All In A Day's Work

By Gary Resnikoff

Bob Jackson, the Consumer Champion, is a hero in Denver. Taking on dishonest contractors and businessmen, he is on a mission to protect unsuspecting consumers. His listeners love him, and shady contractors hate him. His fortune and fame have grown over the years and are now at dizzying heights.

But things take a downward turn when contractors and business owners Bob has tangled with start to die. The murders—each one more gruesome than the last—are committed by a duo who leave almost no evidence for the police to go on. To further stymie and taunt the police the killers leave notes behind, calling themselves the Revengers. They tell the police and the public that the killings won’t stop until Denver is rid of all sleazy businessmen.

As the victims pile up, Jake Stein, the lead homicide investigator will have to move fast before panic sets in. Driven by the hungry press and a voracious social media, the public begins to turn on Bob. Has he, as the public suspects, gone off the deep end and turned to murder to rid Denver of what he calls “scumbags”?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Gary Resnikoff
• Release date: Sep 14, 2018
• ISBN: 9780463149706

Gary Resnikoff

Gary was born in Los Angeles in the early '50s and has lived in CA, CO, AZ, and Mexico. Recently, he moved to Port Hueneme, Ca with his wife and Poncho, a rescue dog from the beach in Mexico. He has had a diverse career in both the internet and solar industries as an entrepreneur and pioneer in each. He is still very passionate about the environment and a big proponent of solar and wind power. Now in retirement from business, he spends his time playing pickleball, building things (functional art) out of mesquite, and now trying his hand at mosaics. He wrote and self-published his first novel All In A Day's Work and is currently working on a pickleball murder mystery that with any luck will be out in 2022. There is also a sequel to All In A Day's Work planned for 2023. In 2019 he was diagnosed with 2 forms of cancer and after chemo, radiation and surgery have been in remission for over 2 years. If you enjoy his books please leave a positive review on Smashwords or Amazon.

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All in a Day’s work

By Gary Resnikoff

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2018 Gary Resnikoff

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com or your favorite retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Dedication

I dedicate this book, my first, to my wife and best friend. Her confidence and patience with me all these years has made me a better person and somehow convinced me that I have abilities I didn’t know I had.

Disclaimer

If you didn’t realize this before, this is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses and incidents described herein are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to any person, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Prologue

Two large, black duffle bags sat in front of him, filled with the tools and clothing he would need in the coming days. His life was about to take a temporary diversion, one that had been in the making for a few months, the catalyst having happened years ago.

Ever since he was a kid, he was adept at planning and organizing things. He believed in creating a plan, analyzing it, reconsidering it, and then, once he was confident it was foolproof, implementing it. As a child, he was the one who got things done. Always a hard worker, some might have even called him driven. His loyalty to his family and friends was never in question. But along with being a doer, he was a thinker. And with that thoughtfulness came thoroughness. His ideas and plans were always well thought-out. Every detail had reason and purpose, and he always made sure he had every tool necessary to achieve his goal or succeed in his plan. He understood and appreciated his unique skills, and they brought him pleasure and confidence.

Now, the brilliant plan was finally complete and ready to go. It was right. It was justified. It couldn’t fail.

Lives would be sacrificed to accomplish his goal. At one time in his life, that would have been unacceptable, but no longer. Like pawns in a chess game, they had already been identified as expendable. He was satisfied with his choices. The victims he’d chosen were worthless dregs of society and would not be missed. In fact, their sacrifices would serve a greater purpose and give meaning to their pitiful lives. According to his plan—and it was a grand plan—their deaths, and the method by which they would die, were required to achieve his goal. They were not random, and would not be perceived as such. This was important. The meaning of their deaths had to be apparent.

Now, he was ready to put his grand plan in motion. Further planning wouldn’t change anything, but he worried he might lose his nerve. The plan required resolve. Hesitation could prove disastrous, and that was unacceptable. No, too much planning had gone into this, and the preparation was flawless. No time to stop now.

