Full Disclosure (Standalone, Blue Island #3): Blue Island, #3

By N.S. Marc

SLOW BURN CONTEMPORARY ROMANCE. STANDALONE IN THE BLUE ISLAND SERIES. YOU DON'T NEED TO READ THE OTHER BOOKS IN THE SERIES TO ENJOY THIS ONE.

Men can be Cinderellas, too.

Even though everyone thinks Peter Webster is an awkward, socially-inept nerd, Sarah Kahn isn't buying it. As one of New York's most talented criminal attorneys, she is trained to see beyond people's exteriors (a talent especially useful for jury selection), and when it comes to the geeky tech billionaire, she has a feeling there is more than meets the eye. A carefully-hidden sexy secret, if you will.

Peter Webster isn't a typical billionaire. He lives in a two-bedroom apartment, has a sensible car (which he drives himself), never, ever goes to parties, and gives away most of his money to charity. He knows women are only ever interested in him for his bank account, and he likes it that way – the less complications, the better. So when a spunky lawyer with killer legs and shockingly keen eyes storms into his office and rips him a new one, he knows he's in serious trouble. Of all the hurdles he's had to overcome on his rise to the top, quick-witted, golden-hearted Sarah Kahn may just be his downfall.

 

+18 MATURE CONTENT. READER DISCRETION ADVISED

• Language: English
• Publisher: N.S. Marc
• Release date: Aug 5, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393156604

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

Zooming through the courthouse’s swinging doors, I rubbed my hands in an attempt to defrost them. It was so cold, it wasn’t even funny.

Mel’s huge sigh of relief as soon as she saw me made up for my frozen fingers. Sarah, you just made me the happiest social worker on the planet. Thank you so—

I stopped her. All part of the job, Mel. I turned to the teenager sitting beside her, his nose glued to his phone. And this must be Mr. Daniel Hernandez?

He grunted. His disposition was still cheerier than most of my usual clients.

After checking my watch, I joined them on the bench and got comfortable. The fact-finding hearing was scheduled to start in ten minutes, but with the amount of people loitering in the stuffy hallway we clearly had some time to burn.

I felt around the bottom of my briefcase for loose change. There’s a machine down the hall, please get me a coffee, and whatever you and Mel want, I said to my client, reaching over Mel to hand him the change.

Machine’s out of order, he said without looking up from his phone.

I nudged his shoulder. There’s another one downstairs, next to the restrooms. When he didn’t budge I said in a lower voice, Since your former lawyer bailed on you last-second, and I had exactly thirty minutes to get down here, there was no time for coffee. Zero coffee means bad lawyering. See where I’m going with this?

Grunting his dissatisfaction, he took the money and headed towards the stairs.

Mel opened her mouth to speak, but I stopped her. No apologies or thank yous, please.

She sniggered, then reached into her shabby backpack and pulled out a thin brown folder. I shook my head, reaching into my briefcase and pulling out one of my favorite tabloids instead. I caught up on the case on the way here, it’s fine.

Mel paused, probably contemplating whether to request that I review the case one more time, just to be safe. After all, I’d only learned about Daniel Hernandez’s existence a mere half-hour ago. With a pronounced eyeroll, she shoved the folder back into her bag.

You actually buy those trashy magazines? That’s hilarious.

I pointed at the headline: ‘Top fifty hottest guys of the year’, and just like that, Mel was no longer too good for my ‘trashy’ magazine. We were so preoccupied, we barely noticed when Daniel returned, shaking his head as he handed me my coffee.

Mel quirked her nose, jabbing a finger at the glossy page. I can’t believe they only ranked him as twenty-six. I saw his new movie the other week and I was practically drooling.

I shrugged and let out an indifferent ‘meh’.

Oh, sure. Muscular, godlike men are just not your thing.

I can appreciate good looks, but when it comes to attraction, I need more than a pretty face. Here— I said, flipping the pages to an article towards the end of the magazine. That, for example, is an attractive man.

Mel snorted. Peter Webster? Are you serious? The only attractive thing about him is his bank account.

Mega nerd, Daniel added.

