Match Made In Hell (Knox)

Knox had two choices in front of him.

Option one: swear to his ancestors that Aaron was cheating.

Option two: accept defeat with some level of dignity.

He wouldn’t outright admit it, not here, not now, but he was in deep shit.

He watched Aaron, his supposed best buddy and roommate, in the most grandiose fashion, flick his ginger curls out of his face, slap his cards down like the second coming of Christ, and flip them

It was a fucking royal flush.

“Fucking hell,” Knox muttered.

The four men around the table burst into howling, unattractive laughter, filling the smoke-clogged room with testosterone and noise. Knox’s right leg bounced under the table. He was analysing, recalculating, and still coming up empty.

Sweat trickled down his temple. Every pair of eyes in the room was on him, and every one of them gleamed with cruel amusement.

He’d been set up.

There was no way out of whatever sick, twisted dare Aaron was about to throw his way.

He was thoroughly screwed.

“Give it up, man,” Aaron smirked. “You lost. Where’s that tough, confident guy now?”

Knox groaned, leaned back, and covered his face with both hands. A silent scream escaped into his palms. How the hell had he gotten himself into this?

Oh, right.

Alcohol. Cockiness. Ego the size of a cargo ship.

Now he was trapped—at Aaron’s mercy. And everyone knew Aaron was an addict when it came to dares. He didn’t just win. He obliterated you with it.

Knox swore he would’ve preferred a shallow grave at sea over this poker match.

“Now what?” he muttered, dropping his hands and levelling a dead-eyed stare at Aaron.

Aaron was practically vibrating with glee. “You sure you won’t chicken out? Be honest. You’re scared.”

Knox shot forward in his chair, pointing a finger at his friend’s smug face. “Come on! Bring it. I dare you to dare me.”

The room went feral. Jared, Oscar, and Wyatt, drunk and sex-deprived, started banging on the walls in rhythm, like a drunken drumline.

Aaron raised his phone and pushed it across the table toward Knox.

“Sign up.”

Knox narrowed his eyes. “A dating app? That’s it?”

Aaron’s grin widened like the Cheshire Cat on crack. He tapped into his gallery. Photos of women appeared. Knox frowned. They looked oddly familiar.

“This is what you’re gonna do. You’re gonna pretend to be a girl… and catfish Victor.”

Knox recoiled. “That’s insane.”

He bit back the immediate, “fuck no,” that almost shot out of his mouth. Of course, it was Victor.

Of course.

Aaron played dirty. Every. Damn. Time.

“No, mate,” Aaron grinned. “You’re doing this. No backing out. Sign up.”

“Why Victor? Of all the goddamn men on this floating death trap?”

“Because everyone knows you two can’t stand each other. That makes it even better. And let’s be honest, after several months at sea, watching Wallace think he’s about to get some? That’s the kind of entertainment money can’t buy.”

“You’re a sick fuck,” Knox spat.

That was the trigger.

The room erupted in song.

“Knox and Wallace sittin’ in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G!”

“Shut the fuck up!” Knox roared, slamming his hands on the table. The laughter got worse.

He glared down at the phone. He didn’t have to do this. No one could force him. But he also knew the way these assholes operated. There’d be no living this down if he didn’t go through with it.

“Be a man,” Wyatt slurred. “Punk out and you’ll never hear the end of it.”

“You’re asking me to pretend to be a woman… on a shady app… to seduce Victor Wallace into thinking I’m obsessed with his dick. That’s what we’re doing now?”

“Yes,” Aaron replied, calm and smug. “And that’s exactly why it’s your personalised dare.”

Knox looked around for help. All he got were evil grins. He was cornered, back against the metaphorical wall. His fate had been sealed the moment he accepted the bet.

“Fuck it,” he growled.

He grabbed the phone and started typing. He picked the most generic female name he could think of—Sandra. Blonde hair, curvy, hot. A catfish dream.

He must’ve committed mutiny in his past life.

“How the hell am I supposed to find Wallace on here?” he asked.

Aaron took a swig from his beer and grinned.

“Mate, you’re 500 miles out at sea. Out of the ten guys close enough to ping, Wallace’ll be one of them.”

Knox sighed and swiped.

First guy, pass.

Second guy, pass.

Third guy still nope.

Fourth guy...

Oh, fuck.

There he was.

Victor Wallace.

Clean-shaven, hard-jawed, smiling like he’d just gotten laid and loved every second of it. He was in some foreign-looking city. Muscular. Smug. Hotter than hell.

Knox blinked. He must’ve stared too long, because Aaron leaned over and whispered,

“Swipe.”

Knox swiped. Everyone held their breath.

Match!

The room exploded.

The men jumped, hooted, banged the table like they’d just won a championship.

Knox, on the other hand, felt like he had flatlined. No pulse. No oxygen. No hope.

Aaron tapped his bottle to Knox’s lips and grinned. “Good job.”

Then he leaned in close and whispered the words that made Knox want to disintegrate.

“Now get him to think you want to suck his dick.”