From its inception, it had always been his plan. His grand idea. But he needed a partner. And the girl fit in perfectly. In many ways, she was of a like mind, and from day one, she agreed to take orders from him. She would defer to him and wouldn’t argue with the details of the plan. She deferred when he said it wasn’t time yet, and she agreed when he said the time was right. He had convinced her that any deviation from the plan would end in disaster. Her lack of concentration during the planning sessions annoyed and concerned him, and he often wondered about the wisdom of picking her as a partner. When he’d told the girl the long planning sessions were complete and the time to begin had arrived, she’d flushed with excitement. The planning sessions had been tedious and repetitious, and although he’d acted like he wanted her input, he’d reacted poorly when she offered suggestions or concerns. She quickly learned to keep her mouth shut. He clearly thought she was stupid; he always had; she knew it, and she resented him for it. Admittedly, she wasn’t up to his IQ level and wasn’t nearly as imaginative or creative as he was, but she wasn’t an idiot. It angered her when he treated her like a subordinate, but she accepted his dominance as the price to pay to participate in the plan, and now that it was time to launch the mission, all his concerns about her had faded away.

And, truth be known, it was quite a plan. He seemed to have covered every detail. He even decided they should have a name, and he came up with the The Revengers. The girl would have preferred something a little more sexy but as usual, she deferred to him. Given the nature of their plan the name fit. They were punishing criminals and avenging terrible wrongs. Never mind that in doing so, they became criminals, too.

Choosing their victims turned out to be another matter altogether. There were so many potentially deserving victims, he wondered whether they should employ a lottery system and allow fate to choose. But fate might be too random, and some who might be more deserving of punishment might not be selected. So, in the end, he decided to trust his own judgement. He would be the final judge, jury, and executioner. The plan only required four or five victims to accomplish his goal. At least, that’s what he thought. When the time came, he could always select others, or he could initiate Plan B. For the unfortunate few who got chosen—well, it was just too bad. They had chosen their course in life, and now, they would pay the ultimate price for their crimes. After all, it was all for the greater good.

She watched as he inventoried and packed the duffle bags with the supplies he had collected over the last few months from different stores up and down the front range to avoid connecting any of the purchases to them. He had rolls of silver duct tape, nylon rope, hammers, a two-way radio, throwaway phones, an old baseball bat, a lock release gun, basic tools, and more. He had only selected brands that were mass-produced and sold in dozens of stores. None of these items would elicit attention when the police tried to track down their origins. When asked who bought them, a vendor would answer, Everybody buys that brand. He had even purchased mass-market, throwaway paper shoe covers, vinyl gloves, and hair nets. A bottle of hand sanitizer went in next, followed by the last critical item—a pair of two-way communication devices with earbuds that would provide them hands-free communication at all times, in case they were separated for any reason. He reminded her that they should wear the rubber gloves anytime they were on a mission. If they followed his instructions to the letter, then there was no chance of leaving any DNA or random clothing fibers that might implicate them. She had to give him credit because it appeared that he had thought of everything.

Satisfied, he zipped up the bags.

Nothing could go wrong now.

Chapter One

All, all is theft, all is unceasing and rigorous competition in nature; the desire to make off with the substance of others is the foremost—the most legitimate—passion nature has bred into us and, without doubt, the most agreeable one.

—Marquis De Sade

Lane Stevens, clad in his Gucci shoes and Jack Vincent suit, sat at his oak desk on the 13th floor of his downtown Denver office, admiring the view of the Rocky Mountains to the west. He glanced at the phone, trying to will it to ring, anxious that his expected caller might be backing out of the deal. He could do little else but watch and hope. The call was already thirty minutes late. He twirled a pen, hoping to take his mind off the twitch in his leg. If the call didn’t come through and the subsequent deal didn’t happen, all was not lost. He could and would still go through with his plan. But it would put a damper on things. Namely, his future lifestyle.

