“Farrah? I can’t believe you told her!” I huff, pretending to be irritated. “Thanks a lot. You could’ve blamed it on some friend or something. You didn’t have to tell her it was me.” Twisting to face Fiona, I paste on my best sad face. “I’m sorry, squirt. Your mom’s right. I’ve just been really stressed out lately with everything going on. I shouldn’t have bought them. I promise I’ll stop.”
Fiona squints her eyes at me and wags her finger in my face. “I’ll be watching you, Auntie Finley. Just because we’re rich now, doesn’t mean you can just go crackers!”
I stare at her in disbelief, baffled by the irony in her last sentence. Of all three of us, I’m the only one that hasn’t gone completely certifiable yet. Never mind the British accent, before they woke me up Saturday morning, Fiona had already contacted a realtor about finding our next house, listing the number one item on our wish list as a gourmet chef’s kitchen, including a commercial-grade hibachi grill with surrounding seating so that she can cook for house guests like they’re at Benihana, her favorite restaurant. How quickly she’s forgotten she almost burnt our townhouse down with a microwave fire not three days ago. But somehow, this is a good idea.
Then, my brilliant sister calling the local news stations the morning after to tell them we had the ticket, not giving a single thought to the overwhelming backlash that would occur after. We haven’t even been home since we left for the press conference due to the media camped outside on the front sidewalk, while tourists and other passersby stopped to find out what’s going on. Our safety, primarily Fiona’s, is a big concern, so my first expenditure as a millionaire has been on fulltime security, to ensure no one tries to off one of us to get their hands on the winning ticket. Hence, our need to camp out at a hotel under an alias, just buying stuff on our credit cards as we need it.
Within several hours of my name being released, I received over five hundred phone calls and texts; every family member within four degrees of separation, as well as at least half of the kids I went to high school with, reaching out to ‘congratulate’ me, a.k.a. remind me they’re alive for when I start making my Christmas list. And then there are the lawyers, the financial advisors, the estate planners, and the banks, every one of them promising they’re the top in the business and will always have my best interests at heart. I eventually just turned my phone off and decided to go get a new one sometime today, after we officially claim our prize and have another press conference at the California Lottery District Office, and then have a meeting with the lawyer we chose, both located here in the city.
I turn and divert my attention out the windshield at the police car in front of us, biting my lip not to tell Fiona what’s ‘crackers’ is the fact we need a police escort to make this trip, or why she’s using that damn word to begin with when we’re not talking about food! My stomach growls angrily, reminding my brain that I didn’t have any breakfast this morning, and it doesn’t appreciate my thoughts about food if I’m not going to actually eat something. But who knows when I’m going to have a chance to eat, and I’m not sure I could keep it down even if I do.
We approach the driveway of the lotto office and news trucks line the street for as far as I can see, causing me to groan internally. I’m ready for the excitement over all of this to die down, to try and find some kind of normalcy in whatever direction this new life takes us. Without the press, security, and money-hungry weirdos following us around.
The police escort clears the way for us to turn into the parking lot, and I wait for the off-duty officers to come open our doors and lead us inside, as we were instructed prior to leaving the hotel. Until we actually claim our prize, the ticket inside my purse is probably the most desired piece of paper in the country, so once this business to make it official is over and all of this legal stuff has been taken care of, I’ll feel much better about everything. I’ve gone from a twenty-one-year-old college student with no clue about what I want to do after I graduate to someone who has around-the-clock security and the need to hire a ‘team’ to manage my estate, and I’m freaking the fuck out on the inside.
And I still can’t stop thinking about Mr. Sexy Eyes. Wondering if he knows he left me the winning ticket. Or that I can’t stop dreaming about him doing deliciously dirty things to my body.
I shiver as I step out of the car, more from the recollection of my tantalizing dream and less from the cool wind whipping around my bare legs sticking out from under the dress Farrah insisted I wear. But the memory is short-lived when the sound of camera shutters rapidly firing off like machine guns fills the air, and I realize I’m the main target.
