had already started to walk away, stopped dead in his tracks. I looked at his nametag.
“Guillaume, please tell me: if I pay cash, can I drive away with it today?”
Guillaume looked completely bewildered, and I was struggling not to laugh. I managed to keep my expression serious long enough for him to eventually decide that I was. He still looked unconvinced, but gestured towards the small office section at the back of the massive white open-space in which the Ferraris were showcased.
“If you’ll come with me sir.”
I followed him inside to an office filled with framed pictures of Ferrari’s history: the original Scuderia Ferrari factory in black and white, Schumacher and Raikonnen holding up F1 trophies, and various Ferrari models I didn’t recognize. I held back a chuckle at how similar the decoration was to the Formula 1-themed pizzeria we usually went to with Cedric and Hanaa.
Behind a wide stainless steel desk sat a middle-aged man wearing a white hemp shirt with the first three buttons opened, revealing a hairy chest and a thick golden chain necklace. He was so tan his skin looked like worn leather, and his hair was black with hints of grey on the sides. Guillaume’s manager, I thought.
When I entered, he was nodding as Guillaume whispered into his ear, clearly describing our earlier exchange. I took a seat on the other side of the desk.
“How will you be paying sir?” asked the manager, “Just so you know, we don’t accept checks.”
The fact that the manager didn’t believe me either just made me enjoy the moment even more.
“Cash. I mean, card. Guillaume told me it would be slightly over 300,000 euros?” I asked.
“Umm… yes,” the manager hesitated, still uncertain whether this was genuine, “Let me draw up the paperwork. Could I have your ID?”
I handed him my ID card and waited. The total ended up being 345,218 euros, including insurance for a year. I didn’t need the insurance, but I merely nodded my assent without skipping a beat. After a few dozen signatures, Guillaume brought in a POS machine.
“Well, as soon as the payment clears she’s yours,” said the manager, taking the bankcard I handed him and inserting it into the machine.
“And I can drive away with her immediately?” I asked, unconsciously mimicking his use of the female pronoun.
“Yes, absolutely,” He handed me the POS machine.
I typed in my 4-digit code and waited. It beeped.
Guillaume rolled his eyes and the manager stared me down.
“Sorry,” I said, blushing, “It’s a new card, I must have entered the PIN wrong.”
I carefully typed in the PIN a second time. It beeped. Transaction denied, it read.
“Sir,” growled the manager, “I do not take kindly to people wasting my time.”
“Wait, wait,” I held up a hand, “This has to be a mistake. Let me call my banker.”
This wasn’t at all going according to plan. I pulled out my phone and searched for my most recent contact: Mr. Lefievre CS Banque Privée. As the line rang I started to panic. Did I imagine all of this? Did the lottery check not clear? Maybe my bank had invested more than the 1 million euros I asked for?
“Bonjour Mr. Melikian,” said Lefievre as he picked up, “How may I help you today?”
“Bonjour Mr. Lefievre,” I answered, “I’m having a bit of a problem. I’m trying to buy a car and my card keeps reading ‘Transaction denied’.”
Both the manager and Guillaume were scowling at me for wasting their time. I grimaced in way of apology. I could hear my banker type away on his computer through the phone.
“Ah I see your problem Mr. Melikian. We have a payment limit of 5,000 euros per day on your card. Would you like me to increase it?”
That explained it. I had forgotten that bank cards had daily caps on how much money one could withdraw or spend through POSes. To be fair, my meager salary meant that I hadn’t ever encountered this particular problem before.
“Yes please,” I answered.
“What would you like me to raise it to?” he asked.
“The total amount of my current balance, please,” I said, “Thank you.”
“All of it?”
“Alright, please hold” he said, and after an interminable minute of enduring the cold stares of both Ferrari salesmen, I heard him come back on the line, “It’s done Mr. Melikian. Anything else I can help you with today?”
“No, that will be all, thank you.”
I handed the POS back to the manager. “Can we try again?” I asked.
Still dubious, he typed in the amount and almost threw the machine down in front of me.
“I’m warning you sir,” he said as I typed in my code, “If the payment doesn’t clear I will have to ask you to leave or I’ll need to call security to escort you out of the building.”
