The Inheritance

by Mika Lane

  The Inheritance

  a reverse harem novel

  Mika Lane

  Headlands Publishing

  Join Mika’s Insider Group

  www.mikalane.com

  Contact Mika

  Copyright© 2018 by Mika Lane

  Headlands Publishing

  4200 Park Blvd. #244

  Oakland, CA 94602

  The Inheritance is a work of fiction. Names, characters, (most) places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s creativity or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of quotations in a book review.

  ISBN ebook 978-1-948369-04-6

  ISBN print 978-1-948369-05-3

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Contact Mika Lane

  About Mika

  Also by Mika Lane

  Chapter 1

  GARNET

  WANTED: NICE GUY TO MARRY. I HAVE 30 DAYS TO GET MARRIED OR I LOSE FIVE MILLION DOLLARS. Me: 25, tall, big booty, long hair, regular job that pays ok. You: smart, funny, in good shape, nice guy with manners. Non-smokers only. Please respond with info about yourself and a photo. Thanks!

  How lame was I, placing a Craigslist ad for a husband? But how the hell else was I going to find a husband in order to claim five million dollars in—oh, by the way—thirty freaking days?

  I had weighed all the options. I really had.

  First, I’d thought about walking up to some random guy on the street and proposing marriage. Yeah, like that would work. He’d run off so fast, he’d leave skid marks.

  So I played with the idea of using one of those online dating sites. But those suckers cost money, and besides, I’d have to write a bunch of crap about myself and post a picture, and I wasn’t ready for the world to know I might be inheriting a sizeable estate.

  Last, I considered asking one of the guys who frequented the bar where I worked to marry me, but to be honest, I didn’t want to date any of those dudes, much less marry them. Scratch that.

  So I was left with the good old standby for reaching the masses in the internet age, Craigslist. Hell, I’d used that site to find my crappy apartment and crappy job. Why couldn’t I use it to find a crappy husband?

  Kidding about the crappy husband piece.

  I read my ad one last time and pressed send. Honestly, what more was there to say than what I’d included? I didn’t want romantic walks on the beach or conversations that carried into the night. I wasn’t dying for the joys of motherhood (although I wasn’t opposed to it), or for someone who’d make love for hours (I wasn’t opposed to it either, but still). And, I didn’t care if the guy had money or not. If all went according to plan, I’d have plenty when all was said and done.

  I mean, what did I have to lose? All replies to my post would go to an anonymous mailbox thanks to the magic that was Craigslist. I’d read through a few replies, weed out the crazies, meet a couple dudes, and make my selection.

  Simple, right?

  I’d have my answer shortly.

  While I let the internet work its magic, I hopped in the shower to get ready for my shift at the Drive By Saloon. Corny name, I know, but it was my home away from home, and I made enough there to cover the rent on my little apartment and make the minimum payment on my student loans—for a degree I never finished, I might add. Which meant I’d be paying those loans for damn near the rest of my life at the rate I was going.

  You know how people gripe about it being hard “to get ahead?” Well, I’m the poster child for that stuff.

  I stepped out of the shower into my freezing, unheated bathroom. San Francisco didn’t get particularly cold in the winter, thank goodness, but the lousy heat in the old buildings meant you were never really warm enough without a few space heaters overloading the circuits. But that’s what cheap rent got you. I bundled up in my fluffy robe and began working on my hair when I heard a string of beeps coming from my laptop. The kind that notify you when an email comes in.

  I heard a few more.

  Then I heard a bunch.

  Beep, beep, beep, beep…

  And suddenly, my little laptop wouldn’t shut up.

  What the hell?

  I ran over to it, hoping against hope that it wasn’t dying just yet. It was on its last legs—I mean, I’d had it since college (that degree I never finished, remember?)—and I was in no position at the moment to buy a new one. And I needed it for my husband hunt.

  Please don’t fail me now, little PC.

  It flickered to life when I opened it, and I saw my email downloads go from fifty, to a hundred, to two hundred…

  Holy shit, was there a limit on how many emails you could get at once? I think I was about to find out.

  The messages, which kept scrolling by as they downloaded too fast for me to read, numbered upward of three hundred in just minutes. They all started with you have received a reply to your Craigslist post…

  So I opened a couple.

  Hey baby, let’s meet up. I could use a rich wife.

  I’ve wanted to get married for years. Hit me up.

  I’m not in it for the money, I swear.

  You sound like a nice lady. Let’s get married. I promise I won’t bother you. My dark days are behind me now.

  Good grief. Is this what Craigslist got you these days? I didn’t expect Prince Charming, but I wasn’t expecting abject bottom-dwellers, either. The emails continued to scroll by, finally slowing as they approached a count of four hundred.

  Then came the dick pics.