Gawking at the scene in front of me, a mob of reporters and cameramen all vying for my attention, I freeze on the sidewalk and suddenly struggle to breathe. The officer who opened my door stops along with me, reaching for my arm to help steady me. But he doesn’t move fast enough.
My vision narrows rapidly, and less than a second later… everything goes black.
“MS. FAREWELL, CAN you hear me? Blink once if you can hear me, Finley.” An unfamiliar male voice slices through the silence, abruptly jarring me from the dark.
My eyes fly open and I hastily blink the blurriness away, focusing on the handful of faces hovering over me. Farrah, Fiona, a cute police officer who looks vaguely familiar, and two people who I’ve never seen before. At least I don’t think I have. What in the world happened? Where am I? Why is everyone looking at me so weird? And why am I lying on some strange couch?
“Auntie Finley, you’re awake!” Fiona is the first to talk, throwing her arms around my neck and kissing my cheek, then adding, “I told you sucking those fags was bad for you!”
I gasp as my cheeks burn with embarrassment, everyone except Farrah looking horrified at the words that just came out of her young daughter’s mouth. My sister is too busy reveling in the relief that Fiona bought her smoking lie earlier than to realize what the other three people are currently visualizing me doing. Sweet Mother Mary, help me.
The officer finally breaks the awkwardness, and asks, “Do you feel okay? Think you can sit up? We have some water for you.”
I nod and gradually push myself up to sitting, accepting the bottle of water one of the strangers hands me. After a long, refreshing drink, and a few extra seconds to grasp my bearings, I ask, “What happened? How did we get…” I look around the office, searching for clues of where I am, but come up empty, “…here?”
“You’re at the Lottery Office, Ms. Farewell,” a middle-aged Asian man replies in a voice that matches the one I heard when I first woke up. “You were on your way here with your family to claim your winnings, but you fainted on the sidewalk before you made it inside. Do you remember that?”
Oh yeah. That.
“Yes, I remember. I just got a bit overwhelmed at all the people,” I explain with a sheepish smile, dropping my gaze down to my lap.
“Well, at least you put on a good show for them,” Farrah laughs, her bangle bracelets clanging together as she shakes her finger at me. “Those video clips might break the interweb once everyone sees ‘Fainting Finley Farewell.’”
Oh, good God, say it ain’t so. I’m going to be the laughing stock of the nation. Shit, with my luck, probably the world.
Groaning, I scrub my hands across my face while shaking my head. “Can we just do what we came here to do and leave?” I glance over at the two people who I’m assuming work for the Lottery Commission. “Not to be disrespectful, but I really just want to get all of this over with and go back to my hidey hole and, you know, like… hide from everyone.”
“No disrespect taken, Ms. Farewell,” the gray-haired woman, who’s been quiet up until now, says with an understanding smile. “Let me get the paperwork for you to sign, and then we’ll call everyone in for the press conference, only to tell them it has been cancelled, which will give you a few minutes to make a, hopefully, unnoticed escape.”
“Thank you,” I murmur, then stand up to follow her over to a desk.
&nb
sp; Over the next half hour, the nice woman, who I discover is named Ms. Warner, walks me through all of the forms and documents that need to be signed. I mourn the small forest that gave its life for the stack of papers we’re going through and make a mental note for one of my first charitable donations to be to some “Save the Trees” type organization. And when she explains the tax stuff, I pay close attention, not wanting to risk getting in trouble with the IRS.
Basically, when it’s all said and done and Uncle Sam takes his chunk, I’ll end up with a cash option lump sum payout of just under $114 million of the $270-million-dollar jackpot I won. The money will be wired to me in six to eight weeks, allotting me about a month to figure out where in the hell I’m going to put all of it. Which is why I need to choose a financial advisor and a wealth management planner sometime this week after we get recommendations from the attorney.
