Table of Contents
MORE THAN MONEY
COPYRIGHT
DEDICATION
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
EPILOGUE
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
COPYRIGHT
More than Money
Copyright © 2016 by Allison Michaels
This 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, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. Except for the use of quotations in reviews, this book or any portions thereof may not be reproduced nor used in any manner whatsoever without the express written consent of the publisher. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.
Due to language and sexual content, this book is intended for readers 18 and over.
Cover photograph by R.M. Lynch
Cover design by RE Creatives
Editing by Ami L. Waters
Interior formatting by CP Smith
DEDICATION
For Dad,
who taught me that who you have
always matters more than
what you have.
Half of the proceeds from the sale of this book
will go to an Illinois charity committed
to providing a caring and protective environment
for children who have been displaced as
the result of the loss of one or both parents.
For more information, or to make a
donation of your own,
please contact the author at
[email protected].
1
Ryan
Bean and burn? The message popped up in the lower right-hand corner of my screen.
I glanced at the clock beneath the instant message box. I’d spent over an hour staring at this spreadsheet and still couldn’t find the discrepancy preventing me from zeroing out. I was off by nine measly cents, which meant I had transposed a number. It would take the rest of the day to check each cell. And the pile in my inbox would continue to grow regardless.
In five minutes, I replied.
“Why can’t you go now?” Diana asked from the other side of the half-wall separating our cubicles. “I really need a cigarette.”
“Because I really need to piss. Go fill your lungs with tar, Princess Puffs-A-Lot. Head downstairs without me if you can’t wait.” I marked my place in the set of financial statements strewn across my desk and stretched my neck.
A fisted hand appeared and the middle finger slowly uncurled, accompanied by muttered curses. Diana hated when I gave her grief for smoking. And she loathed my cigarette-themed nicknames. I used them only because I knew she truly wanted to quit and hoped the constant ribbing would irritate her enough to stop. She’d tried several times in the three years we’d worked together, falling off the wagon when something major stressed her out.
I stood and leaned over, resting my forearms on the divider. Diana’s blond hair hid her face as she dug through the large purse on her lap. “Come on, I know you’re in here somewhere. Ah, gotcha.” She triumphantly held up a lighter, her blue eyes narrowing into a glare. “You’re such a hypocrite, Ryan. How many cups of coffee have you had today?”
Five, same as any other work day. Diana smirked and held up a hand, her fingers splayed. “It’s not the same. I don’t drink anything with caffeine in it after work and rarely during weekends, Virginia Slim.”
“Whatever.” She palmed the lighter and a cigarette and followed me down the hallway to the back door of our office. “See you in a few,” she called out, veering off to the elevator bank as I headed to the bathroom.
Diana strolled into Starbucks ten minutes later as I waited by the pick-up counter. The staff knew me by name and also knew I came in around three o’clock every day for a venti Americano. It was my mid-afternoon boost, the jolt I needed to stay awake and focused until closing time.
My department was situated on the west side of the building. We baked on hot summer afternoons thanks to floor-to-ceiling windows and an outdated ventilation system. I’d nodded off once during my first month and woke up when Darren, my supervisor, stopped by to ask a question. He’d thrown a fit, accusing me of not taking my job seriously and threatening termination if he ever caught me again. Right in front of my coworkers, no less. Diana had suggested drinking a can of soda around three o’clock as a pick-me-up, but I didn’t care for soft drinks. I tagged along the following afternoon when she took a break to run downstairs to smoke and grab an iced coffee, and my Americano addiction was born.
“It’s terrible out there.” Diana pulled a magazine out of her purse and fanned herself. “The weather the past few days feels more like August, not June. I wish that the smoking area was in a shaded spot.”
“There’s a way to avoid roasting in the summer, freezing in the winter, and getting soaked by rain.” I shrugged when she gave me a dirty look. “What? You complain about the weather all the time.”
“Here you go, Ryan.” The barista set a cup down on top of a napkin with a wink. “Have a great afternoon.”
“Thanks, Caitlyn. Same to you.” I snagged a cardboard sleeve from the basket, eager for my first sip.
“Wait a second.” Diana picked up the napkin and snickered, pointing at the phone number scrawled across the brown paper. “Yup, I didn’t imagine it. Coffee chick wants to roast your beans.”
I choked on my drink, a few drops sliding down my chin when Diana whacked me on the back. “Damn you for waiting until I had a mouthful to drop that line.” Snatching the napkin from her, I wiped my face with a corner to avoid smudging the ink. “And how many times do I have to tell you to not talk about my beans in public?”
Caitlyn had beat feet to the storage room after preparing my drink. I stuffed the napkin in my pocket. I’d throw it away later when Diana wasn’t around. Caitlyn was attractive and seemed nice, but I wasn’t interested in going out with her.
