Page 21 of Dirty Damage

“It’s bad enough that I did the ultimate stupid work fuckup and hit Send All on a private email.” I stare hopelessly into my smoothie’s pink depths. “But God—what the hell was going through my mind when I had those photos taken in the first place?”

Mara sips her drink, one eyebrow raised. “They’re actually really good photos. Like, professionally done. Tasteful, even. I’d bang, is what I’m saying. Plus, didn’t you say it was to make your sister happy? That’s actually noble, Sutt.”

“That’s not the point.” I set my cup down with a hard thunk, sticky droplets flying onto my coffee table. “I did it to cheer up Sydney, yes, but… it’s just another example of the Palmer women making dumb, impulsive decisions to fix short-term problems instead of thinking things through.”

“What do you mean?”

I pull my knees to my chest, making myself smaller. “The women in my family—me, my sister, my mom; hell, probably my grandmother and great-grandmother and all the way back to some dumb Palmer cavewoman—we have this pattern. When trouble shows up, especially trouble involving men, we do something dramatic that feels good in the moment but makes everything worse.”

Mara’s eyes soften. “Like what?”

“Like…” I exhale, a memory bubbling up from somewhere I try to keep locked away. “When I was eleven, my mom caught oneof her boyfriends cheating with not one, but two of her fellow dancers at Harvey’s Strip on the Strip.”

“Damn,” Mara whispers. “Brutal.”

“Yeah. So did she confront him? Pack up and leave? Move on with her life?” I laugh, but it sounds hollow even to my own ears. “Nope. She stole his Ferrari, took a joyride through the city, then left it—keys inside—in Vegas’s worst neighborhood.”

“She did not.”

“Oh, she did. Then she videoed it being stolen and posted it online.” I rub my forehead, feeling the phantom headache from that chaotic week. “Sydney and I had to move for the fifth time in two years. We spent months lying low from the cops, the gang who got caught stealing the car, and the boyfriend—who, ironically, Syd and I had actually kinda liked.”

The music switches to a new track, something with a driving beat and lyrics about rising from the ashes.

I reach for the remote and turn it down.

I don’t need to be consoled right now.

I need to be rendered unconscious.

“And Sydney isn’t any better,” I continue, my throat tightening. “The only reason she’s with a rich asshole like Paul Lipovsky is because she became a professional escort at eighteen.”

Mara’s eyes widen. She sets her smoothie down, giving me her full attention.

“She couldn’t make enough money with a ‘straight’ job to get custody of me.” Tears prick at the corners of my eyes. “I wasfifteen, stuck in this awful foster home with five other kids and foster parents who viewed us as walking paychecks.”

“I didn’t know you were in foster care.”

“The state took us when I was nine and Syd was twelve. Our mom…” I swallow hard. “She’d leave us alone for months at a time. Chasing men, chasing dreams, chasing whatever felt good in the moment.” The old ache spreads through my chest. “We saw her a few times after, but she never wanted—or was able—to take us back. To give us what we needed.” I wipe at a tear that escapes down my cheek. “But Sydney always cared. She did what she thought she had to do. And I feel like I’ll never be able to pay her back for that.”

Mara reaches across the couch, squeezing my hand. “So the photos…”

“Last week, every instinct I had screamed that no good would come from taking those photos.” I shake my head. “But then Sydney looked at me with those big, innocent eyes and begged. And I caved—like I always do.”

I grab my phone, pulling up Sydney’s latest message. “So now, I’m paying the price while Syd’s back in Vegas with a new diamond bracelet and a gift card for La Perla.” I hand the phone to Mara.

On the screen, Sydney’s message glows:

Success! He loved the photos. Lookie what I got.

Below it are pictures of a glittering diamond choker and a La Perla shopping bag.

“See?” I croak. “She got exactly what she wanted. Meanwhile, I’m going to get fired in—” I glance at the clock. “—two hours and forty-five minutes.”

Mara hands back my phone, her expression thoughtful. “You don’t know that for sure.”

“What else could a ‘Code Red’ meeting with the CEO mean after I accidentally sent him softcore porn of myself,on topof already giving him a private peepshow?”

“Maybe he thought you were hot?”

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