The phone on his desk buzzed, jolting him out of his daydream about girls and Mai Tais. His heartrate, already elevated, rose by another twenty beats. Struggling to steady his heartrate, he picked up the phone and pasted a smile on his face. He had read a study once that said humans can discern the difference between a smile and a frown over the phone. And Lane had learned through experience that people trust happy, successful people. In his line of work, image was everything. Confidence was contagious, and perceived confidence could be the difference between making or breaking a deal. He even kept a mirror on his desk with the word smile pasted to it as a reminder.

Mr. Markel, good to hear from you, he said as he exhaled slowly, trying to control his breathing. As he listened to what the caller had to say, his smile grew, no longer artificial. He struggled to control his voice when he responded.

Thank you, Dr. Markel. He beamed. I’ll look for the wire. Your trust in me will be well-rewarded. Yes, I’ll let the mayor know we spoke. Thanks again and have a great weekend. He put down the phone, did a fist-pump, and exclaimed, Yes, I did it!

Lane had languished for years as a moderately successful investment advisor. He never seemed to land the big fish as clients and although he was making a decent living, he wasn’t satisfied. After reading about players like Bernie Madoff, Lane concocted his own version of the Ponzi scheme. It wasn’t all that original or creative, and he had no doubt it would be discovered at some point, but he was convinced it would work. To kick it off, he realized he needed to enlist supporters who, through their own greed, would feed him clients. One thing led to another, and he was able to recruit the mayor, the police chief, and the owner of one of the more successful newspapers in the Rocky Mountain region. They would get kickbacks from Lane based on the investment level of the clients they helped Lane recruit. They were so enamored with the money they were making, they even invested their own money with Lane.

Lane created a shell company that generated bogus monthly statements showing unusually high yields. Everyone was pleased with the gains and recommended Lane to their friends. Lane was careful in the beginning, living a modest lifestyle so as not to create any undue suspicion. The key to success was to keep investors in and add new ones until the fund reached a sufficient level. When that happened, he would cash out and leave the country. But it was a daily balancing act to keep clients happy and keep them from withdrawing funds. He could allow small distributions to keep up the appearance of legitimacy but he couldn’t let investors pull out. The trick, he told himself, was not to get too greedy and not to stay too long. Schemes like this failed in the past because the operators were stupid and greedy. Their inability to recognize when things were about to go south was always their undoing and always followed with a jail sentence. They lacked intuition and confidence, but Lane was overflowing with it.

And now, it was time to pull out. He’d felt it coming for a few weeks. Nagging clients were getting suspicious and asking questions. He’d even had a call from the local radio host do-gooder, asking about his business. Markel would be his final score and when the money was deposited, he would say adios amigos and muchas gracias.

Dr. Markel was an arrogant and extremely rich plastic surgeon whom Lane had been targeting for months. Ripping him off had become an obsession. The mayor had introduced them at a fundraising event and had praised Lane as a miracle-worker. Lane hated Markel the minute he met him. Arrogant and self-absorbed, Markel flaunted his status and success. As far as Lane was concerned, Markel was no better than the other rubes he was scamming, but taking Markel down a notch would feel even better. He would relieve Markel of five million dollars, and his only regret was that he wouldn’t see Markel’s face when he realized he had been swindled.

Landing Markel had taken longer than Lane had anticipated or was comfortable with. The investment fund was already big enough to support Lane for the rest of his life but taking Markel down had become an obsession he couldn’t shake off. To get Markel to part with the five million, he first had to show him success. He did that by convincing Markel to start small and watch the performance. Lane reeled him in by creating bogus statements showing substantial gains and sending Markel regular dividend checks.

Markel may have thought he was a savvy and shrewd investor, but as Lane knew, he was greedy. Double-digit returns bring out the greed in most people and it didn’t hurt that the mayor and police chief were constantly bragging to Markel about the returns they were getting.

Lane kneeled in front of a safe in the corner of his office and removed a passport and drivers’ license in the name of Henry J. Smythe, with a New York address. Each had Lane’s picture on them. Using the fake ID, Lane had purchased property in the Cayman Islands a few months earlier, using funds from the investment scheme that he had deposited in one of the island’s banks. Once he deposited Markel’s money, the account balance would swell to over fifteen million dollars. Quite a tidy sum to retire on, he surmised.