  Some were big, some small, some hard, some soft. Some had shaved pubes, and others looked like they were wearing little hair sweaters.

  This couldn’t really be how people met these days, could it?

  I closed my laptop in a panic. If this was all I had to choose from, what the hell was I gonna do?

  Chapter 2

  Nathaniel (Nat)

  I was fucking exhausted, having caught a six a.m. flight from New York to make a meeting back in the office in San Francisco the same morning.

  Why was I doing this to myself? It’s not like I got paid for the extra work.

  Plus, I’d been out ‘til two in the morning the night before with a hottie from the New York office. I know you’re not supposed to dip your pen in the company inkwell, but I figured shit, she was three thousand miles away and we worked in different teams…so what was the harm? Besides, I hadn’t fucked her. But she did give me the blowie of a lifetime.

  I’d had just enough time before my meeting to run out for a third cup of coffee. At all costs, I avoided the free slop from the company lunchroom. I left that for truly dire emergencies, and I wasn’t that bad off yet.

  On my way out, I stuck my head into my boss’s office. She had a real office. It had windows
and a table in the corner where she could hold small meetings, and a door that closed. My office, on the other hand, was an interior one that was more like a converted broom closet. But, hey, it was a step up from the cube I used to camp out in.

  “Sandra, you want a coffee? I’m running out,” I asked.

  She looked up from the papers she was pouring over. Damn, she looked more tired than I did.

  “No thanks, Nat. I’ll just grab some from the break room.”

  Yuck. Suit yourself.

  As I was exiting the building, my cell rang. It was Rick Jones, one of the guys from the Dolphin Club, a bunch of crazies I swam with every so often in the freezing water of the San Francisco Bay.

  “Hey, buddy,” I answered.

  “Nat. How are things?” Jonesy asked.

  “Ugh. Dude, I’m so exhausted. Just got back from New York in time for an eleven a.m. meeting with a big client.”

  “God, they’re working you hard.”

  “I know, right? I’m just hoping it pays off when they are adding new partners to their roster at the end of the year,” I said.

  “Yeah man. Good luck with that. The hours I worked to become a partner at the firm here just about killed me. But I have to say, it was worth it.”

  Of course it was worth it for him. Jonesy was with one of the biggest law firms in San Francisco, and since he’d made partner, he’d bought a sweet house in Pacific Heights and a hot little Porsche. He was also reportedly dating some former model from Maxim. Asshole.

  “So, Nat, I got something for ya. It could be a good client or not. I’m not at liberty to tell you much. But I’d like to pass your info onto this woman so she’s set up with a good accountant, if and when she needs one.”

  “Thanks man, I appreciate the referral. And if this is a good client, it’ll surely help me shine in my boss’s eyes, too,” I said.

  “Hey, happy to help a fellow swimming buddy. I’ll email you all the info you need.”

  * * *

  Not three hours later, I was looking for some bar in the South of Market District called the Drive By Saloon. Normally, we accountants held meetings in offices and conference rooms, but if a potential client wanted to meet at a drinking establishment, who was I to argue? I was only sorry it was too early in the day to have a beer. It probably would have been a free one. And until I made partner, I consumed all the free beer I could get my hands on. I hadn’t “made it” yet, like Jonesy had. But I was working on it.

  I pulled open a heavy wooden door that was otherwise pretty non-descript and entered a room so dark, I had to wait for my eyes to adjust. When they did, I found myself in an old-time establishment, the kind I loved to visit when I was back in New York for business. The setup was the standard bar extending the length of the room on one side, with booths and benches running along the other. Ceiling fans swung lazily from above, most likely left from the days when you could smoke indoors. In fact, the place still smelled smoky, even though it had been decades since anyone had lit up in there.

  I grabbed a booth after nodding at a couple of guys settled in at the bar, who looked like regulars. Actually, they looked like they lived in the damn place.

  “What can I get you, sir?” an accented voice called from behind the bar.

  “I’m here to see Garnet Foster,” I said to a small man whom I guessed bussed tables and did other dirty work, judging by the greasy handprints on his white apron.

  “Garnet!” he hollered, bringing some life to the place.

  I ordered a ginger ale while I waited. Finally, a figure emerged from the back, moving toward me.

  Whoa. Jonesy hadn’t told me everything.

  A tall, curvy woman approached, wearing those high-heeled boots all the chicks were wearing, with what I think they also called skinny jeans. It was a hot-as-hell look, making even the shortest girls look like they had legs that stretched for miles.

  “I’m Garnet,” she said, extending her hand.

  I stood to greet her.

  “Nat. Nat Levinson. Good to meet you.” I waited for her to sit across from me. As soon as she had, she waved at the small guy cleaning up behind the bar.

  “How ‘bout a couple Stellas?” she called.

