Muscle

by Lexi Whitlow

  “Brian will meet you downstairs and take you to the airport. Tell your mother I send my best.”

  I nod, feeling rattled as the elevator doors open. I’m heading out using the freight elevator down through the kitchen to avoid the crowds. Brian—a security guy who looks like a Navy SEAL—has been by my side for the last few days leading up to all this. It’s been weird having him around, but since finding out I won, I’ve read all the horror stories of people who won a lot less money than me. They’re stalked, assaulted, kidnapped, and attacked. The homicide rate for a multi-million-dollar lottery winner is twenty-times higher than the general public. Higher than that if you’re young and male.

  Everything comes with a price.

  Once at the airport, safely tucked inside the VIP lounge in the General Aviation terminal, Brian shakes my hand, wishing me luck. Mom, me, and Drake are flying a private, chartered jet to Orlando. It makes sense, given the security concerns immediately following the press conference, and the fact that Drake has never flown. We’re not sure how he’s going to react. If he has a meltdown, mid-air, I sure don’t want him calling attention to us, surround by three-hundred curious passengers.

  Mom hugs me tight as soon as I’m with her and Drake.

  “I saw you on TV,” she says. “You did good. Honestly, I wouldn’t have recognized you myself, until you started talking.”

  “How’s he doing?” I nod toward him where he’s sitting across from the bar with his nose down to his tablet and his thumbs and fingers flying over the screen.

  “He’s okay, so far,” she says. “He’s more interested in his video games than the fact that we’re taking a long vacation.”

  The jet is here, our bags are already on and they’re just waiting for us to board.

  “You ready to go, Drake?” I ask, settling into the chair across from him.

  He ignores me.

  “Hey, Drake. Time to put the game up for a few minutes. We’ve got a plane to catch.”

  He shakes me off, then starts rocking. He doesn’t stop playing.

  Please don’t let this be hard. It’s time to start bargaining.

  “Drake, I’ll buy you the biggest, best pizza you ever had in your entire life once we get to Orlando, if you’ll just put the game away and come with me and Mom.”

  “What kind?” he asks, not even glancing away from the game, his fingers moving faster than my eyes can follow.

  “Absolutely anything you want. Thick crust, meat-lovers, with extra cheese. They invented pizza in Orlando, man. It’s the best in the world.”

  “Is not,” he says. “Chicago.”

  Shit. He knows everything.

  “Okay, Orlando’s the second best, and Orlando has Disney. Put the game down so we can go to Disney World.”

  Drake glances in my direction, then back down. “Are we going now?”

  “Right now. Disney. Epcot. The whole ball o’ wax. And pizza.”

  And a bottle of whiskey and a steak if I have anything to do with it.

  “Okay.” Drake swipes his finger across the screen, shutting it down, then he starts rocking back and forth. I stand, showing him the way toward Mom and our fancy transportation. He doesn’t seem to mind the bustle and activity all around us. I think he’s trying to roll with the plan, as odd as it must seem to him.

  He’s been great through this whole thing. He kept the secret. I didn’t think he could, but as always, he surprised me.

  As soon as we board the jet—which is sleek, and shiny, and smells like money—I instantly notice a turn in the air.

  The flight crew welcomes us on board, addressing me as “Sir,” and “Mr. Chandler.” A leggy redhead in a sexy uniform hands me a drink before I can even sit down. She smiles teasingly, telling me to let her help me if there’s anything I need. I can think of a few things she could help me with, but that would be inappropriate, especially considering my Mom and brother are with me.

  I’m astonished at how well Drake does with the flight. He’s anxious with the take-off, but Mom’s even worse. Once we’re airborne he goes back to his video game without batting an eyelash over the fact that we’re forty thousand feet above the planet, with the whole Atlantic coastline laid below us, right out the window.

  The rest of the day proves a surreal adventure. We’re met at the charter jet terminal in Orlando by a woman named April from the Omni resort. She introduces herself as a Hospitality Coordinator, explaining it’s her job to make sure we make the most of our stay. All I want to do is get into the room and crash, but as soon as she has us in the chauffeured SUV on the way to the resort, she starts talking fast about golf courses, swimming pools, spas, and everything in between.

  I hold up my hand at the ten-minute mark of her pitch. She stops talking, her mouth half-open, waiting.

  “We’re going to be here for a while,” I say. “We don’t need to know about everything at once. The one, crucial thing I need to know is, who has the best pizza in Orlando, and can we pick it up on our way in?”

  Drake grins, rocking, flapping his hands. “’Lando Pizza!” he bellows. “’Lando Pizza!”

