Thousands

by Pepper Winters

  But no matter how many hours I’d tried...I couldn’t do it. The folds didn’t work, the creases didn’t compute in my brain. I’d become far too frustrated and ready to tear up the money rather than create art with it.

  This was Elder’s expertise, and if I was to learn, I needed the master to teach me directly. It didn’t matter that this lesson came with other intentions as well—veiled and secret research into him as a person.

  Smoothing out the creases from my failed attempts, I deliberately placed four notes on the table and pushed them toward him.

  His shoulders stiffened. His hands unwrapped from around his knife and fork. “What’s this?”

  “I want you to teach me origami.”

  “Now?”

  “I’m not really hungry.”

  He looked up. Our eyes glued together, and once again, that nasty tingly tension sprang into awareness.

  Please let this work.

  I needed a kernel of hope if I was ever going to attempt seducing Elder again.

  Seduce?

  That word...what a foreign word.

  What a strange concept that I could even think about seducing someone.

  Pride immediately followed my surprise. How far I’d come from deploring sex to scheming ways in which to earn it. How quickly I’d braved my past to clutch onto the passion Elder made me feel.

  I ought to be embarrassed for orgasming on his leg yesterday; instead, I found myself sitting taller. He’d given me that release, but if I hadn’t wanted it, no way could I have achieved it.

  I wanted sex.

  I want sex.

  My jaw slackened as I finally came to terms with such a strange epiphany.

  I was a woman, and Elder was a man, and I loved him and lusted for him.

  I needed to know everything there was to know about the way his mind worked before I did something that put us in danger.

  We were a recipe for gunpowder...with our fuse growing ever shorter and more volatile.

  Besides, all of this was because of him. My world was in an upheaval thanks to falling in love. And I liked to think his life was in an upheaval because of me, too. I would take responsibility for ruining his peace, but it didn’t mean I wouldn’t do my damnedest to find a cure that would work for both of us.

  “All right...” He pushed his plate away and fisted the notes. If I wasn’t watching for a purpose; if I wasn’t peering at him like he was an experiment, I might’ve missed it.

  But sure enough, as he counted the bills and found four and not his welcome three, his lips twisted in disgust. His body twitched as if the extra note was abhorrent. But then his disapproval was gone, and he placed the notes on the table before peeling one off the top and snapping it between his fingers. “Origami takes patience.”

  “I have patience.”

  “It takes a steady hand.”

  “I’m steady.”

  I sat on my shaking hands, doing my best to hide my lie. I didn’t have concrete evidence that three was the magic number with Elder, nor should my mind be awash with scenarios of pouncing on him and forcing him to make love to me purely to see if he’d end after taking me three times.

  But the more I studied him, the more my belly liquefied and the more I craved. It was past rational at this point. I’d walked away from him to stop this behaviour. I’d left him to protect him from the awakening inside me.

  But I couldn’t ignore my female to his male anymore. The lust to his desire.

  “You need to come closer if I’m going to show you.” His voice turned dark with a hint of soot.

  Scooting my chair closer, the hairs on the back of my neck rose as Elder bent toward me then discarded the dollar on the table. Arching sideways, he pulled his wallet from his back trouser pocket. “We’ll do this on a different note, okay?”

  I expected him to pull out worthless paper—after all, why waste money when I was a beginner. Instead, he yanked free a ten-pound note. The currency of my home. The colours and details just as I remembered.

  “Pounds from England?”

  He nodded. “We’ll be there in a few days. It’s appropriate.”

  I’d started this purely to find some way into his lap, but now he’d pulled out a tenner and his eyes glittered with harsh intelligence, I found myself wanting the fake lesson.

  His hair slipped over his forehead as he bent and smoothed the bill on the tablecloth. “It’s not square, so that’s your first challenge. Most origami—or at least the easier designs—are with perfect squares.”

  “I want to do what you do.”

  He smiled sadly. “Believe me...you don’t.”

  Believe me...I do.

  Silence thickened my heartbeat, and Elder somehow pulled away from me. Not physically but something mental and internal captured his attention, stealing him from the dining room, from the Phantom, from this moment.

  Regret shadowed his features, followed by a cringe of denial and shame. Such thick, thick shame.

  He fingered the money as if it wasn’t his but something he’d stolen. It wasn’t just an innate piece of paper with the value stamped on the face—it was a reminder to him...a reminder of what?

  What could he be thinking to justify such self-hatred?

  I placed my hand over his, cupping the ten-pound note. “What is it?”

  Shaking himself, he blinked. “Nothing.”

  “It’s something.”

  “Nothing you need to know.”

  “Everything I want to know.”