I ignored them as I scanned Peter Webster’s picture. The photo was taken in what appeared to be his office, a surprisingly small workspace encased in glass walls. Leaning up against his desk with his hands folded over his chest, he seemed to be unaware that someone was snapping a picture of him. His short, light-brown hair could easily be featured on a brochure for a ten-dollar haircut, and the black horn-rimmed glasses on his face made it impossible to discern the color of his eyes. Unlike Mel’s drool-worthy movie star, Peter didn’t look like a puffed-out gym junkie on steroids—he was more the tall and lean type, the veins on his forearms hinting at the possibility of at least some defined muscles beneath his loose clothes. As much as I enjoyed that thought, it was his face that drew my attention. His sharp and slightly harsh features made it look as if he were constantly focusing on a complex problem (intelligence. Now that’s sexy).

I knew exactly why no one found Peter Webster attractive. One of the most important computer geniuses of his generation, he lived up to his nerdy persona almost defiantly. In the photo I was currently looking at he wore ill-fitting jeans, shabby sneakers, and a schlubby green and orange t-shirt bearing the Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy quote, "So long and thanks for all the fish".

The outfit didn’t do it for me, but the guy wearing it did. I found him intriguing. And no, not because of the billions of dollars in his bank. Despite what people think about attorneys, we’re not all money-grubbing maniacs.  

A nasal voice interrupted my oggling. Sarah Kahn, what in the world are you doing here?

Cringing, I looked up at attorney Jeff Krauss, a guy I’d been forced to collaborate with a few years back when his client and mine had been charged as accomplices (allegedly, of course). Working with him had been a complete nightmare; it didn’t surprise me that he’d since been demoted to representing juvenile delinquents at Family Court.

Hello, Jeff. How’s it going? I asked politely.

Couldn’t be better. How could anyone not be thrilled to have a court appearance on Christmas Day? My wife promised she’d videotape our kids opening their presents, so really, it’s no biggie. Seriously, though, what are you doing here? Have all the mobsters in New York suddenly decided to become law-abiding citizens? Or did your Fifth Avenue corner office get too big for you?

Daniel looked up from his phone.

I’m working Jeff, just like every other lawyer here.

Yeah, right. That’s like saying that Lebron James’ decided to play for the Junior Basketball League just for the hell of it.

Jeff, in our profession, you really need to learn how to read your audience. Sports metaphors go right over my head, I said, demonstrating with my hand.

Oh, I forgot that you’re funny, he said sarcastically. "I’ll trade you a tip: don’t get cocky in there today. Judge Walters is literally the grinch. He does this every year: schedules a ridiculous amount of hearings on Christmas Day just so he can make the lawyers miserable and incarcerate as many kids as he can, like some wicked Santa Klaus. If you even try to ask that he show some leniency in the name of the Spirit of Christmas, he’ll convict your client on the spot and have you charged with contempt of court. I’ve seen it happen."

Once he left, Mel turned to Daniel and said, Don’t worry, Hernandez, you heard what the guy said. I got Lebron James to be your defense attorney.

Daniel shrugged, like none of this concerned him. That explains why people keep staring at us and whispering.

He was right. From the moment I’d walked into the courthouse, every lawyer stopped to give me a puzzled stare, wondering what the hell I was doing there.

I tried to flip through the rest of the magazine, but after Peter Webster the list seemed rather uninspired, so I handed it to Mel as her Christmas gift. When the courtroom doors opened, I threw back the remaining lukewarm coffee, smoothed down my navy-blue suit, and stood up.

We’re up, I said, my Game Face fully in place.

Showtime.

THANK YOU, MR. ANDREWS, you may sit down, Judge Walters said to the prosecutor, who winked at me before taking his seat. Cocky bastard. 

And for the defense... The judge held his notes up to his nose, squinting hard. We have attorney Sarah Kahn. A fresh face in our midst. Newly graduated?

I stood up. With all due respect, your Honor, I’d hate to waste the court’s time talking about myself.

Judge Walters’s mouth clamped into a straight line. Very well, Ms. Kahn, you may proceed.

Your Honor— I started to say, though I was rudely interrupted.

On second thought, Judge Walters said with a cruel twinkle in his eye, seeing as how Ms. Kahn is in such a hurry to get back home for Christmas, why don’t we stop wasting her time? I’ll summarize, and if there are any corrections you’d like to make, you can add them when I’m finished. Your client, a Mr.—he squinted at his papers again—"Daniel Hernandez, was caught shoplifting a gaming console from the establishment of one Mr. Chen Huang. Mr. Huang escorted the police officers to the accused’s home, where he identified Mr. Hernandez as the perpetrator. While he was being arrested, your client threatened the officers by telling them they would ‘regret this’. He used another word in that sentence which I will not repeat."