The POS machine beeped. Payment accepted. As it started to whirl and click, printing out the receipt, I turned to the manager who was staring blankly at the machine, stunned. I gave him a wide cocky grin.
“Will security also help escort my car out?”
I tilted my head back and watched the plane roar mere meters above my head. The chain-link fence that surrounded the Cannes la Bocca aerodrome rattled and shook under the blast of wind that accompanied every takeoff. As usual, this particular spot was filled with a gaggle of plane-spotters, looking up from the pothole-ridden road and the grassy slopes that bordered it.
Today was a bit different though, because instead of looking towards the sky, half the crowd was trying to sneak in a selfie with my car. A few approached me to ask if they could and I gracefully obliged. I was loving the attention.
Finally, the gates at the end of the road opened, and out rode Cedric on his scooter. I waved, and he stopped with a squeal of his brakes mere centimeters from my feet.
“Yo!” he said, “How come you’re off work so early?”
“I have a surprise for you,” I answered with a smile. I saw that he was already looking at the crowd gathered around the car behind me.
“Wow,” he said, “Did you see that Ferrari?”
I had rehearsed the moment in my head during the entire half-hour drive here. I showed him the key in my hand and pressed the unlock button. The car beeped.
“That’s the surprise.”
The look of shock that came over his face was priceless.
“No… Way…” His jaw dropped open.
I had decided I would just tell Cedric that I had won the lottery. He would forget everything when Day B started anyways, and this explanation had the merit of not leading to too many questions. He smiled, laughed, congratulated me and ran towards the Ferrari.
He opened the passenger door and looked in awe at the inside. I had done exactly the same thing. The black and red leather seats were simply beautiful to behold, half luxury and half extreme sports. You could tell just from looking at them that the car was built for speed.
He gingerly entered, and we both buckled up.
“OK, you ready for this?” I said, my thumb on the big red ignition button. He nodded, bracing himself for an explosion of sound. Instead, just as I had the first time I turned it on, his head jerked backwards towards the rear of the car. Unlike your traditional car, the Ferrari’s motor was at the back, and hearing the sound come from behind was a surprise. We laughed and I pulled onto the road with a low rumble of the engine.
I had always thought that a Ferrari would be light and nimble, but instead it felt robust and heavy. The car was pure power. Every time I passed a gear with a tap of my fingers on the silver bands behind the wheel, I would feel a strong jerk of acceleration.
“Dude you’re taking the wrong road!” yelled Cedric.
“Nah man, I can’t go there, I have to take a detour.”
“There’s a speed bump…” I let it hang. I had already completely scraped the front of the car trying to clear it on my way in. I had absolutely underestimated how low the car was. It was a good thing that the Ferrari would disappear from my life at the end of the day, as I was fairly certain that fixing that would have carved a big chunk out of my bulgy bank account.
Cedric laughed and opened the window.
“Oh my god,” he said, “I can’t believe we’re riding around in a Ferrari!!”
“I can’t believe it myself!” I answered, “Come on, put some music on!”
He fiddled with his phone, connecting it to the Bluetooth. The Eagles started to blast from the speakers hidden all around the car, somehow perfectly in symphony with the roar of the dual engines behind us.
“So where are we going?” he asked, a huge smile splattered across his face.
“Plateau de Cossol,” I answered. His smile grew wider.
The South of France was a pretty unique place. The region was also known as the Alpes Maritimes, or Maritime Alps, because the Alps mountain range fed directly into the sea. Locals said that you could go skiing in the morning and then drive down for a swim at the beach in the afternoon, which although true, was rarely done because the sea was freezing cold in winter and there was very little snow in summer. With my Ferrari though, I was pretty sure I could do both in one morning.
The Plateau de Cossol was right in the middle of the Maritime Alps, with alternating tight curves hugging close to the mountainside and long stretches of open road. It was the perfect place to test out the beast. As soon as we arrived, I switched the flip on the wheel to “Race Mode”, and heard the engine immediately rev up. I had chosen this place carefully. It had the key advantage of being sufficiently isolated that police wouldn’t be an issue. Not that it really mattered, given that I was in Day A. Any criminal record I got would be wiped clean the following morning.
