Straight Flush : The True Story of Six College Friends Who Dealt Their Way to a Billion-dollar Online Poker Empire and How It All Came Crashing Down . . . by Mezrich Ben

Author:Mezrich, Ben [Mezrich, Ben]
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Publisher: HarperCollins
Published: 2013-06-01T04:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 16

The thick, humid night air whipped against the face shield of Scott’s motorcycle helmet as he hunched forward over the slanted steering column of his bright red Ducati racing bike, trying desperately to keep the damn thing in the middle of the road. He didn’t dare look at the speedometer; he could tell by the way the bike was trembling against his body that he’d passed seventy miles per hour when they’d hit the last straightaway, and there was a good chance they were way beyond that now. His headlight was little better than a flashlight at that speed, and against the inky black of the long, desolate stretch of blacktop that bisected what looked to be sugarcane fields on either side, it was almost as useless as shouting into the wind. Which he was doing anyway, though he knew there was no way in hell that Shane could hear him.

Shane was about a hundred yards ahead, streaking through the blackness on his Kawasaki Ninja, visible only by the tiny, jerking blur of his taillight. Scott was desperate to catch up to him, but even though the Ducati was a much more powerful bike, he didn’t dare try to push it any harder. He was only thankful that they had chosen one of the few paved roads in the area; had they taken a left at the last turn instead of a right, they’d probably both be dead by now.

In retrospect, of course, neither one of them should ever have been in this situation. Going much too fast, driving recklessly—in Costa Rica for such a short time and already living recklessly. And with Shane, specifically, Scott and the rest should never have let it get to this point—and Scott definitely blamed himself. All the signs had been there, and anyone who wasn’t blind or stupid should have been able to see them for what they were.

Sure, it had started simply enough, way back at the Del Rey that first time. Shane, drunk off his ass, pawing at the hooker strolling behind their blackjack table. The kid they’d all known as a straitlaced, under control—if a little obsessive—social star breaking character in the face of sudden, unregulated temptation. Looking back, of course that was the first sign, but hell, pretty soon they were all drinking just like he was; they were all grabbing cookies from the cookie jar until they couldn’t eat any more.

When Shane had shifted from alcohol to weed, again nobody raised any eyebrows. They’d all smoked a bit in college, and now that it was basically a phone call away, there didn’t seem to be anything wrong with a joint now and again. After all, they all worked so hard, and as long as everyone made it to their desks on time, who cared what they were smoking when they got off work?

But the cocaine—that was where it had all started to go wrong. It had begun real simple—in the back of a cab, asking the driver if he could get them some more weed.

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