My last relationship had ended when I came home early from celebrating Christmas with my family to check on my girlfriend, Kim, who had stayed home because she hadn’t felt well. Instead of finding her crashed on the couch, I’d found her rolling around naked in our bed with her ex. Two years had gone down the drain when she admitted she’d been hooking up with him for the past four months.
After I had moved out and some of the anger had receded, I’d realized the split was for the best. Kim had champagne tastes, and I had a canned beer budget. We would never have made it for the long haul. I’d decided to take a break from the dating scene and concentrate on work instead.
A male barista slid Diana’s i
ced coffee across the counter without a single word. “Damn, he didn’t even look at me,” she said as we walked away, jutting out her lower lip. “And I’m having an exceptionally good hair day.”
“Flash some cleavage next time.”
“Nah. He’s too hipster for me. I could never be with a guy who wears skinny jeans.” She led the way out of the shop and pointed at the convenience store across the lobby. “I need to stop in there.”
I groaned and rolled my eyes, striding across the polished marble floor. “Make it fast, before Darren realizes that we’ve been gone for a while.” Catching his attention for the wrong reason would do me no good. My annual review would take place next month, and I wanted a decent raise this time around. I’d busted my ass the past year to prove myself worthy of the highest percentage offered for my position.
Diana ran inside and grabbed two bags of Skittles in the candy aisle before heading to the cash register. She set her items on the counter and nodded at the flashing display of instant lottery tickets. “And five of the Tic-Tac-Dough scratch-offs, please.”
“Still wasting your money on those things?” I asked, shaking my head. “No wonder you eat ramen every day for lunch. You do realize the odds of winning are like, a bazillion to one, right?”
“Can’t win if you don’t play. Maybe the odds will work in my favor one day.” She pulled another bill out of her wallet and handed it to the clerk. “Make it six.” She tucked the candy into her purse, peeled the top ticket off the stack, and held it out to me. “Here, try the Kool-Aid, McMillan.”
“No, thanks. I don’t need another addiction.” More like couldn’t afford another addiction. The cup in my hand was my splurge for the day, thanks to sky-high rent on my studio apartment and multiple student loan payments. I had a stash of ramen in one of my kitchen cabinets, as well as at least a dozen boxes of macaroni and cheese and stacks of canned soup.
“I insist.” She held the square out to me, waving it around as we exited the shop. “One time won’t hook you. No one dipped it in heroin.”
“There’s a fifty-fifty chance of forming an addiction to heroin the first time you take it.”
“Says who?”
“Numerous medical studies. Don’t you ever pick up a paper or watch the news?”
“Not really. It’s too depressing.”
She fell into step beside me as we headed to the elevators. I felt a tickling sensation near my hip as we waited for a car and looked down just as her hand snaked out of my pants pocket. The little shit had slid the ticket in there. “What part of no did you not understand?”
“How many times have you spotted me a single here or a five there when I was short?”
Diana and I paddled similar boats. Both of us were three years out of school, struggling to make ends meet on an entry-level accountant’s salary at Karoll & Walton, one of the largest firms in Chicago. Her boat sprang leaks more often than mine due to her expensive habits and Carl, her loser boyfriend. He loved to gamble and frequented the casinos in the suburbs, downing comped drinks until he was shitfaced and broke.
I’d lost track of how many times Diana had opened her wallet and found it empty because the bastard had taken all of her cash, even the two twenties tucked behind her driver’s license for emergencies. Everyone–me, her friends, her family, and other coworkers–repeatedly told her to dump the loser, but she stayed with him. I guessed it was out of a sense of obligation since they’d been together since high school and had never dated anyone but each other. Either that or the guy had a magic dick.
“Fine,” I muttered, wedging into a corner as people crammed in clown-car style. It would take a while to get to our floor. My nerves frayed a bit at the thought of Darren lying in wait to bust me when I got back to my desk. Luck was on my side, though, and all of the other occupants got off on the same floor. Diana and I slipped into the office and made it to our cubes without incident.
She let out a groan before I finished settling into my chair. “Aw, maaan, I had nothing. How’d you do? Or are you too busy sexting Caitlyn right now?”
“I’m trying to work over here. Stop interrupting me or I’ll report you to management,” I said loudly, laughing when a bunch of paperclips flew over my head.
“Don’t you want to see if you’ve won?”
“We went over this earlier, Mentholina. I have a better chance of being struck by lightning than winning a single dime.”
“Ryan, Ryan, Ryan.” She chuckled, and I shook my head, typing in the passcode to unlock my computer. “How can someone so young be so damn cynical?”
I stuck my earbuds in and cranked up the volume. “Sorry, did you say something? No? My bad.” The manicured middle finger made another appearance.