For weeks, he worried he had overplayed his hand and overstayed. Trouble was brewing, and he could feel an investigation into his business was coming. If he hadn’t been so sure that Markel was about to fall, he would have left weeks ago. But, he had been able to stay calm and stall the increasing number of clients concerned about their money, allowing him time to swindle Markel.

He let out a huge sigh of relief. He had won. He would be gone tomorrow.

Lane buzzed his secretary. Diane, I think we are going to close early today. Take the rest of the day off and do something fun. This was out of character for Lane, but she wasn’t going to argue. She was out the door ten minutes later.

As soon as she was gone, he spent the next few hours cleaning his office and making sure there was nothing that could connect him to his new island home. He had kept two sets of records—one that his secretary Diane had access to, and his own. The numbers and the names on the two lists weren’t the same. Her list left out some key names, and the dollar amounts were considerably lower. His list was going into the shredder. Anything on his hard drive was wiped clean using the latest technology. Anyone trying to piece things together after he was gone would be frustrated, and no one would ever figure out the depth of his crime.

At two-thirty, he called his bank to confirm receipt of the wire transfer and then initiated one of his own to his island account. Next, he called a travel agent and booked a Saturday morning flight, first class, using his new identity. He could almost taste the rum. He looked in his Rolodex, called the local cab company, and arranged to have a cab pick him up in the morning at his Cherry Creek home.

Once he was satisfied his office was clean and held no clues as to his new destination, he locked the door and headed to his favorite pub. Earlier in the week, he had agreed to meet his brother, Brian, for a drink after work, but now, he regretted that decision. Had he known today would be his last day in Denver, he would have declined. Oh well, he could handle one last meeting with his little brother, knowing where he would be the following day.

Lane was very fond of the Empty Glass Tavern. In fact, he was a regular there and well-known, although most patrons and staff considered him an egotistical ass and would prefer he went elsewhere. But, unaware of his reputation, he loved the place, and most nights, he would find a lady who didn’t know him and would agree to go home with him, always to the amazement of the staff and the other patrons who knew him.

When Brian called to arrange the meeting, Lane was sure he knew the reason. Why else? Money. Every few months, Brian would call and arrange a meeting and then ask for money to help with their mother. Her health was deteriorating, and her health insurance didn’t cover all the costs. He didn’t really care. He wasn’t that close to either of them but usually coughed up a few bucks to help. This time, however, he would promise to put a check in the mail in the morning, even though he had no intention of doing so.

Why didn’t he just cancel? He could easily just fake a problem and reschedule for sometime in the future. But he was in such a good mood, he didn’t want to spoil it. And besides, how bad could it be? What could possibly go wrong?

He entered the bar, beaming. And why wouldn’t he be? He had just scored five million dollars. It was his single biggest score. He was on top of the world. He spotted his brother across the room and sensed some agitation in his body language. Before he could change his mind and slip out, Brian spotted him and waved. Were it not for his good mood and uncharacteristic charitable feeling, he would have turned and left. Life is good today, he thought. And while he was feeling so good, maybe he would top off the evening with a blonde or a brunette. As long as she was wearing a short skirt and feeling frisky, he really wasn’t too picky. Not a bad way to spend his last night in Denver.

He greeted Brian coolly as he sat down, his eyes scanning the bar for a suitable companion for the night. A blonde entered the establishment and looked around as if she was trying to find someone. Lane focused on her and cursed his bad luck; had he lingered just moments longer at the door, she would have run into him. She was clearly in a class all her own, putting all the other women in the bar to shame. In fact, she might have been the hottest girl he had ever seen. She was young, but Lane considered anyone over 21 fair game. Or, as he put it, legal tender. He marveled at her body; even from across the room, it was flawless. She wore a skirt so tight, nothing was hidden from his view, let alone his imagination. He didn’t even consider whether she had half a brain; he wasn’t looking for meaningful conversation tonight—or any other night, for that matter.