Judge Walters put down his notes. To speed things up, how about we settle on nine months juvenile detention, followed by two years of probation? Mr. Andrews?

Mel, who was sitting right behind us, gasped at the disproportionately harsh sentence, whereas the prosecutor, of course, could barely contain his excitement. Hot, prickly rage began to build up inside me, but I bit my lip and took a nice deep breath. Like so many things in life, in the courtroom, timing was everything.

Ms. Kahn? Say yes, and you’re free to scamper back to your stuffed stockings and wrapped gifts under the tinsel-covered tree.

A muscle twitched in Daniel’s cheek, and I worried he might play a repeat of his colorful outburst from his arrest. Discretely, I tapped my nail against the wooden table, warning him to remain quiet.

Your Honor was so kind to summarize on my behalf, I’d be remiss not to take you up on your generous offer to add a few corrections before we lock up my client. Just a few small ones, if I may? I held up my thumb and forefinger as if to show just how tiny the corrections would be.

I suppose you could use the practice, the Judge said with a grin.

Tapping my nails once more, I got up and started pacing the narrow space below the judge’s bench, my forehead scrunched in deep concentration as I tried to picture Peter Webster without his shirt on. As the seconds ticked by, I could almost feel the judge’s incredulity flying at me like little daggers, but I couldn’t help myself; I loved pissing off authority figures. Maybe because my own father was such a softie and never really set any boundaries—

Ms. Kahn, are you sure you’re up for this?

I lifted my forefinger in the air, still pacing, and mumbled as if speaking to myself. "First correction, my client wasn’t caught doing anything. There is, in fact, no evidence that he’s ever set foot in Mr. Huang’s store, certainly not on the date in question, since most ironically, even though Mr. Huang sells surveillance equipment, there are no security cameras set up in his store. Second, Mr. Huang did not take the officers to my client’s house—quite the opposite. It was he who was taken to my client’s house after giving the police officers a description of the alleged shoplifter, and I quote verbatim: ‘skinny teenager, Puerto Rican, guitar pick hanging from a chain around his neck’. I ask you, your Honor, does that sound like a sufficient description to warrant an arrest?"

The Prosecutor jumped from his seat. Your Honor, the Defendant is known around his neighborhood as an amateur guitarist, and he regularly wears his pick around his neck.

"So do many other guitar players, and of course, at the time of the arrest, my client had no jewelry on him whatsoever, including this imaginary guitar pick necklace. Furthermore, based on the aforementioned insufficient description, the officers performed an illegal search in my client’s home, which as we all know, resulted in absolutely nothing. As for the alleged ‘threat’—I emphasized my sarcasm with air-quotes—my client was simply stating an inevitable fact, that once the police officers realized they had arrested the wrong person, they would, as my client colorfully put it, fucking regret it. Correct me if I’m wrong, but normative human beings do tend to regret making egregious mistakes."

Objection! The Prosecutor jumped again, clutching his pearls at my language. I turned around and winked at him.

Sustained! Attorney Kahn—I am warning you! Are you just about done now, or is there anything else?

Well, now that you ask, yes. I submit to you that seventy-nine-year-old Mr. Huang had no vivid recollection of the shoplifter, and simply pointed a finger at the first Latino boy presented to him. I would go so far as to suggest that even now, after having seen my client face to face, if taken to a lineup of skinny, brown-skinned teenage boys, Mr. Huang would still have great difficulty picking out my client.

Why would you think that? The judge’s voice was scratchy and clipped—he was sick of my shit.

If only for the fact that my client is of Venezuelan descent, and not Puerto Rican. I turned to the Prosecutor, who was looking a bit pale, and said, How ‘bout it, Andrews? Let’s arrange the lineup, and if old Huang gets it right I’ll give you a hundred dollars. Double if he gets it right the first time.

Objection, your Honor! Andrews whined.

My courtroom is not a gambling den! Sustained! the judge yelled, his gavel attempting to splinter the bench.

