A novel by
Kimberly Shursen
Edited by
http://www.ebookeditingpro.com
Copyright©2014 Kimberly Shursen
ISBN-10: 1497328047
EAN-13: 978-1497328044
All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without prior written permission of the author.
The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law.
LOTTERY is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidence.
“When this monster entered my brain, I will never know, but it is here to stay.
Maybe you can stop him, I can’t.”
- Dennis Rader, aka BTK
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
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
CHAPTER 35
CHAPTER 36
CHAPTER 37
CHAPTER 38
CHAPTER 39
CHAPTER 40
CHAPTER 41
EPILOGUE
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
aleb’s left eye twitched.
“You stupid SOB,” the muscular man spat, standing so close Caleb could smell the tobacco on his breath. “You either get the money this week, or you’re not going to enjoy the consequences.”
“Listen, man,” Caleb said anxiously. “I’m trying, okay?”
The person Caleb’s bookie had sent to deliver a message shoved a finger into Caleb’s chest, pushing him backward. “Not good enough.” The man’s eyes were soulless, his wide nostrils puffing out with each word. “When you borrow money from ‘the man,’ you either pay back with interest, or he’ll send me to pay you back.” The thug turned and started to saunter away. “Fifty grand by the end of next week.”
“Jesus.” Caleb’s eye twitched in staccato motion. “How the hell—”
“Not my problem how the fuck you get it.” The messenger shrugged his thick shoulders. “We’ll be in touch.”
Standing on the end of the pier, Caleb pushed his blond hair back off his forehead and looked out over San Francisco Bay. The barges and yachts, the seagulls flying gracefully overhead, along with the bright sun that glinted off the Golden Gate Bridge, usually brought him peace. But not today. He felt like a character in The Sopranos. Why the hell hadn’t he stopped gambling when he was only five or ten grand in the hole? His stomach balled in knots and his heart raced at an all-time high. He was thirty-three years old, for Christ’s sake—old enough to know better than to get himself in this kind of a position.
He headed for Mason Street. He needed a drink. What he really needed was to get the hell out of San Francisco. He couldn’t come up with two grand, let alone fifty.
The monotonous bells on the trolley and the horns honking in succession were a backdrop to a horror movie playing out in his head. Feet bound to a concrete block and pushed into the middle of the ocean; digging his own grave before someone shot him between the eyes; breaking his fingers; these and a dozen other scenarios rolled through his mind. The messenger wasn’t paid to give lip service. His job was to hurt, maim, or maybe even kill people who didn’t pay up. Shit.
Caleb pushed his Ray-Ban sunglasses up on the bridge of nose. He made well into the six figures, but after Katherine had divorced him, his self-worth had spiraled down quickly. What had started as a ten-dollar bet on the 49’ers had led to a hundred dollar bet, and then a thousand, until his gambling was completely out of control. The fucking addiction had him by the balls; baseball, golf, tennis, anything that would give him a high. Jesus. How could he be so stupid?
He hurried down the few steps to the lower level of the Fairmont Hotel and opened the door to the bar. It was only four-thirty on a Friday afternoon, and the Tonga Room was already crowded. White lights were strung around the pitch-black ceiling to resemble stars; thatched umbrellas covered tables that surrounded a floating swimming pool in the middle of the room; the bar had been designed to feel like a tropical island.
Caleb found an empty stool at the end of the bar. He was a wreck.
“What can I get you, Mr. O’Toole?” asked the handsome bartender, who could have passed as Channing Tatum’s brother.
“Martini. Dry.”
Caleb was a regular here and had been ever since his divorce three years ago. He swung around on his barstool and took in the crowd—boobs, Botox, and bulky billfolds. That’s what San Fran was made of—at least this part of the city. It wouldn’t be long before laughter and conversation reached a higher decibel and the younger crowd would pair up for one-night stands, while the affluent Nob Hill husbands would head home to their current wives. Life is a fucking game. He turned back around.
A slap on his back startled Caleb and he looked up and saw Jack Weber. At six-foot-three, and a chiseled 185 pounds, the multi-millionaire trust-funder had it all.
“When’d you get back?” Caleb held out his hand to shake. He hadn’t seen Weber since he’d left for the Caribbean four months ago.
“Just closed up the place in Saint Martin.” Weber’s gray-green eyes moved through the room as he pushed a hand over his thick, slicked-backed hair. His deep tan was accentuated by a lime green Polo shirt.
Caleb had met Weber in the Tonga Room a couple of years ago and had been fascinated by his lifestyle. Although Weber had an uncanny resemblance to JFK, unlike the late president who worked and played hard, Weber had never worked a day in his life.
“Party, my digs tonight,” Weber said, as he pulled out a stool and sat down next to Caleb.
Caleb downed the rest of his martini and raised his hand for another. He couldn’t get the confrontation with the messenger off his mind. “Hey.” He turned toward Weber. “Think you could possibly spot me a few grand? Just for a couple of weeks.”