He watched, mesmerized, as she stood, scanning the room. Lane himself typically scanned the pub the same way when he was looking for someone in particular. His heart skipped a beat when she smiled and winked as they made eye contact. Although Lane considered himself good-looking and a ladies’ man, he turned his head to make sure the wink wasn’t meant for someone else. He looked back at her with his practiced smile, and she laughed. As she headed for the bar and scooted onto a barstool, he couldn’t take his eyes off her.

Watching her, he decided he would conclude his business with Brian as quickly as possible—even if it meant giving in to any request his little brother had. He was determined he would have that girl in his bed before the night was over.

But, unbeknownst to him, the girl had a partner, and the two of them had followed Lane to the bar with plans of their own. Lane didn’t need to worry. He would be going home with her tonight. The girl’s secret partner had waited in the car while she followed Lane in. She was stalking him like a tiger stalks its prey. The girl knew how to catch a man—especially this man. With her skin-tight dresses, high heels, and a silly grin, most men would fall over themselves to get to her. It was a skill she had learned while she was still in high school. It was a power she found intoxicating.

Brian cleared his throat. Lane, he said.

Reluctantly, Lane turned to his brother. So, Bri, what’s up? he said, without a care in the world. How’s it hanging?

Brian was in no mood for Lane’s jocularity. He had been waiting for over an hour. He’d had three beers and was now working on his fourth. Normally, he didn’t drink much and the beer was already having an effect on him. His annoyance at waiting was heightened by the beer, and, adding insult to injury, Lane was more focused on the girl at the bar than him.

Brian had no allusions as to his relationship with Lane. Lane was the oldest and never had the time nor the interest for Brian or their single mom. Lane always put on an air of superiority and didn’t hide the fact that he had little use for either of them. He seemed embarrassed that he was related to them. Nothing had changed over the years.

Lane decided to take the bull by the horns. He had bigger fish to fry this evening. He tried to pry his eyes away from the blonde.

Brian, I’m kind of in a hurry tonight. I’ve got some business to attend to, and I’m flying out in the morning, on a little R&R. You need money for Mom? I can put a check for a few hundred in the mail in the morning before I go. Assuming that was all Brian wanted, he started to get out of the booth.

Clearly insulted, Brian responded, I didn’t call to ask you about money, Lane. He leaned closer to his brother. "But I am curious to know how you get your money."

Quizzically, Lane replied, I’m an investment broker. You know that.

Brian shook his head. Cut the crap, Lane. Mom was listening to the radio yesterday. She likes to listen to that consumer advocate guy. Bob… Brian fumbled with the last name.

Lane rolled his eyes and shook his head. Bob Jackson? His intonation said all there was to say. He knew about Bob Jackson, and he didn’t like him—or his fucking show.

Yes. Bob Jackson. He calls himself the ‘consumer champion’.

Lane sighed. I’m familiar with him, and his show. I like to think of him as Mr. BJ, as in, Mr. Blowjob. He laughed at his own joke. Brian didn’t laugh.

Come on, Brian. You know that’s funny. When did you lose your sense of humor?

Brian still wasn’t laughing. He glared at Lane and shook his head sadly.

Most towns had a consumer advocate, and Denver was fortunate to have more than one. Bob Jackson was the host of his own show called The Consumer Champion, and he took the role seriously. Most residents in the Denver area had heard the show, or at least knew about Bob, and Lane was no exception. Before he began his Ponzi scheme, he even found the show entertaining. Now, when he listened, he cringed, because on more than one occasion, he’d heard Bob talking about him. And recently, Jackson and his team had been calling him to get his explanation regarding all the complaints they were getting. Lane made the mistake of taking their call the first time and it hadn’t ended well, so from then on, he stonewalled them. Their persistence was further evidence that it was time for Lane to pull up and move out.

Lane was barely listening as Brian rambled on about how their mom had been listening to the show when, to her dismay, they started talking about her son. She tried to tell herself it was someone else they were maligning but as they went on, she realized it was definitely Lane they were talking about. And the things they were saying about him weren’t flattering. She was afraid to call Lane and confront him directly, so she’d asked Brian to do it for her.

