The Diner Game Novels & Stories

I awoke early in the morning and decided to go for a run. After my run I showered and changed into a pair of short denim shorts and a halter top. It was a hot day and I was going to be in the kitchen or out at the grill for quite awhile. I had my hair pulled up in a purposely messy bun and my feet were bare. I had steaks marinating, corn and potatoes already roasting and was putting a pan of brownies in the oven when I heard the screen door open and close. I assumed it was Bo and continued what I was doing. A startled squeak left my throat when I turned and saw Alpha Drake. He was standing against the door frame looking sexier than sin in faded jeans and a fitted t-shirt. Drake’s eyes were d

“You’re here too.” She blinked. “Here where? What is this? Am I dreaming?” At this point, she didn't even want to deal with the person in front of her. She was also unsure how she should react to him, who seemed really cautious while talking to her. This time, Shane didn’t answer right away. He unfolded a newspaper in his lap, before he showed it to Farrah. On the front page was a single headline: “Seven Chosen for the Game of Sins.”

He sobbed, "My mom’s sick. She needs money. I don’t have many friends. I can only turn to you! She needs half a million for treatment, I’m desperate…" I sneered. "Your mom’s perfectly fine. The sick 'mom' you’re talking about is Rachel. Too bad for you, I don’t have half a million lying around." He clung to my leg, wailing, "You do! You could ask your dad to sell his diner. That would give us the 500 grand." Rage boiled up inside me. That diner was my father’s pride, something he had built with twenty years of hard work before it finally became popular.

Drakken and Eleanor stepped into a small, retro diner on the outskirts of town. The neon sign outside flickered with the name "Mel's Diner," while the black and white checkered floor and red leather booths inside gave off a vintage vibe. The scent of sizzling bacon and freshly brewed coffee wafted through the air. The waitress, a middle-aged woman with a friendly smile, led the duo to a booth in the corner. Drakken and Eleanor slid into the vinyl seats, each picking up a worn menu.

The front of the diner swung opened and was ringing the bell in return. His boots made sounds on the floor as he made his way to the table on the far corner of the diner. There weren’t many customers or staff: ten customers, two waitresses, and one cook. But even the slightest detail played an important role. Two doors were leading to the outside; one was the front door where he had come in earlier, and another was in the kitchen. He could break the glass wall if he had to.

She’d scanned the newspapers, but there had been nothing about three dead addicts. The diner was busy, as usual, and she kept her smile intact as she served customers their food. It was hard to do it, the smell of the food now making her nauseous but hungry too. The whole campus was gearing up for the first pre-season hockey game. Spirits were high and the crowds in the diner were loud.

"Best breakfast in town, and they go all out for Christmas. You'll love it." The diner is exactly as she described. Red and green decorations cover every surface, and a small tree sits in the corner. The smell of coffee and bacon fills the air. "This is perfect," Bryson says, looking around with obvious delight. We chose a booth near the back. I take the seat facing the door out of habit while Bryson studies the menu. "I'm getting pancakes," he announces. "And bacon. Definitely bacon." "Sounds good." He gets up to place our order at the counter, leaving me alone with my phone. I scroll through hockey news absentmindedly, reading updates about games and player trades. My mind drifts to next w

Yanov sat at the head, Montez to his right, Amira beside Montez. They dined on roasted quail, dark bread, and spiced beet soup. Yanov talked animatedly about his estate, his investments, and the guests arriving later for dinner. Montez listened, probing subtly toward business. Amira, however, barely tasted her food, her mind spinning with panic. Sergei Yanov. Mr. Yan. Of all people, it had to be him. Why? Why? Why!!!!? Why couldn’t it be someone else!!! She kept her expression neutral, nodding when spoken to, but her chest was tight. Every time Yanov’s eyes flicked her way, she felt the weight of his stare burrow beneath her skin.

Windows tinted. Her phone buzzed with a message. Dante: Get in. Her pulse skipped. She could’ve ignored it, walked away. But she didn’t. Because this was the game. And if she wanted to win, she had to play. The car drove her across the city, weaving through traffic until it stopped in front of a building she didn’t recognize. It wasn’t a restaurant. It wasn’t an office. The glass façade gleamed with understated luxury, the kind that didn’t advertise but commanded.

Lucian held her gaze for a moment, gave her a dry smile, then looked away, shuffling the cards again. "Why don't we switch up the game? Know how to play Gin Rummy?" He asked. "Yes, but only vaguely," Ayra replied. They switched the game, but Lucian was a formidable player. Even after a dozen plus rounds, Ayra had won only a handful of times. “You’re terrible at this,” he remarked after a particularly devastating loss on her part. “No shit, Sherlock. Thanks for stating the obvious,” Ayra shot back, though there was no real bite in her tone.