Lottery
Authors: Kimberly Shursen
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
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?”