We careened down tight roads at full speed, trying our best to break the 250 km/h mark, screeching to a halt right before hairpin curves, laughing our heads off and screaming the lyrics of golden-era rock songs playing full blast.
“Can I try it?” asked Cedric.
“Maybe if you had your driver’s license…” He slapped me on the back of the head, which only made me laugh harder.
I let him take the wheel anyways, and quickly realized that as exhilarating as it was to drive the car, it was absolutely terrifying to be the passenger. Given the strength of the Ferrari, the flimsy walls made of piled stones separating us from a precipitous drop would be blown away if we crashed into it. I held on for dear life as Cedric yelled out in delight.
After a few hours of thrill driving, we stopped for a bite in Gourdon, a small mountain town lodged right at the lip of a huge cliff. As Cedric parked the car in the gravel parking lot in front of the town’s historical gate, all heads turned our way. I felt a strange rush of confidence getting out of the car, and nodded to the passerby’s looking at us. With wobbly legs, we walked down the steep stone roads lined with shops selling touristic trinkets, from lavender soaps to blown glass cups in every color, and arrived to the small square overlooking the cliff side.
We sat on the parapet, a sheer drop of a hundred meters below us. Looking down, we could make out a dirt path winding like a snake up through the shrubbery. It was called Paradise trail, a four-hour walk up the mountain to Gourdon. Farther out, the deep blue sea beckoned, and we could make out every one of our usual haunts along the coastline: Antibes, with its yellow sandstone walls, Marina Bay of Angels and its shale beaches on which we organized barbecues every summer, Cannes and its famous Palace which hosted the Film Festival. The entire coast was familiar to us, but seeing it from so high up was breathtaking.
“I can’t believe you own a Ferrari…” Cedric said, still breathless.
“Me neither,” I answered, “But you know what… Let’s just roll with it.”
We sat down at a table on the balcony of the Eagle’s Nest, a kitschy restaurant overlooking the cliff-side, and ordered Monacos, a drink consisting of a pint of beer with a dash of sweet grenadine syrup that gave it a blood-red glow.
“So what’s the plan?” he asked, “I left my scooter at the aerodrome.”
“Fuck man, you just drove a Ferrari and you’re thinking of your scooter?” I said, “Tonight we’re going to celebrate like we’ve never celebrated before.”
“Well,” I said, “It’s Thursday, which means it’s Ladies’ night at Le Village.” Le Village was Juan-Les-Pins’ most famous club, a mere 15 meters away from the sandy beach that lined the jet-set town. It was THE club when I had been in business school, with just the right mix of pretty Southern girls and tourists.
“Is Hanaa joining us?” asked Cedric.
“Nah,” I took a sip from my Monaco, “It’s a boy’s night tonight.” This wasn’t entirely unusual. Although Hanaa had quickly become a core element of our group, Cedric and I would occasionally break off to reminisce on our high-school years and play video games. Not to mention that Hanaa was far more of a socialite than either of us and had probably already made plans with her girlfriends from law school.
“I dunno about the Village man,” moaned Cedric, “I have work tomorrow.”
I could see however that he had already made up his mind to call in sick.
“To no tomorrow,” I said, raising my glass.
“To no tomorrow,” Cedric answered, clinking his glass to mine. I smiled inwardly at the phrase. Cedric had no idea how true it was.
We drove down into Juan-Les-Pins just as the night was falling and the forged-iron streetlights turned on, illuminating the streets in little golden islands of light.
“Where are you going?” asked Cedric as I turned down a tiny side street.
“There’s a parking spot right up ahead that I know,” I answered.
“Dude. We’re in a Ferrari. Park it in front of the club,” he slapped me across the back of my head. “You’re pretty stupid for such a lucky guy.”
I laughed at how right he was. With a car like this, parking was the least of my concerns. We drove past the white stone walls of the luxury shops and landed on the large crossroad at the center of Juan. In a corner, a crowd was already assembled around the club, a big building illuminated with green and blue neon lights. Two bouncers stood like statues in front of the door, choosing whom to let in drip by drip. Given the time, I knew that if we also lined up between the red velvet ropes, especially without Hanaa or her gaggle of girlfriends to accompany us, we wouldn’t be getting in for at least another hour.