  His lips pursed, his eyes dancing from my mouth to my nose to my gaze. “If I tell you, you’ll once again think differently of me.”

  “I’ve never once thought differently of you—no matter what you’ve told me.”

  His fingers flinched under mine as if trying to deny the truth. Not once had I feared his honesty, nor had I made him regret showing me what he hid deep inside. I hadn’t asked questions about his father and brother’s death even though his mother blamed him. I didn’t demand to know if he was a good guy or bad because my heart had made its choice.

  “Tell me...”

  He sighed heavily, crushing the note beneath his palm. “You might as well know.”

  “Know what?”

  “How big a fraud I am.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  ______________________________

  Elder

  * Ten Years Ago *

  LIFE HADN’T ALWAYS been this way for me.

  I hadn’t always been respected for my wealth or shunned because of my unsavoury background. That was entirely new.

  Three weeks to be exact.

  Twenty-one days ago, I was invisible. I got by with pickpocketing the rich who now knocked on my fucking door to be friends. My fingers that’d been taught to be nimble at snatching a wallet after being a maestro with a cello were now imprisoned with more money than I could ever spend.

  What the fuck am I supposed to do with that?

  And why did people care what existed in my damn bank account when deciding if I was a good or bad?

  I was bad.

  Through and through.

  I’d stolen this life, not earned it. It wasn’t luck or karma or any other happy circumstances. Only Selix knew the truth, and the truth ate me up inside until I was riddled with more holes than I could bear.

  I already had far too much guilt to carry. This? It just added another world of hurt.

  I’d wanted to give it back.

  All of it...every penny.

  But that was before Selix took thievery and twisted it into a more acceptable concept.

  A loan. A helping hand. Borrowing from someone to fix my past, absolve my sins, and ensure my family was never in danger again because of me.

  So here I fucking was.

  Swallowing my shame, going by a new name, and doing my best to keep the truth locked deep down tight and lie to everyone. I lied to the station producer. I lied to the news anchor. I lied to every useless person watching this program.


  It was a goddamn shit-show. And I was angry. So damn angry.

  These ingrates wanted to know me. They pretended to like me so they might stand a chance at stealing what was now mine. But they would never know me. I would never let them get close to knowing me. My value of the human race had been low before this had started. Now it was in the fucking gutter.

  “Mr. Prest.”

  I pulled at the collar of my shirt, hating the tight confines of expensive blazers and ties. Before, I’d lived in hoodies and jeans—things I could move fast in, run quick in, and vanish into crowds without being caught.

  Now, I was adorned in appropriate rich-man’s wardrobe, and it suffocated me.

  These people wanted to know me? Well, tough shit. I’d never tell them about my days on the streets, the worry of not being able to afford healthcare for myself or my mother, and the god-awful truth that I was the reason we were homeless.

  Not that those circumstances had mattered when I’d stolen the one thing that’d changed my life faster than a fairy fucking godmother and ensured I’d never be alone again if I didn’t want to be. I could buy affection, bribe friends, and pay for anything I wanted.

  I had money, and people loved money even if you were a liar, a cheater, and a con-artist.

  Turned out, the only thing it couldn’t buy was family.

  And I knew...I’d tried.

  After I grew used to the idea of borrowing the money instead of outright stealing it, I decided to give most of it to my mother. I envisioned her welcoming me back, letting me resume my place, and forgiving me.

  She’d merely spat on me and told me never to call her Mother again.

  “Uh, Mr. Prest?”

  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 officia
lly 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.

  I’d never had money. I’d been happy in my family of lower means with my beaten up cello, annoying little brother, and strict but doting parents.

  Everything I ever loved was gone.

  And who was to blame?

  The Chinmoku.

  The TV interview suddenly went from fakery to full of purpose.

  I’d been burning with the need to extract revenge and honour the deaths of my family for years. Now, I had a way to bring that revenge to fruition.

  In a fit of rage, I decided to use this fleeting fame to my benefit. Glowering down the camera lens, I answered the questions the presenter asked. I preened for the suckers at home wishing they were in my shoes and dreaming of the day they’d have such a stroke of luck.

  Meanwhile, I placed gauntlet after gauntlet on the Chinmoku.

  I’d changed my name but not my face.

  If they were watching, they’d know I wouldn’t give up. It was them or me. And eventually, they’d hunt me down. I’d buy every weapon I could and learn every skill there was so I could murder them one by one when they finally did.

  Revenge and payback—two things I’d dedicate my life to.

  One of death and one of debts.

  After that night, I kept Oliver Gold’s license in my wallet, and paid an private investigator to hunt down his address, social security, and bank account details, and sent him thirty million dollars.