Weber smirked. “If you knew how many times I’ve fallen for the “‘I’ll pay you back’” line, you wouldn’t ask.” He shook his head. “Not a good practice to lend money to friends.”
Weber played with Caleb. Treated him like a damn idiot. Did it bother Caleb? Hell yes, but not enough for Caleb to turn away from the parties and nightlife Weber offered when he was in San Francisco; the hundred-foot yacht, the beautiful women Weber introduced him to, and hobnobbing with people Caleb had only read about.
“Need fifty grand by next week.”
“You shittin’ me?” Weber’s sardonic smile was demeaning. “You still gamblin’ your ass off?”
“Quit a month ago.” Caleb watched his finger slowly slide around the rim of his glass.
“Want something?”
the bartender asked Weber.
“Draft,” Weber answered and then looked over at Caleb. “You’re in that deep?” Weber shook his head. “Are you stupid or what?”
Caleb’s temper stirred. “Guess so,” he answered, not looking up.
“No can do, buddy.”
“How ‘bout ten?” Caleb cleared his throat. “That would at least get the bookie off my back for a while.”
Weber slapped him on the back. “Not going to happen.”
Fucking asshole.
The bartender set the beer down and Weber picked up his glass, surveying the bar. “Any new women in your life?”
“Nope.”
Jack was well aware of the painful divorce Caleb had gone through, and the fact Caleb hadn’t been interested in anyone since Katherine had left him. The ongoing visits to her plastic surgeon had left Caleb’s wife feeling her physician would be a better gamble than Caleb, and had married the balding, frumpy doc two days after their divorce was final. Given the choice of a bank account over a man who adored them, women always chose the bank account; or at least the women Caleb had met.
Jack pulled out his money clip. “Hey,” he said, and handed Caleb a hundred dollar bill. “Pick up some mega-million lottery tickets on your way over tonight. It’s at 736 mil, the highest it’s ever been.”
Caleb shot him a look. “What the hell would you do with more money?”
“Can’t ever have enough women or money.” Weber flashed a perfect smile and stood. “You pick ‘em up, and if I win, we’ll split the proceeds.”
On his way out, Weber stopped to chat with two young women. Caleb had no doubt they’d be at Weber’s party tonight.
Caleb glanced down at the bill and stuffed the money into his pocket. A hundred was nothing to Weber. Caleb was just another one of his lackeys; good enough to be his errand boy, but not to lend money to.
He paid his tab and started for the entrance. When he opened the door, someone bolted into his chest, the collision knocking him backward. “Oh God,” Caleb stammered as he regained his balance, “did I hurt …” he started and glanced up, the petite woman taking his breath away. She couldn’t be more than five foot. With dark almond shaped eyes, her straight jet black hair hung halfway down her back.
“I’m fine,” she said and pushed her shiny hair back over one ear. “I should have looked first.” She smoothed out her periwinkle jacket.
“Are you sure?” Caleb felt his face grow warm.
“Oh no, I’m fine, thanks.” Her warm smile melted him.
“Can I at least buy you a drink?” Caleb hadn’t been this forward since Katherine had left. “Just to apologize for almost running you over?”
“I thought you were leaving?”
“I was, but I’d like to make this up to you.” He’d say anything just to find out more about her.
“Okay,” she said cautiously.
“It’s the least I can do.”
“Ling,” she told him as Caleb followed her to the bar.
Not being able to hear her over the noise, Caleb leaned into her. “I’m sorry.”
“My name.” She pulled out a stool. “Ling.”
“Japanese?”
“Chinese.” She set her purse on the bar and hoisted herself up on the seat. “Means orchid.”
Caleb took a stool next to her. “But … you don’t look—”
“Half.” She folded her dainty hands together, the short, sculptured nails lacquered in a clear polish. “My mother is Chinese, father Caucasian.”
“Nice combination.” Caleb felt himself blush again. Nice combination? Could he have said anything more cheesy? “What would you like?”
“White wine would be great.” She glanced at her watch. “I’m meeting friends who should be here soon.”
Caleb heard the caution in her voice. She was a beautiful woman in a city where men who looked normal could be serial killers. He glanced briefly at her left hand. No ring. “I’m Caleb. Caleb O’Toole.”
There was an uncomfortable silence before the bartender put a chardonnay in front of Ling, and a cabernet down on the bar for Caleb.
“So, Mr. Caleb,” she said confidently, and picked up her wine glass, “what do you do?”
“Drive a street car,” he teased.
She was quiet for a couple of seconds. “Oh my,” she said politely, “that must be interesting.”
Caleb laughed. “I’m joking. I’m with an ad agency. Creative director.”
She sat up straight, wrapping her dainty fingers around the thin stem of the glass. “Sounds like fun.”
“I would describe it more as a constant headache.” Caleb took a sip of his wine. “And you?”