Lane made a masturbatory gesture. So?

Brian tried to remain calm. Lane, Mom heard people calling you a crook. She almost had a heart attack.

Can’t live forever, he replied mockingly.

What the fuck are you saying?

Mom’s got to die someday. No one lives forever.

What an ass you are, Brian spit out with disgust. So, the allegations are true.

I don’t really care what they say about me on that stupid program. And I’m tired of Mom telling me how to live my life. His voice rose in agitation. Or you and your stupid little cunt of a wife, for that matter. Mind your own fucking business! He yelled, drawing the attention of a few patrons seated nearby. Some turned to stare at them. Fuck you. Mind your own business, he snarled at them.

Brian met his anger with his own. You’re a goddamned crook! he shouted.

Sounds like you have convicted me without a trial. Don’t I get my day in court? he said, calming down slightly.

Brian leaned in closer. You want your day in court? I’m sure that’s coming soon. Are you denying what they said about you?

What did they say, Brian? Lane asked sarcastically. What exactly did they say?

Brian’s face turned red, and the veins in his neck bulged. They accused you of stealing their retirement funds, Lane. Bob Jackson says he’s heard this complaint about you before and was going to make a call to the DA. Says he’s tried to talk to you before but you blew him off. He called you a rude jerk, among other things.

The DA? Crap, thought Lane. He could handle Bob Jackson but if he was going to the DA, then this would get back to the mayor and the police chief. He couldn’t have that. He started to have a panic attack. The only thing that saved him from breaking into a cold sweat was the realization that he had called it right. He was pulling up roots and taking over fifteen million dollars with him in the morning. But the thought didn’t assuage his anger toward Jackson—or Brian, for that matter. Bob wasn’t there for him to take his anger out on but Brian sat across from him with his stupid self-righteousness. Well, enough was enough.

But Brian wasn’t done.

So, you’re going to rip people off until you get caught? You’re just a common criminal.

Lane leaned toward Brian and lowered his voice so that Brian could barely hear him.

Bob Jackson is a pompous asshole. The people who call his crappy little show to talk about me are sniveling little babies and greedy little shits who deserve to lose their ass to me.

Unbelievable. I can’t believe what I’m hearing, Lane.

Let me teach you a lesson about people. You can’t steal from an honest man. These pricks who invest with me are looking for more than they deserve. Most of them don’t deserve the wealth they have to begin with. They think just because they have money, they are entitled to it, and on top of that, they think they deserve unrealistic returns on their money. I’m teaching them a valuable lesson. If it sounds too good to be true, it probably is.

They deserve to get ripped off by you? Brian looked incredulous. You try to justify your actions by saying these people had it coming? Unbelievable. I’m sitting here talking to a fucking thief. A little line of spittle formed on his chin. He wiped it off quickly with his shirtsleeve.

Lane rubbed his hands over his face and scratched his head. He was trying to remain calm but clearly losing the battle. Without warning, he lunged across the table with lightning speed, grabbed Brian by the lapel, and lifted him out of his seat. Brian’s anger was quickly replaced by shock and fear. Lane was bigger, stronger, and, over the years, had shown he was a ruthless fighter.

Listen you little shit. I don’t need to take this crap from you or anyone else. His face had turned bright crimson while Brian went white. You keep your fucking nose out of my business and tell Mom that goes for her, too. He tossed Brian back into his seat with about as much effort as a child tosses a teddy bear. Brian’s beer bottle tipped over and spilled onto him, soaking the front of his pants. The bottle rolled off the table and crashed to the floor, shattering, pieces flying everywhere.

Ignoring everyone in the room but Brian, Lane shouted, Now, get the fuck out of here and don’t ever bother me again or I’ll make you wish you were never born!

Brian started to say something but choked on the words. He turned to leave and took a few steps, enough to get out of his brother’s reach, then turned back to face him.

