Page 15 of The Last Days of Lilah Goodluck

“Yeah. But still...would you say that the bulk of your breakups were brought about by your own actions?”

“No comment.”

“How much downtime do you tend to have between partners? Are you actually comfortable on your own, or is that a problem for you?”

“Still no comment.”

“Were these relationships largely based on sex or friendship or what exactly?”

“You’re just going for broke now, aren’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Lilah,” he says in a chiding tone, “for shame. I’m beginning to think the second bottle of champagne was a mistake. Now give me the lotto ticket so I can check the numbers.”

It’s like he throws cold water in my face. All levity disappears without a trace. “It’s time?”

He nods somberly.

My hand is shaking as I search through my purse. Meanwhile, he pulls up the lotto website on his cell. And sure enough, it has been updated. “Read them out to me,” I say, holding the ticket. And now it’s shaking too.

There’s no dawdling or telling me it is going to be all right. He just gets down to business. “Five, eight, twelve, twenty-four, thirty-nine, and forty-three.”

The blood drains out of my face. I feel lightheaded, wooziness taking over. There is every chance I am about to vomit or faint or fuck knows what.

“Lilah?” he asks. When I don’t respond, he takes the ticket from my hand. His gaze roams over it, his face dead serious. “You got five numbers.”

“Yeah. I—I knew I didn’t remember them all.” I sound so calm, and yet my head is spinning in circles. “She rattled them off so fast, and I was a little distracted from almost getting hit by a car and being told that my boyfriend was cheating on me and so on. But five. Huh. Not bad.”

“Shit.” He grabs hold of my upper arm to hold me steady. “Lilah, you’re okay. It doesn’t mean anything. Apart from you having won some cash. You’re going to be fine. It’s just...”

“What. It’s just what?”

“It’s just five numbers,” he says in the same calm tone. “You have to be rational about this. It doesn’t mean you’re going to die.”

“Thank you for waiting with me.” I grab the bottle of champagne and hug it against my chest. Who cares about cold and damp? This baby is most definitely going to come in handy when I get home and have my second serious meltdown of the weekend. If I can just hold out until I get there. “But I think I should go now.”

“Don’t get a car,” he says. “I’ll drive you.”

“Okay. Thanks.”

As soon as we step outside, a bright light blinds me. It’s the flash from a camera. The paparazzo is a stout figure dressed in all black. “Is this your new girl, Alistair? What’s your name, sweetheart?”

I give him serious stink eye. Random endearments from strange men will never not be gross.

My companion ignores him completely and keeps his body between me and the photographer at all times. With a hand to my lower back, he ushers me along the sidewalk to where his car is parked. Guess he decided the parking lot was too dangerous. He opens the passenger-side door and I climb inside. Whatever sort of car it is, it’s compact. It has leather seats and an immaculate interior. Lord knows what it’s worth.

The paparazzo keeps taking shots, both visual and verbal. “Heard from your father lately? How about the Prince of Wales’s engagement? Do you think you’ll get an invitation to the wedding?”

The demanding voice is only drowned out when Alistair shuts the driver’s-side door and starts the engine. He only had the one glass of champagne, so he is fine to drive. And he wastes no time in leaving.

“Sorry about that,” he mutters.

“Not your fault.”

“Where do you live?”

I give him the address, then sit and stare straight ahead and do not think. A nice calm, empty mind, that’s what we want. In the small confines of the car, however, I’m suddenly overly aware of the male sitting beside me. Better I fixate on him than my apparent dire fate. Being famous doesn’t seem half as much fun as I thought. It’s a good thing I set aside my childhood dreams of becoming a pop star. Not being able to sing worth a damn helped cement the decision. But being stalked and harassed the way Alistair is must suck. He doesn’t say a word during the drive either. Not until we arrive outside my apartment building. Home sweet home.

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