  “Of course,” April says. “Why didn’t you say so?”

  She has the pizza waiting for us at the Villa when we arrive half an hour later. It’s still steaming hot as Drake lifts the lid, diving in, caring not a whit about anything else.

  April sets the villa keys on the counter along with her card.

  “Get settled in,” she says, smiling sweetly. “If you have any questions or concerns, if you need anything at all, please don’t hesitate to call me. I’m at your service, Mr. Chandler.”

  When she’s gone, I finally take a breath. For the first time in days, I’m alone with Mom and my brother. I look around, getting the lay of the place, while Mom does the same thing.

  “Logan, this is like something out of a movie,” she says, running her finger over the gleaming marble counter tops my brother is busy smearing with pizza grease. The expression on her face speaks to her wonder at our transformed condition.

  Last week we had enough money to pay the electric bill or my health insurance premium, but not both. Today we’re flying private jets and hanging in a villa that’s fit for a king. There’s a fully stocked bar in the living room, a piano by a big picture window, a giant flat screen mounted to the wall, and beyond us is a view of a tropical green scape that’s simply stunning.

  It’s hard to believe.

  This morning, before the press conference, Tim sat me down and told me that it would feel strange, like I was impersonating someone else, and he’s right. He said that rather than trying to be myself and act as if everything is the same, to embrace the change—within reason.

  “Go shopping. Buy new clothes. Pay for a massage, a manicure. The kinds of things that you’d never do otherwise,” he said. “Be good to yourself. Don’t feel guilty about it. You can afford it, and you’re not taking anything away from anyone by doing it. Keep your head about you, and don’t carry a lot of cash. Act like you belong in your own skin, and no one else will question you.”

  ‘…a manicure,’ he said. I laugh to myself, inspecting my still filthy hands. I worked at Joe’s right up until the day before yesterday, taking shit off the boss and customers alike, up to my biceps in grime.

  No more. A manicure and some new clothes sounds just about right. A massage would be cool too. I used to get those when I played ball for the Buckeyes; all athletes do. Nothing weird about it. It’s good for you.

  “Your wheels are spinning,” Mom says, her eyes smiling. “What’s turning around in your brain, son?”

  I haul in a deep breath, taking in the dense, tropical air. I let it go slowly, releasing some pent-up tension along with it.

  “Nothing much,” I say. “Just… I think I’m gonna enjoy getting used to this.”

  After dinner (one of the better steaks I’ve ever enjoyed), while drinking top-shelf whiskey from the living room bar stock, I sit back with my feet up, taking in the sum of the
day. I’ve got a plan for tomorrow (a rental car and shopping,) and a plan for the day after (finding the gym and this spa I’ve heard so much about.) I know, generally, what I’m going to do after that, and it all has to do with good ways to put this money to work for something useful. But tonight, I just want to soak it up.

  Mom is out taking a walk, exploring the grounds of the resort. Judging by the drive in and the photos on the promotional material they’ve left with us, that tour could take a while. The grounds look gorgeous and expansive. Drake is in his room watching some Marvel Superhero movie on Netflix. It sounds like the world is coming to an end in there, but he loves that shit.

  I’ve got just one thing I want to do tonight, before I pack it in for the evening. It’s ill-advised, strictly against the rules of how to manage post-lottery-winner life, but I’ve followed all the other rules to the letter, and there’s no way in hell anyone from home knows where we are now.

  I brought my old phone with me. The service is still active through tomorrow morning. I just want to see if the deluge is as bad as everyone says. It’s sheer curiosity motivating me. I won’t respond to anyone, or make any calls. I just want to see.

  I turn the phone on, waiting patiently while it cycles up. It only takes a minute.

  Wow.

  One-hundred-six missed telephone calls—since noon. Jesus.

  I open my text messaging app and am astonished to see an endless list of missed texts, and they’re still coming in. The phone vibrates in my hand as one after another load. I scroll the list, recognizing only a few names. The overwhelming majority are unknown to me. I see one from Steve at work, ‘Lucky SOB,’ and another from Joe, ‘WTF? You quit with no notice? Thanks.’

  “Fuck you too, Joe,” I say out loud. “Chiseling bastard.”

  There are hundreds more. I roll past them all, about to give up and shut the phone off, when I see one from a number I don’t recognize. The first line begins, ‘Bryn Beckett here…’

  I open the text to read the full message.

  Bryn Beckett here. I had to hunt to find your number. I know you probably won’t get this, but just in case, I want you to know how happy I am for you. Be smart. Keep your head down. Enjoy it—but not too much.