And here I thought winning the lottery was all about shopping sprees and taking vacations…
Ms. Warner shakes my hand one last time as her coworker ushers the media into the pressroom, creating a diversion for our escape. The fear of someone killing one of us for the ticket is thankfully gone, but the threat of crazies trying to get to us is not. The four officers box in Farrah, Fiona, and me, and, on command, we move hurriedly from a side door of the building to our cars.
My legs are still a bit wobbly from my fall earlier, but I manage to make it across the parking lot without incident. Unfortunately, the same can’t be said for Farrah, whose left high heel snaps about ten feet from the car. Letting out a shrill cry, she stumbles as her knee buckles, but catches herself on the bumper before hitting the concrete. The ruckus is enough to gather the attention of the few media who loiter around the main entrance, and when one of the officers yells, “Go! Hurry,” complete chaos breaks out.
Like something from a slapstick comedy, Farrah frantically searches in her purse for the keys, since she didn’t have the forethought to get them out ahead of time, and in the process, ends up dumping the contents of the largest handbag known to womankind on the ground. Fiona and I drop to our knees along with her, all three of us shoveling the mess — makeup, wallet, a compass, pens, random scribbled notes, tampons, a screwdriver, bobby pins, perfume, and more gum than one person can chew in a year — back into the purse while our security guys build a wall with their bodies, shielding us from the approaching stampede.
“Oh, my God! Oh, my God! Oh, my God!” Farrah freaks when her keys are nowhere to be found in the pile of randomness. She jumps to her feet, forgetting about the broken heel, only to tumble back down on her ass.
I glance over my shoulder to see how long we have before they reach us, and my heart sinks when I see it’s a matter of seconds. “Come on, think! What did you do with them when you got here?” I demand.
“I-I-I don’t know,” she wails, as she pats the front and back pockets of her pants. “Maybe I sat them down inside and forgot to pick them up.”
“What the hell, Farrah?” Irritation flares inside of me. My sister’s forgetfulness has caused us to be late to more events than I can count, usually it’s leaving behind her purse, her bus card, or a gift we’re taking to a party, but now that she has a car, keys are just one more thing she can misplace. And now is really not the fucking time to lose something!
“Mum! Mum!” Fiona shouts from the driver’s side door, as she peers inside the car window and points at the glass. “They’re in the car! I can see them!”
Both of us snap our focus over to where she is, pause a brief second in shock, then scramble to our feet and scurry over to open the door and get in. Fiona squeezes in the back seat first, then I speedily crawl over the middle console to the passenger seat. The officers rush to get in the two cop cars they came in as Farrah takes off her broken shoe and hurls it at the advancing crowd before dropping into the driver’s seat, shoving the key in the ignition, and peeling out in reverse. How she doesn’t hit one of the people looming around the Camaro is beyond me, but we somehow manage to flee the scene without anyone being injured or getting tailed.
It’s a full minute of silence in the car before my racing heart finally slows down enough for me to find my voice. “Well, that was…” I trail off, not sure of the right word to finish the sentence.
However, Fiona’s there to pick up the slack. “Bloody brilliant! Let’s do it again.”
I look back at her and scowl, shaking my head. “Yeah, let’s not.”
Finley
“I’M PRETTY SURE I can control the space station with this thing.” I stare down at my new cell phone, completely baffled at the number of apps, devices, and setting choices on it. Who in the world needs all of this crap?
Farrah scrunches her face up and she cocks her head to the side, staring at me dumbfounded. “But you don’t even like science, Fin. Why would you do that? I thought you wanted to be an English teacher or a word-checker or something?”
I blink, stupefied at her lack of vocabulary for a twenty-six-year-old, then look over at Fiona, who is chowing down on her “fish and chips,” as she ordered it. Sure looks like fish sticks and French fries to me.
“It’s called an editor, Mum,” my niece corrects her, while wiping a dab of ketchup from the corner of her mouth with the paper napkin, “and I think Auntie Finley was being sarcastic. You know what that word means, right?”
“Yes, smartalex, I know what sarcastic means, but you’re too young to understand the conception,” Farrah retorts, screwing up a couple more words.
