Page 1 of Just My Luck

1

Lincoln couldn’t quite remember how he’d gotten here. He was standing in the dining room of his home on Mulholland—thirty-point-two-million dollars, six bedrooms, four baths, views to the Pacific Ocean. He knew that much; but wasn’t he supposed to be somewhere else? Why had he woken up here?

And why was he barefoot? Where were his shoes? His phone? His household staff?

“Vernon!”

“Yes, sir.” His butler stepped forward from the shadows. Lincoln wanted to hug him with relief, but that dignified fellow would frown on such a breach of etiquette. He wore a dark suit with a crisp white shirt underneath. He had the bearing of a king. Even though Vernon had grown up a dirt-poor kid from Alabama and Lincoln in the lap of Savannah luxury, they’d always connected with each other.

“Vernon, do you ever wonder why it is that you serve me instead of the other way around?”

It was an odd thing to say, very out of character, but Vernon barely blinked. “I believe it’s due to the fact that you pay my salary.”

“Right. Good point.” Why had he even asked that? He pressed his hand to his forehead. Was he feverish?

“Are you ready for dinner, sir?”

Was it dinnertime? Hadn’t he just woken up? He looked toward the far end of the dining room, where the French doors were open to allow the warm Southern California breeze to waft into the house. Sure enough, it was dark out there. Far below, the twinkle of city lights spread across the vast basin of the city of Los Angeles.

“Sure. Dinner sounds good.” Maybe his blood sugar was low.

Vernon pulled out his chair for him. “Have a seat, young sir.”

Young sir? Vernon hadn’t called him that since he’d first hired him fifteen years ago. He’d never liked being called “sir” anyway. He wasn’t a “sir.” He was a pretender. An outsider. An unwelcome disrupter.

He sat down in the chair—a Eero Saarinen midcentury classic—and discovered that his feet didn’t touch the floor. His legs were too short, and his hands were those of a kid, with dirty fingernails and scratches from climbing a tree and…

He blinked and the illusion was gone. He felt the polished rosewood floor settle under his bare feet. Stretching out his hands, he saw they were normal again. Good lord, he needed some food, right away.

Just outside the open doors, the blue glow of his swimming pool looked almost otherworldly thanks to its recessed lighting. Lush vegetation surrounded it, as if he lived in a rainforest instead of a place that only got fourteen inches of rain a year, most of which came all at once during mudslide season. Rainforest…jungle…something danced at the edges of his mind.

Vernon reappeared with a dinner plate, which he positioned in the place setting that was already set up—linen napkin, gleaming silverware.

“Thank you, Vernon. This looks excellent.”

“Maximum nutritional benefit guaranteed, as ever.”

“What would I do without you?”

“Lose muscle mass, I fear.”

“The horror.”

They shared a smile, then Vernon receded toward the edge of the room. He disappeared so quickly that Lincoln peered after him, trying to make out his form in the shadows. But he couldn’t.

Strange. Why was it so dark? The pool of light from the overhead chandelier—an unusual one carved from onyx—lit up the table, but nothing else. Maybe his housekeeper had switched up the lighting controls.

Giving up, he focused on the contents of his plate. As per his instructions, the meal was a perfect balance of protein and vegetables. The nature of the protein didn’t matter much to him, as long as it was high-quality, but this evening, it looked to be veal.

A printed menu card was propped to the left of his plate. New Zealand Veal Piccatta with Spinach and Strawberry Salad, it read, along with a list of every ingredient and a breakdown of its nutritional content. His chef worked closely with his nutritionist and his team of longevity experts to craft each meal.

He looked at the card again. It read, Sesame Wakame Salad. Hadn’t it said Strawberry Salad a moment ago? Maybe he hadn’t read it closely enough the first time. Peering at the salad nestled next to the veal, he saw glistening strands of seaweed instead of juicy red slices of strawberry.

That was it. He’d read it too quickly the first time.

A silver dish of supplements sat to the right of his plate. They were part of his longevity regime, and so far, it was all working well. Lincoln was thirty-seven years old but his body was functioning like that of a twenty-five-year old. Peak fitness. Peak performance. That was what he was aiming for.

He swallowed down the pills and cut himself a piece of veal. He had the impulse to scroll on his phone, but ignored it. Multitasking was bad for the brain. If there was one thing he feared more than anything else, it was loss of cognitive function. Losing his ability to think quickly. Losing his mind. Losing control. No.