I jerked as some idiot tapped me on the shoulder.
“Are you ready?” she asked with beady, jealous eyes. Jealous that I’d won and not her. Jealous that I got to live the life everyone dreamed.
Having money meant my entire world had changed. Including who I was, my name, and every other identifying piece of me. I needed to learn my new address before I got caught and the sham came tumbling down.
Clearing my throat, I nodded. “Yes...fine.”
“Right this way, please.”
Swiping a hand through my hair, I tried to tame the thick black strands courtesy of my heritage and reluctantly followed the organiser hugging her clipboard.
She moved briskly but with a sexy sway. No doubt for my benefit. Not because she wanted me but because she wanted the pennies and dollars that’d magically appeared in my life.
“Right through there. You’re on in three minutes.”
Not replying, I marched onto the set, fighting the urge to tuck my hands into my pockets. My hands were my prized possessions. Every thief knew that if his fingers were hurt, there went his livelihood and any chance at surviving. I had another reason...my fingers were priceless because they gave me music to calm my chaotic thoughts and somehow connected me to my dead father, keeping his kindness alive.
I missed him.
I missed Kade.
I missed a simpler life where lies weren’t the only things keeping me from going to prison for a very long time.
Christ, why am I doing this again?
Because it was the rule.
Win this big, and you were subjected to a televised interview. Mostly for the public’s benefit, so they could see the system wasn’t a scam, and everyone would keep playing, keep spending, keep stupidly dreaming.
One day, if they were lucky, they could be here...in my shoes.
Not my torn and dirty Adidas from my days on the streets, but the expensive, pretentious loafers by some prick called Givenchy.
“Take a seat, Mr. Prest.” The interviewer smiled, pointing at a red velvet chair next to him. It would just be us on that stark white space with the backdrop of the lotto logo bearing its celebratory colours and floating dollar bills.
I sat, fighting every instinct to run. A pickpocket never showed their face. That was why we never hit the same place on consecutive days. We followed the tourists, careful never to be pegged by an overzealous local or donut-loving cop.
A cameraman stepped into the harsh lights with a snap board showing my name and the episode number.
How many idiots had done this before me? How many of them still had the money? No matter that I already had grand plans for my stolen winnings, I refused to be a dick with it. I would use it to make more. I would formulate everything I needed to have my revenge.
And then it would be all over.
I would beg for forgiveness and ensure I paid every penny back.
“On air in three, two, one.” The cameraman mouthed, snapped the board, and vanished into the darkness past the recording lights.
Fuck, this was truly happening.
My host didn’t look at me, staring with a bright, idiotic smile down the lens at an audience I didn’t want to see. “Welcome, ladies and gentlemen, to the weekly interview of our lotto millionaires. Let’s begin by welcoming Elder Prest and giving him a warm congratulations on his recent win.”
I wanted to rip the cameras apart. To tell everyone in their homes to stop watching. They didn’t need to know who I was. They didn’t need to see a shame-riddled liar.
The presenter, with his over-hair-sprayed brown pompadour—and holy shit, is he wearing mascara?—smiled in my direction. “First, tell us, Elder, how it feels to have won such a large amount?”
I balled my hands. What was I supposed to say? It’s amazing, and it’s changed my life, and I’m ever so fucking grateful?
Those were lies, and I’d had enough of them.
I wouldn’t bow to these assholes. If I was a pickpocket, then they were involved in a larger theft. The lottery was a Ponzi scheme, and somehow, I’d become the head of it.
When I didn’t answer, the presenter prompted. “Eh, how about you tell our viewers your first thought when you were informed that the lotto ticket you’d purchased was worth seven hundred and ninety-eight million dollars?”
Shit, those numbers didn’t seem real. They still didn’t—even though they’d appeared in the hastily created bank account under my new false name. Getting the forgeries to do such a thing had been yet another headache-inducing story.
I muttered, “It took a lot of getting used to.”
And I didn’t buy the ticket, you asshole, I stole it from some poor guy’s wallet.
The win had a sour taste because it was destined for someone else. Did they need the money? Did they even know what they’d had?
The poor schmuck’s license sat in my pocket even now. Ever since I walked into that convenience store with his stolen wallet, wanting to buy a bottle of water to slake my day-old thirst, I’d carried the license around as a good luck charm and a reminder of what a bastard I was.
I’d paid for the drink with a five-dollar bill from his wallet. Along with the bill popped out a scrunched-up lottery ticket. The perky attendant had snatched it up before I could stuff it back into the well-used leather and squealed as she scanned it for me. Bells rang, lights flashed, she bounced up and down like a moron.
I almost fled the scene, thinking I’d been set up and the cops were on the way. Only for her to shove the monitor in my face and reveal all those terrifying numbers.
I was the winner.
Of the biggest jackpot in years.
I’d won.
No, he’d won.
And I, the thief, had stolen it.
I’d torn away any chance he had of quitting his job, spoiling his wife, and giving his children the kind of future only a select few could dream of.
I’d not only stolen his wallet.
I’d stolen his life.
And shit, that guilt? It was just as bad as killing my father and brother because I’d killed an alternative life for my victim—a life he would never know thanks to me.
That night, I’d become blind drunk and spilled the news to Selix. If it wasn’t for him, I would’ve ripped up the winning ticket instead of officially lodging it the next day. Only because we’d fought as enemies for so long did I listen to his friendship and sage advice.
He was the reason I was dressed like a fucking peacock and accepting false congratulations. And the bastard refused to take half. Hell, I’d even slurred around the cheap vodka that he could have it all. That my karma was too sullied to accept another false achievement.
But he’d flatly refused.
Some noble reason he never told me and still to this day kept secret. He preferred to be second, not first, but without him...I doubted I’d still be alive to even think about accepting almost one billion dollars.
After that fateful night, my life had been a whirlwind of executive meetings, form signings, and limelight interviews that I cursed to the depths of hell.