“Stock broker.” She smiled. “I’m boring.”
Caleb leaned back, eyeing her. “I would have guessed a fashion designer.”
“I can’t even pick out what to wear for myself, let alone anyone else.”
“But you manage other people’s money.”
She arched a manicured eyebrow and smiled. “And I do it pretty well.”
Caleb laid a palm over his chest. “I have no doubt.”
Facing the entrance, she waved. “My friends are here.” She leaned over, picked up her purse, and took out her billfold.
“No,” Caleb stated. “My treat.”
“That’s not necessary, but thank you.” The cheeks on her creamy white skin turned a deep pink.
“Tell you what.” Caleb took out a pen and picked up a napkin off the pile on top of the bar. He wasn’t going to let her go without at least trying to see her again. “A friend of mine is hosting a get-together tonight.” He wrote down Weber’s address. “If you and your friends want to stop by, you’d be more than welcome.” He handed her the napkin.
“I … don’t know,” she said and hopped off the stool.
“It’s just some people getting together on a Friday night.” He stood up next to her, noting that the top of her head was almost even with his shoulders. “Wait … maybe you’re not single.”
“I am single.” Ling turned and started to walk away. “Thank you for the wine.”
“You’re welcome.” God, he wanted to ask her for her phone number. If she showed up at Weber’s, he’d ask her for her number. And if she didn’t, he’d chastise himself for not asking when he’d had the chance.
At the door, he glanced back quickly over her shoulder to see if she was watching. Disappointed she wasn’t, he walked up the steps and started south on Mason.
Nob Hill was home to the upper class. Chinatown sat to the east; Pier 39 and Fisherman’s Wharf were to the northeast. With the unending restaurants and nightclubs, the streets and sidewalks were always crowded. Growing up in Chadron, Nebraska, California was like living on a different planet; the people, the scenery, and the priorities were polar opposites from how Caleb had been brought up.
The sun was slowly sliding into the bay, casting a warm, orange-gold glow over the buildings. A potpourri of structures sharing common walls bordered the narrow street. A few of the businesses had survived the fires caused by the earthquake of l906 that destroyed over eighty-percent of San Francisco. Some of the buildings left with partial shells had been reconstructed to look like their original structures, while others were rebuilt with a more modern flair.
He wondered if Ling’s ancestors had been part of the disaster. Ling. Had she been born in the states? He hadn’t picked up on an accent. Her name meant orchid, which described her perfectly, down to the color of her jacket. This was the first time a woman had brought a smile to his face since Katherine had left him.
He unlocked the door of his condo located on the eighth floor of 1160 Mission Street. He hadn’t made a mortgage payment for the past two months. When he and Katherine had split their savings, he’d used his half for the down payment.
He opened the door and set the key ring on the granite top island in the kitchen. He reminded himself to stop by Chico’s Market and pick up the lottery tickets. Just like a dog, when
Weber said fetch, Caleb fetched.
After he took the scotch out of a small cupboard above the refrigerator, Caleb poured a couple of ounces into a short glass. The combination kitchen/great room area looked drab and depressed, just like Caleb felt. Even with the wide plank walnut floors, black granite countertops, and the large master suite at the top of the winding stairs, the place still felt like a morgue. The only piece of furniture in the living room was a La-Z-Boy recliner positioned in front of a wide screen television. Upstairs in the master was a queen-sized bed and a chest of drawers. The condo was nothing more than a place to crash. What was the point of buying more furniture? Artwork? Pots and pans and a whole lot of shit for the kitchen? No one was ever here but him.
He walked across the living room to the wall of windows. The street below was jammed with cars. Everyone had a place to go and someone to be with. It was his own damn fault he was alone. He was still mourning his failed marriage. Or maybe that was an excuse to feel sorry for himself and justify his gambling debt.
He downed the scotch, walked back to the kitchen, and poured another ounce or two. Carrying the glass, he made his way up the stairs to the large bedroom. When he picked up the lottery tickets, he’d grab some sushi to take to Weber’s. He rubbed above his left eye to try and stop the merciless twitching.
Feeling the effects of the booze, he staggered across the plush white carpet and opened the door to the small private deck. Sunset was Caleb’s favorite time of day. Bright red and burnished orange streaks shot out from the setting sun. He faintly made out the silhouettes of couples walking hand-in-hand along the shoreline of the bay. The distant sound of a jazz band playing on Pier 37 resonated through the air.
His thoughts turned to Ling. Chances were she wouldn’t show up at Weber’s. Why would she? She knew nothing about Caleb. Why hadn’t he at least tried to get her number?
Forget about a woman he’d never see again, Caleb needed to concentrate on the real problem. The debt wasn’t just going to miraculously disappear.
He tilted his head back and drew in an anxious breath. How the hell was he going to get his hands on fifty grand?
t was after nine when Caleb made it to Weber’s condo.
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