Fiona rolls her eyes and shakes her head, shooting me the I-don’t-even-know-what-to-say look. I nod, stifling back a chuckle, happy I at least have someone to commiserate with.
It’s a little after one in the afternoon, and we’re sitting around the table in our hotel suite, eating the lunch we ordered via room service after a two-hour meeting with Mr. Moss, our newly-hired attorney. After the close-call at the lottery office, Farrah called him and asked him to come here to the hotel for our scheduled meeting, to avoid any further issues with the media, and he understandably agreed. Of course, he officially works for me now, so if I ask him to meet under the Golden Gate Bridge wearing nothing but a toga, he best show his ass up wrapped in a sheet for what I’m paying him.
The meeting answered many of the questions I had about what happens next. Mr. Moss assisted us in selecting a reputable financial consultant team consisting of a top-level advisor and an estate planner that we’re scheduled to meet with later this week. He also helped us open up a new account at our bank with a minimal-interest line of credit up to eleven million dollars that we can borrow against until our winnings pay out in a couple of months. As if I’m just going to spend eleven million dollars in the next sixty days.
He also recommended that we delete all social media accounts, change the numbers and passwords to all of our phones, tablets, and computers, and then have our immediate family do the same. I’d already gotten rid of all my stuff after my fifth marriage proposal over the weekend, but I hadn’t even thought about someone targeting Mom, Dad, or Fletcher to try to get to us and the money, and when he mentioned possible kidnapping and ransom situations, I almost told him I just wanted to give it all back. Sure, the idea of having more money than I could spend in ten lifetimes sounds phenomenal, but if anything happens to someone I love because of this, I’d never forgive myself. However, he was quick to follow up with saying the most important thing was that we all needed to be cautious and cognizant at all times, and of course, keeping security around us for the foreseeable future, especially while my name is still in the headlines, is imperative.
So naturally, the first thing I did after he left was call my parents and brother to warn them about everything he said, which they all just laughed off, insisting I was being paranoid. Frustrated when I hung up the phone with them, I called Mr. Moss and had him set up a full-time security detail for all three of them with instructions that none of them are aware of their presence unless necessary. Then, I hired a couple more officers
for my, Farrah, and Fiona’s team, upping the number to six, two assigned to each of us. Because you can’t be too careful. At least not right now, when everyone and their mom wants to be my BFF, my boyfriend, or to kill me.
“So are you trying to launch a shuttle, or are you not thinking about the bloke with the ticket again?” Fiona smirks, her tone dripping in that concept she’s too young to understand.
I lay the phone down on the white table cloth and reach over to tickle her tummy. “Neither, smartalex,” I snicker. “And why do you keep assuming I’m thinking about him? I don’t know enough about him to have many thoughts other than I wish I knew who he was so I could…”
“So you could what?” she asks through her giggles, batting my hands away. “Tell him you love him and want to make rich, blue-eyed babies with him?”
“What?” I gasp, pausing momentarily as she catches me off guard with her not-too-far-off-the-mark theory.
She takes advantage of my stunned state and leaps up out of her chair and takes off running for the bedroom. Hot on her heels, I catch her in two strides then pick her up and throw her over my shoulder like a sack of potatoes.
“What do you know about love and making babies, you little squirt?” I demand, as I toss her on the nearby couch, resuming my tickle torture attack.
“Nothing,” she squeals, wiggling and flopping around like a fish out of water. “Nothing, I swear. I heard it on the tele.”
“On the tele, huh?” I stop tickling her and paste on a serious face before looking over my shoulder to where Farrah still sits at the table, finishing her BLT, unfazed by anything going on around her. “Hey, Farrah, I think we’re gonna have to get rid of TVs in our new house. Fiona says it taught her about love and making babies.”
Fiona desperately tries to cover my mouth with her hand to keep me from talking. “I did not!” she backtracks, still laughing, barely able to catch her breath. “And you can’t take away my cooking shows, Auntie Finley! I need them to get better!”