Taylor had won the lottery when she was born. She was aware of it, in a casual sort of way, and appreciated it, in much the same way, but it was sometimes hard to grasp that not everyone was as lucky as she was.

Everyone she knew was rich, for example. She knew not everyone out there beyond Beverly Hills had a lot of money, in an intellectual sort of way. Someone had to park cars and cook her food and wait on her in stores and stuff, after all. But it wasn't something she thought much about. Poverty simply wasn't a part of her life.

There was her, her family, her friends and acquaintances, and then that great mass of people who brought food to her table at restaurants or got in her way when she was driving her BMW at the speeds she wanted to go.

She was a little irked to still be driving the BMW, in fact. Her father had given it to her as a present when she was sixteen, and that was almost three years ago! She had been pestering him for a Porsche for some time now.

Again, she was aware that people actually took buses (!) and had no cars at all, but that wasn't something she really thought about very often. Everyone she knew had nice cars, after all. Those who drove themselves around at all, as opposed to using limos.

Sitting in a limo had a certain cachet to it, and she had occasionally suggested to her father that they ought to have one. He seemed to prefer driving his Mercedes, though, even though he was always complaining about the traffic.

She slowed and then stopped as she reached Rodeo Drive, annoyed at the lack of parking, and annoyed at the cars which started to honk behind her, as she looked around for somewhere nearby to pull over.

She absently raised her middle finger to whoever behind her was honking as she rose up in the convertible to get a better view. She spotted a place up ahead on the left, so dropped back down, put the BMW in gear, and lurched forward. She pulled a U-turn, causing more honking, then slid into the empty parking spot with a sense of irritable satisfaction.

Stupid, noisy people. Honestly, what was their problem, anyway?

She got out of the car, five inch stilettos raising her up considerably higher than her five feet eight inches, and making her long legs seem longer still as she flounced around the car and headed up the sidewalk.

“Hey, you can't park there.”

She turned her head, startled, staring briefly at a man... he was some sort of minority... holding a rake of all things. She felt a sense of surprise such a person had actually spoken to her. Did he expect her to speak back!? Honestly!

She turned her head away and kept walking.

As if such a person could tell her what she could do? Couldn't park? She'd already parked! What was his problem?

She forgot about him within five yards, her eyes scanning the windows until she found Dimagio's Furs. She was planning on a ski trip to Colorado next month and wanted to be dressed nicely.

She knew she would look adorable in fur! Preferably mink. Black set off her blonde hair so nicely! Kyle would think she was so hot wearing a stylish black fur coat, and maybe a hat, if it was cute and didn't mess her hair up.

***

Half an hour later she left the store, quite pleased. The coat wasn't with her, of course. They would be making it, creating it, just for her, and it would be ready later. She reached her car, and saw someone had put some sort of annoying flier under the windshield wiper.

She tsked, as she realized it was a ticket, and yanked it out, then threw it onto the passenger seat with the rest. She didn't worry about such things. The city or county or whoever it was would wind up sending a follow-up to the law firm the car was officially registered to and they'd take care of it. Or not. It really wasn't her concern.

Her father owned the firm, after all.

She pulled out into traffic, which brought more honking, and she gave them her middle finger again as she stepped on the gas. It was a lovely day, and she was young, healthy, beautiful, rich, and carefree.

She headed up South Beverly Drive, intending to go for lunch at the Beverly Hills Hilton. There was some traffic on the street, but the BMW was very maneuverable, and she had the quick instincts of the young, so she was able to swing in and out and around slower moving vehicles – most of which were pretty ugly in her opinion, with relative ease.

Though there was some more horn honking.

She didn't notice the lights in her rear view mirror until the police car started to run its siren, then she tsked in annoyance. Now she would be late! She pondered the advisability of simply ignoring them, but she knew from past experience that didn't work. They'd simply turn their stupid siren on full time, and that was horribly annoying! People would stare and everything!

Muttering curses under her breath, she found a place to pull over out of traffic and put the car in park, impatiently tapping her foot as she waited for the police officer to come and give her a mandatory lecture and another stupid piece of paper.

He arrived and she glared at him.

“Good morning, miss,” he said.

“What was I doing? I wasn't speeding!”

“You were speeding.”

She tasked in irritation.

“You were also driving recklessly.”

“I was not!”

“You changed lanes nine times in just the short time I was watching.”

“So!?”

“Without signaling once.”

She rolled her eyes.

“License and registration, please.”

Muttering to herself, Tiffany reached into the armrest next to her, pulling out the documents and thrusting them up at him. He took them, holding a little notebook in hand as she fidgeted impatiently. He went back to his car, and she sighed and took out her cell phone, texting Mandy that she'd be late, and bemoaning her poor luck.

The cop returned.

“You're Taylor Moore?”

She rolled her eyes, wondering why he'd even ask. Weren't her name and picture on the license?'

“Yes,” she said waspishly.

“Your license has been suspended.”

She turned and frowned up at him.

“What?”

“Your license was suspended last month for multiple moving violations.”

“I paid those! I mean, well, they were paid.”

“It doesn't matter if you pay your tickets, miss. If you get more than four points in a year your license is suspended.”

She stared at him. “I don't even know what that means!”

The cop sighed, but he had been working in Beverly Hills for some years.

“It means you're not allowed to drive a car,” he said patiently. “You must have gotten a notice to that effect.”

'What kind of notice.”

“It would have come in the mail.”

“I didn't get any kind of... notice!”

“I'm afraid that doesn't affect the results. You are not allowed to drive. I'll have to impound your car.”

“Impound?”

“Tow it away,” he said helpfully.

“You can't tow my car!” she cried, her voice rising.

“Yes, I can. That's what happens when you drive while under suspension.”

“But... how am I supposed to get around!?” she exclaimed.