I stopped my car right at the curb, and Cedric and I got out. I walked around the line straight to the bouncer.
“Can I park it there?” I asked.
The bouncer was big. Over two meters tall with biceps larger than my thighs, and a tight black T-shirt with the word ‘SECURITE’ printed on it in all caps.
“Absolutely sir,” he said with a level of deference I had never encountered. The Ferrari wasn’t just pure power, it gave me power too. I was the king of the world tonight. It was an unusual sensation. I could feel the envious and impressed stares of the people queued behind me, and hear the clicks and clacks of their phone cameras as they snapped shots of my car.
Cedric walked up beside me, and the bouncer looked him up from head to toe. He suddenly looked flustered.
“Sorry sir,” he said hesitantly, “But I’m afraid I can’t let you in. Club rules.”
I followed his gaze to Cedric’s feet, and realized he was wearing his usual Nike sneakers. Cedric looked up to me apologetically.
“Ah fuck,” he said, “Never mind, we’ll just do it another time.”
The rush of power immediately started to fade, and recollections of so many nights spent waiting patiently for hours crept back in. Who did I think I was? Rules were still rules, and a Ferrari didn’t make me a different person.
“Maybe we can drive to my place and back?” suggested Cedric, seeing my disappointment, “I’m sorry man.”
My cheeks were burning. I could already see us in my mind’s eye, walking back to the car in front of everyone watching. The giddiness of the past few hours gone as we drove back for thirty minutes in silence to go pick up fucking shoes. Shame burnt bright, slowly replaced by anger and frustration. I had been through this feeling too many times. Enough was enough.
“How much?” I blurted out.
“Excuse me?” The bouncer looked at me with raised eyebrows.
“How much do I have to spend on a table tonight so that his shoes are no longer an issue?” I doubled down.
The bouncer looked at me quietly. I could feel my heart pumping full blast in my chest, hoping he wasn’t going to knock me out or escort me away by the cuff of my shirt. Cedric fidgeted awkwardly beside me.
Instead, he said: “One moment sir,” and raised a hand to his earpiece. I could hear him talking to what I could only assume was his manager. He turned back to me.
“Sorry for the wait sir,” he said, “If you can guarantee a 5,000 euro spend on your table tonight, I’ve been informed your friend’s attire won’t be a problem.”
Cedric looked up at me, wondering if I would drop three months of his salary on a night out.
“That won’t be an issue,” I smiled, the rush of adrenaline suddenly back. The bouncer clicked the red velvet rope open and ushered us in. I strode down the carpeted walkway like a king. Rules my ass. Money was the ultimate exception.
The Village consisted of a huge circular dance floor surrounded by a half-ring platform. A giant screen broadcast Daft Punk’s “Discovery” movie on a loop, lit on all sides by flashing lights, smoke machines and huge speakers blasting out the latest EDM. At either end of the balconies were the VIP areas, kept apart from the masses by black velvet ropes with golden hooks.
I sagged into the red leather couch next to Cedric, and looked at the price list of the bottles. My eyes popped at the prices: getting to 5,000 euros was going to be easier than I thought. I ordered 3 bottles of Mumm champagne at 1,200 euros a pop, paid the 5k deposit with my card and mentally cheered as the payment passed. It wasn’t as if it mattered: tomorrow, on Day B, the money would magically reappear on my bank account.
We saw the bottles arrive from the other side of the club, sparklers throwing up a cascade of flames in all directions. The waitress, a platinum blonde in an indecently short disco-ball dress, served each of us a glass.
As they set it down upon our table, Cedric and I looked at each other in disbelief. We usually drank store-bought beers outside the club before entering because we couldn’t afford anything inside, but here we were with three bottles of premium champagne. And sparklers.
“To no tomorrow!” Cedric yelled over the music.
“To no tomorrow!” I yelled back.
We cheered, slammed back the champagne, and I poured ourselves another glass. The next few hours were a blur. We drank, danced to the pulsating music, and drank some more. At some point, Cedric started to gyrate on the iron fence of the balcony, which attracted wild hoots from the crowd below. Before I knew it, he had invited up a group of five girls to join us. I was introduced to Chloe, Daphne, and three other names that my alcohol-imbued mind immediately forgot. My head was starting to swim, but I ordered three more bottles anyways.