With all due respect to my colleague, I believe it is my client who should be objecting right now—objecting to the blatant and gross miscarriage of justice performed against him, when clearly, his only sin in this entire absurd scenario is having parents of Latin-American origin, and being known in his small community—even to the police officers—as a talented guitarist. Not only was he falsely accused, but this honor student, who volunteers in his free time to teach music to underprivileged children, is now forced to spend Christmas Day in court instead of with his loving family. If that is not a reason to object, I don’t know what is.

That’s enough with the theatrics, counsel. Take your damned seat.

I still have one more correction, your Honor.

Judge Walters merely raised an eyebrow at my sheer audacity.

Sorry for being pedantic, but I’m Jewish, and my mother would kill me if I didn’t set the record straight. Mom, if you happen to read this—I directed my words at the bewildered court stenographer—"I definitely don’t have stockings and a Christmas tree waiting for me at home."

I’M SPEECHLESS. THERE are simply no words. Daniel—am I dreaming?

Guys, this was fun, but I really have to get going. I need to catch a cab pronto, I said, noticing with horror the multiple missed calls from my sisters. Nothing—not even mean old judges—could stress me out like my own kin.

What’s the rush? I thought you’d let me buy you brunch as a thank you, Mel said, pouting. We knew each other from way back—her family had lived across the hall from us when we were kids. When her number flashed on my phone I answered without thinking twice.

You know my rule. No thank you’s of any kind. If you send me flowers I’ll file a police report for harassment. Now go catch your train, and have a merry Christmas. Both of you.

We stopped by the steps leading down to the subway station. Mel raised her hands in surrender. Fine, fine...just tell me this, then, because I’m dead curious—how did you find out all that stuff about Daniel in so little time?

I waved my hand at him. I guessed he was an honor student from looking at him; I know a smartass when I see one.

He grunted, but didn’t correct me.

As for the part about giving free guitar lessons to underprivileged kids, I’ve predicted the future, haven’t I?

Yes, ma'am, he mumbled.

Hey Daniel, I said, staring him straight in the eye. Brother or friend?

Mel looked between us with a baffled expression, but Daniel didn’t flinch. Cousin.

He was wearing your necklace?

Gave it to him as a Christmas present.

I nodded. That was the last time you ever risk your future to cover for someone else, you got it? After he mumbled another ‘yes, ma'am’, I checked my watch again and cursed. I was so dead.

There’s one, Mel said.

Like a mirage in a burning desert, a yellow cab appeared at the end of the street, and I jumped up and down, waving my arms furiously.

Where are you rushing off to? she asked.

The Laguna Fashion Show—I’m taking my sisters. They’ve been sitting in my dad’s car for the last hour waiting for me to show up.

For the first time, Daniel’s face exhibited an actual human expression. "The Laguna fashion show? I’d spend a year in prison to see that."

Not funny, Mel berated him as the taxi slowed down beside me—a true Chanukah miracle.

Maybe you’ll get to see someone special tonight, Daniel said, grinning as I climbed into the cab.

Not thank you, he mouthed.

Not you’re welcome, I replied.

CHAPTER 2

After giving the cab driver the address and calling my frantic sisters to let them know I was on my way, I settled into the backseat and contemplated Daniel’s strange remark—see someone special tonight? Did that kid show up to his court hearing high as a kite?

Next thing I did was send Renee a ‘good luck’ text, though she certainly didn’t need it. Tall, blonde, and leggy, Renee Ocean was the most gorgeous woman I’d ever met, and the star of tonight’s fashion show. Back in September, I had represented her in a nasty case against a psychopath named Derek Page. At first I’d been a bit wary about representing a high-profile supermodel—my clients were usually anything but glamorous—but she turned out to be a genuinely sweet, down-to-earth person, and not that much different from the rest of us humans.

This is fine! I exclaimed when we were two blocks away, figuring that running would be quicker than sitting in his cab, which was a red-light magnet. It was a bad idea. My boots were not snow-appropriate, and I slipped on a patch of ice, breaking my fall on a pile of muddy snow.

I’m here, I said breathlessly as I knocked on my dad’s minivan.

Everything okay, sweetie? he asked in his even, patient voice as he rolled down the window. A thick book rested in his lap; I could have been three hours late and he wouldn’t have minded.

Yes, I had a last-minute work thing. Sorry you had to wait.

Did you show them? he asked with a tiny smile peeking through his short graying beard.

I smiled back. I showed them.