You’re an asshole, Lane, he snarled. You always have been. And one of these days, you’ll get yours. I hope to hell I can watch your face when you go down. I wish you were dead. Hell, I wish you’d never been born.

Lane feigned a move toward Brian. The move startled his younger brother, causing him to slip and fall on the wet floor and onto the broken glass. A shard of glass sliced into his hand. He cried out in pain, expecting his brother to pounce on him while he was down and finish the humiliation. But Lane was done; he had made his point and was already calming down. He looked down at his brother, laughed, and turned away. As far as he was concerned, they were done. It would be their last encounter, and he felt no sadness or remorse. He was relieved it was over and didn’t watch as his brother slunk out of the bar, wet, humiliated, and with blood dripping from his hand.

Anyone else would have been shattered or at least mildly upset by the encounter, but not Lane. As a youngster, after his father left them, Lane learned to compartmentalize. That ability enabled him to set the experience aside and move on quickly. He had plans for this evening, and he wasn’t going to let an encounter like that spoil the rest of the night. And why not? It was Friday night. Even if the DA was about to make a move, he didn’t think it would happen on a Friday night. They could come looking for him tomorrow or next week. It didn’t matter. No one knew where he was going or his new identity. While the authorities wasted their time searching for him, he would be sipping tropical drinks on a beach.

He glanced at his watch and was pleased to see it was still early. He looked around for the blonde. She wasn’t sitting at the bar anymore. The goddess of his dreams was gone. She’d probably watched the altercation and decided to hook up with someone else. Another reason to hate Brian. Crap. It would have been fun, but he consoled himself with the thought of playing the rich bigshot on the beach. The girls would be draped all over him.

Somewhat deflated by losing the blonde, he turned toward the door to leave and banged into someone. It was the blonde, and he nearly sent her sprawling to the floor. He grabbed her before she fell and steadied her. Her three-inch-heels put her eye-to-eye with Lane and for a moment, they just stared at each other. She was even more beautiful up close.

Thanks for catching me, she said enticingly.

My pleasure. Really.

She had dark green eyes, so green that he had trouble believing they were real. Mesmerized, he continued to hold her, although she was clearly steady now.

You can let me go now, she said, or we could stay like this for a while. Whatever you like. She was smiling.

Oh, I’m sorry, he managed to say as he released his grip on her. Are you okay?

Fine, she said with a twinkle in her eye. I didn’t mean you had to let me go, she said seductively.

I, ah… he stammered, I’m Lane.

Hi, Lane, she replied. I’m Emma. Emma Payne. Are you going to just stare at me or are you going to ask me to sit down and have a drink with you?

Yes… yes. Of course. May I buy you a drink? He was flustered by her beauty and how she was coming onto him. It was a feeling he was unaccustomed to—normally, he had to work much harder.

I thought you’d never ask.

He guided her over to the table that he and Brian had just occupied. There was still spilt beer on the table and the bench where Brian had been sitting. She sat down on the dry bench while he grabbed some napkins and started to dry off the wet area. She motioned for him to sit beside her instead. This seat is dry, she said as she patted the bench next to her. With little hesitation, he dropped the wet napkins and slid in beside her. He wasn’t accustomed to being the one being pursued but he thought he could get used to it. He wondered if scoring five million dollars gave off some special pheromone that attracted beautiful girls. He wouldn’t argue with it if it did.

Now that he was sitting next to her, he could see that she was indeed wearing a dress and not some body paint. Even still, it left little to the imagination. She looked and moved like a professional model on TV. He marveled at the long, white, lace gloves that reached her elbows, creating a mysterious and intoxicating look. He had trouble taking his eyes off her but forced himself to look away long enough to signal the waitress over, so he could order some drinks.

Emma Payne. That name sounds familiar. Lane had some clients named Payne. Are you related to the John and Linda Payne from Cherry Creek?

No. My family is from Houston. I’m new here.

Lane was relieved.

It’s a nice name. It fits you well.

Why, thank you, Lane. she blushed.

Emma, of course, wasn’t her real name; she wasn’t a real