  Looked like I was going to get my beer, after all. My day was definitely looking up. Now if I could keep from falling asleep in this woman’s face, I’d be in really good shape.

  “Garnet, your attorney Rick Jones suggested you might be needing some accounting and other financial services. I take it this is your bar?”

  Her eyes grew wide. “Oh, god no. I don’t own this dump.” She threw her head back and released a very attractive laugh. My dick twitched a little, which surprised the hell out of me considering the hummer I’d gotten mere hours earlier.

  “Well, it’s a cool place,” I said, waving with my beer bottle. “I love places like this. But if this isn’t your place, what is the source of your assets?”

  She looked confused for a second, and it occurred to me that maybe Jonesy sent me to her by mistake. I usually worked with people and companies with a lot of money, and who were pretty savvy about using it to get even more—knowledge that I hoped would rub off on me, over time.

  “What do you mean?” she asked politely.

  Was I wasting my time here? Perhaps, but she was hot, and there was no reason to be an ass to her.

  “Sorry Garnet. People hire a firm like mine when they need help managing large sums of money. That’s why I thought maybe you owned the bar. They typically take in a lot of cash.”

  She brightened and nodded. “Right. Well, I can tell you that they totally do. But this place isn’t mine. But that doesn’t mean I don’t, I mean, eventually won’t, need your help.”

  Chapter 3

  Garnet

  The accounting guy my lawyer had sent to meet with me was cute, in a straight-laced way—but shouldn’t an accountant look kind of square? I mean, if he came in here looking like a rock star, I’d probably send him packing.

  He sucked down the beer I’d gotten him in record time, so I had another brought over. God, I was itching to touch that preppy, close-cropped blond hair that made him look like a more mature Abercrombie and Fitch or Ralph Lauren model. And from what I could tell, under his suit and now-loosened tie, he looked pretty darn buff. My devious plan was to keep feeding him beers so he had to eventually run to the restroom. Then I could get a look at his butt.

  Why weren’t guys like this on Craigslist? Damn.

  While he was no doubt nice to look at, I wasn’t entirely sure why I was meeting with him. It seemed like the lawyer who’d come to tell me about my inheritance had been premature in recommending an accountant. I mean, if I didn’t meet a husband in the required thirty day timeframe, I’d not get a penny of the five million, and all this would be for nothing. The accountant seemed to know nothing about my situation, having come at the suggestion of Mr. Jones, which was fine with me. I didn’t want him or anyone else to know anything about my potential inheritance. I’d read what happened to people who suddenly came into money. I didn’t want to set the sharks circling a moment earlier than I had to.

  “Nat, I can’t really share with you yet why I may be needing your services, but I should know whether or not I will in the next few weeks. Certainly by the end of the month.”

  Yup. By the end of the month, I’d know whether I’d be stuck in bartender servitude for the remainder of my life or have the chance to realize my dreams…

  “Garnet, can you point me toward the restroom, please?” he asked.

  Score!

  “Right back that way,” I said, pointing to the door next to the kitchen. I needed to wrap things up, anyway. The happy hour crowd would be filtering in shortly.

  But he did give me the chance to watch him walk away, a fact that was not lost on the two regulars at the bar, who laughed and shook their heads at me. I’d be getting shit for that later, for sure.

  But I didn’t care. He was well over six feet tall with wide sh
oulders I’d not appreciated until I saw him standing. And while his suit jacket covered most of the goods, I could tell there was a nice, firm butt under his suit pants. I hadn’t seen anyone this nice-looking in a long time. I was clearly hanging out in the wrong places.

  Don’t get me wrong. I had great affection for the Drive By Saloon. It attracted locals and other old-timers who loved a bar they felt at home in. In fact, it was one of these regulars who got me in the situation I was in, looking for a husband with fewer than thirty days to spare.

  Just three days earlier, the lawyer who’d sent Nat over, Rick Jones, came by the bar. He looked around the place pretty much the same way Nat had—clearly these guys didn’t frequent dumps like this. But Rick took me to one of the booths in the back to sit down and talk about one of the bar’s regulars.

  “Garnet, I’m here to tell you your customer, Bill Cordy, recently passed away.”

  What? Bill Cordy? Who the hell was that?

  Puzzled, I shook my head. “I’m sorry but I don’t know a Bill Cordy.”

  The attorney nodded, as if he’d anticipated my reaction. “I thought as much. Apparently, he was a regular here for a long time. His will mentioned that you and the others called him “Grandpa.”

  Holy shit, now I knew who he was talking about! Grandpa. And Grandpa was gone. Now I felt badly for not knowing his real name, but the truth was, he would spend hours sipping on the same beer, staring at the ass of any female behind the bar. And that female was usually me.