"Come on," Jessica, my red-headed fourteen-year-old sister, complained. She and my other sister, seventeen-year-old Talia, whose hair was as dark-brown, uncontrollably wavy, and thick as mine, both had their overnight backpacks on their shoulders and were clearly ready to go.

After releasing my dad, I checked the time and winced. There was no time for the fancy Korean place I’d promised them,  and we ended up in a diner that looked like it should have been shut down two decades ago.

I’m so glad you’ve helped set yet another criminal free for this, Jessica muttered as she pushed her fork around her salad.

The criminal system is more complex than that, I said through a mouthful of grilled cheese which, god help me, was delicious. Order something else if you don’t like the salad, but don’t wait for the last second and then eat my sandwich, as usual.

Jessica glared at me, then speared a cherry tomato and bit into it defiantly.

This place reeks, Talia was next to complain, I think something died under our table.

Eww! Jessica squealed, half in disgust, half in curious delight. She ducked her head under the table, then stared back up at me accusingly. It’s not the diner—it’s Sarah. She stepped in horse poo or something.

I dropped the sandwich, sniffed myself, and gagged.

Oh, god, I stink! What am I going to do? There isn’t enough time to go back home and change—

With a businesslike attitude, Talia unzipped her backpack, reached inside, and handed me her change of clothes. Here.

I surveyed my new outfit: the jeans would be all right thanks to my mother’s genetics and my gym membership, and the shirt would be fine as long as I kept my arms crossed over the mermaid print. The real problem was the shoes.

Please, Talia, please, please, you wear the sneakers and give me your boots. Pretty please!

Talia gave me her serious no-can-do face. Sarah, we may be the same clothing size, but your monster feet will barely fit into those sneakers, let alone my boots. And besides, I need to look good if I’m to be discovered by a modeling scout.

I scowled. Talia was a beautiful girl, but we both knew she had no illusions about a possible modeling career—she was just being obnoxious.

Fine, I gave up and marched over to the restroom. When I exited the stall and looked in the mirror, I burst out laughing—I looked ridiculous. Talia’s jeans were incredibly tight on me (though upon turning around I discovered that my ass could proudly handle it), and her long-sleeved white T was not made for my bra size, which stretched out the poor mermaid into a dysmorphic blob. Finally, the white sneakers with the sparkly pink hearts really tied the whole look together.

Pulling out the pins from my severe lawyer-bun, I shook out my long hair and let it fall down my back. Did that help me look any more decent? Decidedly no.

Talia, aren’t you too old for stuff like mermaids and sparkly hearts? I said in a defeated voice as I rejoined the table.

She didn’t flinch. It’s called ironic fashion, Sarah.

They’re never going to let me in like this.

I think it looks good, Jessica managed to choke out, her face almost as red as her hair from trying to suppress a laugh.

Yeah, Sarah, you’re going to fit right in. It’s...street-style chic, you know?

I raised a doubtful eyebrow at them. Street-style chic. Really.

Uh huh, Jessica nodded emphatically, then started to giggle, followed by a burst of unrestrained laughter when Talia kicked her under the table.

All right, all right, laugh it up...hey! I looked up from my empty plate to Jessica, who had suddenly stopped laughing. Where’s my grilled cheese?!

WHEN WE ARRIVED AT the venue, instead of being reported to the Fashion Police, we were personally escorted into the giant auditorium.

First row? Jessica mumbled, staring at the magnificent runway, clutching to her chest the fancy gift bag we each received. As my sisters hugged each other, reinstating my status as Best Sister in the Universe, I eyed the runway warily—from this distance we’d be able to see whether the models’ Brazilian waxer had done a decent job, or possibly missed a few follicles.

Hey, it’s the Kahn sisters!

Girls, say hello, I said, breaking up my sisters’ happy hug. This is Koko, Renee’s best friend, her boyfriend, Kai, and... I scrunched my forehead—I couldn’t remember the name of Renee’s hunky surfer friend.

Caleb, he said.

Backstage passes! Jessica shrieked, clutching a laminated card to her chest.

Let’s go, we still have time before the show starts, Talia said, hanging her own pass around her neck. Sarah, come on!

I groaned. The place was so overheated, sweat was already dripping down my back, but I was too self-conscious to take off my coat. If I rushed backstage with all the people and the mayhem there was a good chance I’d spontaneously combust.