It took the rest of the afternoon to find the nine-cent discrepancy. Sure enough, I had typed in 12 when 21 was the correct number. I fixed the mistake and emailed the finished report to Darren before shredding my copies of the supporting documents.
The office had emptied out in a mass exodus at five and only a handful of stragglers remained. Diana had bolted out the door in an attempt to get a coveted seat on the train to avoid standing the entire ride home. I usually gave my seat to a woman or an elderly person, so a pressing need to sprint didn’t register with me. And honestly, standing felt good after sitting for hours at a stretch.
After tucking my laptop into its case, I slung my messenger bag over my shoulder and left my cubicle to head to the train station.
***
While emptying my pockets to change into my gear for a five-mile run before dinner, I rediscovered the scratch-off Diana had bought me. Three in a row gets you the dough! was displayed across the top in fluorescent yellow letters. A typical hashtag-shaped Tic-Tac-Toe grid in neon green took up the entire front. I flipped it over and skimmed the instructions on the back. Three Xs or Os in a row equaled a win, same as usual. The grand prize was a million dollars.
I grabbed a quarter from the change jar on my dresser and rubbed the coating off the top left corner square to reveal a large black O. As I moved across the row, two Xs came into view. The second row consisted of Os in the left and middle spots, and an X on the right. A flicker of hope flared up as I eyed the two Os on the left and twin Xs on the right. I snickered and shook my head because this was probably the knee-jerk reaction every chump had whenever the slightest chance of winning presented itself.
Did people really believe they would win one day if they continually pissed away their money on instant-win tickets? Diana spent five to ten dollars on them at least twice a week. She’d won a handful of times, collecting anywhere from a dollar to fifty bucks. There was no way her prize money came close to the amount she had invested as a whole.
But hey, she was a big girl and could spend her money however she chose. It wasn’t my place to pass judgment, especially since I dropped a chunk of money on gourmet coffee instead of brewing another pot of Folgers in the break room.
I touched the edge of the coin to the paper and again worked from left to right, uncovering an X and an O in the bottom row. But after I brushed the crumbled wax off the last square, an X sat in the middle of the spot.
I blinked several times and whispered, “No fucking way.” Three Xs decorated the right-hand column, which meant…
Holy motherfucking shit, I won!
I dropped the quarter and whooped, fist-pumping like a madman. Nothing like this had ever happened to me before. I was the guy who went to conferences and came home empty-handed while the rest of the attendees from my office won iPads and Amazon.com gift cards. Euphoria faded as the gravity of the situation hit me, my arm freezing in midair as I realized my win was drastically different.
On autopilot, I opened the top drawer and stuffed the ticket under a stack of ties. Wait, why the hell did I automatically want to hide it? I had to tell someone about it, but who? I pulled it out and turned it over, scanning the fine print on the back until I found a phone number to call and report a win.
Scoo
ping up my cell phone, I took a deep breath and tried to organize my jumbled thoughts.
A million dollars would undoubtedly change my life. I could move out of this overpriced, glorified closet and buy a house or condo with multiple rooms. My student loans could be paid off in one fell swoop. No more scrimping and pinching pennies, living paycheck to paycheck. I could travel and finally see the Eiffel Tower, Egyptian pyramids, and Hawaiian volcanoes in person.
It all sounded pretty damn good to me. Honestly, it sounded too good to be true. Any moment now, I’d wake up and realize it was just a dream because crazy shit like this only happened in movies. I ran a finger over the row of Xs, making a mental note to buy Diana a thank you gift. It was the least I could do since she was the reason I even had a winning ticket.
But first, I had to claim my prize.
The hand holding my phone shook as I dialed. After three rings, an automated voice spoke. “Hello, thank you for calling the State Lottery Claims Department. Please listen carefully to the following list of options to properly direct your call.”
I entered the number to speak to a live representative and waited for someone to get on the line.
2
Ryan
The cab screeched to a stop behind a stretch limousine. “You want me to get closer or is this okay?” the driver asked.
“Here is fine.” I handed him a twenty and opened the door. “Keep the change.”
“Thanks, man.” He pulled away, tires squealing as he raced off in search of his next fare.
A chauffeur opened the limo’s door, and a man in a tuxedo climbed out, followed by a woman wearing a floor-length sequined evening gown beneath a long fur coat. I looked down at my charcoal gray suit and felt a flash of panic. Nothing on the invitation had indicated this was a black-tie affair. It was too late now to do anything about it, so I followed them down the outdoor walkway at Navy Pier. They had to be headed to the same place as me. Why else would they be dressed to the nines on a Wednesday night?
They stopped in front of a yacht with Lap of Luxury emblazoned on the side and walked up the gangway. I paused at the bottom and stared up at the huge boat. Damn, it looked like a floating fortress, the length of a football field with multiple decks.
More than Money (Found in Chicago Book 1) Page 1
