Man Down (Rookie Rebels #3) - Kate Meader Page 0,3

on his Nikes, and headed out for a run.

3

“Now, it’s time to get real because you know I’m all about speaking my truth. Let’s talk about: Keeping. It. Tight. And you know what I mean by that? Yeah, ya do! Tight-as-a-vise punanis, my friends! And how do you get there? Well, let me tell you a little secret.

Dried. Fruits.

That’s right, dried fruits are your punani’s best friend. Daily doses will keep everything nice and snug where we need it. I know it seems counterintuitive to be eating something shriveled and low in moisture for your vaginal health, but the anti-oxidants are amazing! And now, my fabulous punettes, you can buy punani fruit right from my website …”

“At only $49 a pound,” Sadie muttered as she made the cut in the video and pulled in the transition slide that took viewers from Allegra’s Malibu smile to the relevant page on her website.

Prunes. The woman was selling prunes, no more or less shriveled than the ones available at grocery stores across the nation, but with one major difference. These were repackaged by one of Allegra’s many suppliers of feminine wellness products to appeal to her demographic. Blue state women between the ages of 25 and 49, with hefty disposable income. They adored Oprah, Gwyneth, Michelle Obama, Marie Kondo, and Chrissy Teigen in that order. Forty-three percent took Barre and Bowka classes three times a week (yeah, she had to look it up, too). Sixty-five percent believed happy hour appletinis were a constitutional right.

Sadie applied herself to the task of editing the latest video for Allegra McKenzie’s YouTube channel, Punani Power. As personal assistant to a lifestyle guru, this was one of the fun parts of a job more often focused on ordering or fetching or smoothing over all the things that made her boss’s life easier. She liked the creative aspects of tightening up Allegra’s brand (punani puns? you’re welcome!) and crafting content that appealed to women, even if the message was suspect.

But Allegra was a true believer. She didn’t hawk anything she didn’t use herself and was a firm adherent to the notion of the feminine divine. Girls rule the world, starting with their vaginas, the source of all power, pleasure, and strength.

After slipping in a cut of a yellow Hawaiian hibiscus to smooth the transition (Allegra liked Hawaiian touches as a nod to Kapo, the goddess of fertility), Sadie saved the video and checked the notifications on her phone. Nothing from LonelyHeart, the nickname she’d given to the guy whose wife’s phone number she’d inherited. Or at least, she assumed it was a guy.

Two months ago, Sadie had lost her phone and Allegra had given her a fancier one with a new number. This way, any future assistant of mine will have the same number, Sadie. Continuity is key! Money was as tight as, well, Allegra’s punani, and it was just as easy to move her contacts into the new phone. Still, Sadie was well aware of the veiled threat in Allegra’s comments.

You exist by my favor. You are replaceable.

Feminine divine, indeed.

A message from a Chicago number caught her attention. Her heart dropped into the pit of her stomach. This was it.

She played it back, her shoulders sagging deeper with each word.

Guilty. House arrest. Sentencing at a later date.

John Byron, her father’s lawyer, sounded blasé, but then lawyers weren’t obliged to have a soothing bedside manner with the estranged daughters of their douchebag clients. She pondered her next move, recognizing that she needed to do something that went against the grain. Talk to the man who was her father in name only. Avoiding it would have been her first choice but she had Lauren to think of. Sadie would put aside her discomfort to make sure her half-sister knew she was here for her.

She dialed with a shaky finger and listened to the rings, hoping fervently it would go to voice mail. It clicked over—yes!—and she waited for her father’s outgoing message, but then got a techno-voice telling her, Message box full.

Rats.

She called the lawyer and was put through after a couple of minutes.

“Ms. Yates.”

“Hi, Mr. Byron. I got your message and I tried calling my father but his message box is full.”

“Well, all his former clients are likely reaching out to tell him where to go.”

“Long walk, short pier,” she muttered.

“Somewhere hotter,” he replied smoothly, as if marching orders to hell were par for the course. She supposed they were for a man who defended people accused of embezzlement