"Do we really have to? It’s probably a madhouse back there."

Sensing my reluctance, Koko was quick to volunteer Kai for the job. As soon as they left Caleb excused himself as well, leaving me alone with Koko.

So have you heard about Renee’s mother? Koko asked, and I stiffened. As far as I knew, Renee hadn’t spoken to her mother in ten years. Koko sighed. It’s no surprise, but she’s trying to blackmail Renee now that she’s a celebrity. You know, to keep her from going to the media and spreading lies about her...

I sat up, instantly in lawyer mode. How come no one told me about this? I might be able to get a temporary gag order, or maybe...

Koko shook her head. Deedee hired some PR guy. He says he has it all under control.

Oh really, is that what he said. My leg started to bounce. When I had a client, I regarded their legal affairs as my personal business. I hated when someone else encroached on my territory.

Sarah, you must be boiling under that coat. Even I’m sweating. Koko pointed at her chic mini-dress which I eyed enviously—I would have given anything for that level of ventilation. They make it hot in here on purpose, so the models don’t get goosebumps or something.

I piled my hair into a top-knot. There’s no way I can take off this coat. I had a little wardrobe malfunction earlier and had to borrow an outfit from my sister.

Take a look where we are, Sarah. No one’s going to notice what you’re wearing. We’re surrounded by some of the most famous people in the world.

I’d been so distracted, I hadn’t noticed the A-listers sitting just a stone throw away. What the heck, I thought, and shrugged out of my thick coat. It felt amazing.

As luck would have it, the moment my deformed mermaid revealed herself to the world, a photographer with a huge camera stopped by and took a few shots before continuing down the row.

Well isn’t that just perfect, I said, then froze when I saw a familiar face on the other side of the runway. "Is that...Peter Webster?"

Koko peered in his direction. Oh yeah, there he is. Geez, what the hell is he wearing. You’d think he’d dress up for once.

But why is he here? He never shows up to these things. Is he dating one of the models?

Koko laughed. Him? No!

I felt strangely offended on his behalf. I’m sure there are enough models who wouldn’t mind dating a tech billionaire.

Oh, for sure. And maybe if he made an effort he might even look decent... She squinted her eyes as if trying to picture it, but then shook her head. It’s just that he’s weird, you know? He’s not normal. Renee says the same thing. Total oddball.

I imagined Peter and Renee at a fancy cocktail party having a casual conversation about stuff famous people talked about, like their favorite brand of caviar and how Lamborghinis are so last season.

Renee met him?

Well, yeah. She had to. She saw the look on my face and added, You know he’s the owner of Laguna Swimwear, right?

I knew he was a reclusive thirty-two-year-old tech whiz who had built an empire from scratch, and spent a great deal of his time and fortune on good causes such as poverty and the environment. But owning a swimwear company that basically marketed itself as soft porn? It didn’t make any sense.

Nope, I had no idea. I thought he only did computer stuff.

Well, he does, mostly. And it wasn’t that long ago—maybe two or three years—when he suddenly bought Laguna. Everyone was confused by it, but then he came out with his famous quote, something like he realized there was more to life than just algorithms, like bikinis.

My nose twisted in disapproval; that was such a douchey thing to say...

Oh! I slapped my forehead, finally understanding what Daniel had meant earlier.

My sisters returned just as the lights dimmed in the auditorium. Smoke filled the runway, and a fifty-person choir appeared on a ramp above the stage, all dressed in white robes. The audience fell silent as the choir began to sing a dramatic hymn in Italian, and then came the moment everyone had been waiting for: Renee stepped out onto the runway.

It was a sight to behold. With her hands clasped on her hips in that supermodel way, she strutted down the runway in high-heeled stilettos and a white bikini covered in dozens of sparkly diamonds. Her veil was so long it took up nearly the entire runway, the other models holding it up like bikini bridesmaids. The crowd went wild at this grandiose opening of the Laguna fashion show, though no one cheered quite as loudly as our little group, with the exception of Caleb, who sat perfectly still, his eyes following Renee’s every movement.

Once the initial adrenaline rush faded I collapsed back into my seat, the ridiculous tropical heat in the auditorium causing me to feel slightly lethargic. As if on their own accord, my eyes kept wandering to Peter Webster, who sat in the farthermost seat at the edge of the opposite row.