Cedric and the girls started to wildly swing from the balcony in tune to the pulsating pounding of the bass. At one point, a cloud of sparkles exploded from the ceiling, prompting shouting and hollering from everyone. I served myself yet another glass of champagne, and collapsed into one of the couches, dizzy from alcohol.
The seat rocked when one of the five girls popped down next to me. She flashed me a perfect smile with rounded, pearly white teeth. Her Venetian blonde hair tumbled down in rich curls, and her blue eyes rimmed with heavy mascara shown bright. She was gorgeous, wearing a tight red dress that rode that fine line between slutty and sultry.
“HEY!” she yelled into my ear, “You’re the guy with the Ferrari right?”
I grinned and nodded, taking out the heavy key from my pocket and dangling it.
“Can you give me a ride in it later?” she asked.
“Maybe not tonight!” I pointed to my glass. She laughed in one perfect motion, tossing her hair back ever so slightly so that it bounced around her cleavage. I was entranced. She laid a hand on my leg and looked into my eyes with a sudden intensity.
“I like you!” she shouted.
The directness of the statement took me by surprise and sobered me up a little. Aside from my high-school sweetheart, who had ended a rather tame two-year relationship when she moved to Paris, and an on-again off-again fling with a university classmate that had left me emotionally battered and scarred, my dating history was a testament to my introversion. Not to mention that both of them were more on the plump and short side, a world away from the supermodel hotness I had in front of me.
A hotness that was literally leaving me speechless.
“Umm… yeah! Me too!” I stammered.
Cedric suddenly showed up, unsteadily handing me a glass of yet more champagne.
“THIS IS AWESOME,” he yelled, and toasted. I noticed he had his arm around another one of the girls. He turned, nuzzled her neck, and proceeded to kiss her. Cedric was definitely not a womanizer either. I gaped at him as he sloppily made out with a complete stranger, until I felt a hand on my arm. It was the girl’s.
I looked at her. Through the booze-infused fog, I couldn’t help but think that if Cedric could do it, I could too. Hanaa had been pushing me for years to be more active and forward. Maybe I should just kiss her, with no warning whatsoever. But what if she turned away? Or slapped me?
“You want to get out of here?” she suddenly asked.
All I could do was silently nod. She grabbed my hand and pulled me out of the VIP zone. I followed, my gaze unable to break from the perfect roundness of her beautiful posterior, swinging ever so slightly from right to left with every step. Her hand felt so soft in my clammy palm, and I tried to calm down and slow my breathing. Suddenly a flash of immense pain exploded in my right temple.
I staggered and fell face first into the wall of the DJ booth. I held a hand to the splintering mass of agony that was the right side of my face and it came up bloody. Dazed, I looked up and saw a figure dressed in white Lacoste slacks yelling at me, restrained by the blonde girl with curls.
“You MOTHERFUCKER,” he yelled, “You think you can walk away with my girl?”
I vaguely remembered him loitering on the dance floor below our balcony, constantly glancing up. I had dismissed him at the time as an envious bystander but I now understood: he had come in with the girls we had invited up. I struggled to stand up, but my arm gave way and I fell back down, violently banging my shoulder against the ground.
He was fighting to push his way past the girl, who was yelling at him to calm down. Other patrons were looking at us judgmentally, keeping their distance. I groggily got to my feet and held up my hands.
“Look dude, there has to be some misunderstanding…” I said in a thick voice that must have been too low to hear.
From the corner of my eye I saw two bouncers push through the crowd, making their way towards us. Too late. The guy broke free and rushed towards me. I tried to dodge, but my drunken reflexes were terrible. I saw his fist rush towards my face, and with a searing blast of pain, my world went black.
~ End of Chapter 4 ~
And that’s the end of the sample chapters! I hope you enjoyed it! If you want to read the rest, you can find the full version of Encore on Amazon, in both e-book and paperback formats.
Or, if you want to keep reading, I always publish my novels in full with a weekly chapter on my website before putting them up for sale. Check out the current one: Abysme!