Why isn’t he looking at the models? I kept thinking. The guy barely lifted his eyes from his phone the entire show.

Again, I slapped my forehead, garnering a puzzled look from Talia.

Peter Webster is gay!

Ridiculously, the thought caused me a huge letdown, as if his sexual orientation were the only thing standing in the way of our happily ever after. Rolling my eyes at my own cringe-worthiness, I made a mental note to try and wean myself off of celebrity gossip, which was clearly distorting my grip on reality.

A moment before I was about to turn into a puddle of sweat, we finally reached the show’s final segment. Dressed like an Amazon warrior with a giant flower crown on her head, Renee stepped onto the runway with an odd look on her face. As she strutted closer, I saw something etched in black across her stomach, which turned out to be the word ‘mom’ surrounded by a large heart.

What the... Koko mumbled.

When Renee reached the top of the runway, I could see something else drawn on to her back: a large dollar sign, along with the words ‘bite me’.

Oh, shit! Koko exclaimed.

Don’t worry, girls. I’m sure there’s a good explanation, I said as the audience grew loud. A second later the lights in the auditorium were switched on, and the loudspeaker began thanking everyone for coming and directing them towards the exits. Renee’s stunt had shut down the show.

Koko, I’m going to take the girls home, I said after glaring at the man who had shoved his elbow into my back as he tried to push his way out along with everyone else. You would have thought that someone had yelled ‘fire!’ with the way people were rushing to escape the auditorium.

Her eyes grew wide. Leave? You can’t leave! Renee’s going to need her lawyer now!

I bit my lip—Koko was right. I could call my dad, but it will take him at least an hour to get here.

Talia yanked on my arm. Mom and dad are having dinner with the Rosenbergs tonight, someplace not far from here. I just texted him—he’ll be here in twenty minutes.

A hand tapped me on the shoulder. It was Caleb. Kai and I will take your sisters outside and wait with them until your dad gets here. Go help Renee. I promise they’ll be safe.

I turned to my sisters—with muscular Kai and Caleb to watch over them, no one would dare shove them around. Still, it felt irresponsible of me to let them out of my sight before they were safe in my dad’s car.

Seeing the torn look on my face, Jessica said, I guess being a lawyer is sort of badass, sometimes.

Reaching into my Laguna gift bag, Koko pulled out my backstage pass and draped it around my neck.  You heard her. Let’s go, badass.

CHAPTER 3

I knew there was a god! Deedee Gordon exclaimed as soon as I walked into the dressing room. Renee’s agent was a tall and slim African American woman who had climbed her way to the top of one of the world’s leading modeling agencies through grit and merit alone; the desperate look on her face was highly uncharacteristic.

Sarah, I’m so grateful you’re here. I’m in between calls with people from Laguna. The bastards are out for blood. A few sponsors have already threatened to sue...it’s a huge mess. I don’t know what possessed Renee to do what she did, but it’s a disaster.

I had a feeling I knew exactly what had possessed Renee to do something so out of character. Which one of these is Renee’s new publicist? I asked her.

She pointed at a tall man in his late thirties with a trimmed beard and a shiny bald head. After looking at him for two seconds, I had no doubt he was the one responsible for this fiasco.

I hope this worked out exactly as planned, I said to him, not bothering to introduce myself first.

He raised a haughty eyebrow at me. And you are...?

Sarah Kahn, Renee’s attorney.

He took a long moment to assess me with his calculating dark eyes. I’m working on it. Just make sure no one talks to Renee, and make sure she doesn’t leave. I’ll handle the rest.

Because you’ve done such a stellar job so far, I hissed before stomping over to Koko, who was guarding Renee’s bathroom with her hands on her hips like a tiny, ferocious bouncer.

When Renee stepped out dressed in jeans and a sweater—not the outfit she was supposed to wear for the after party, obviously—she hugged me tightly and apologized for making me work. Her voice sounded defeated, which made me mad. Renee had just started her career as a supermodel; it wasn’t right for it to be cut short just because of her horrible mother and idiot PR guy.

The room went deathly quiet—Peter Webster had arrived, and lord did he look furious. He started walking towards Deedee, but Renee’s publicist intercepted him and lured him out of the room. A few minutes later he poked his shiny head back inside and ordered Renee to change into