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The Liberty Series
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The Bad Judgment Series
Special Bonus Content
If you enjoyed reading Escorting the Billionaire, here’s a sneak peak into the next book in the series—Escorting the Actress. Enjoy!
Prologue
Eleven Years Earlier
"Don't you dare do it, Kyle Richards," I said, my tone a warning. It was a fake warning, of course. I felt tears like pinpricks in my eyes, burning, threatening to come out and humiliate me even further.
"Why? Will the little-wittle bookworm cry?" he asked. My stepbrother's arrogant, handsome face mocked mine.
"No," I said, my voice getting thick. "Just give it back."
Kyle looked at the heavy textbook he was holding, the one he'd ripped out of my hands only moments earlier. He grinned wickedly as he bent over it and read in a fake-clinical voice, "'First menstruation, also known as menarche, can start as early as age ten.'"
"Y'all don't have any manners," I said, my voice shaking. I only let my Texas out when I was livid—I hoped he recognized it as a warning sign and backed off.
"Y'all?" Kyle asked, raising his eyebrows. "There's only one of me here, Lo. See, this is why people think Texans are dumb."
Fury bubbled inside my chest.
"'Female maturation begins at age nine,'" he continued. "'Many girls will start to experience breast development at this time.'" He peered at me from over the book. "Present company excluded, of course."
Don't you dare cry, Lowell Barton. I dug my nails into my palms. Don't you dare let that boy see you cry.
He went back to reading aloud. "'If you're self-conscious, you might want to start wearing what's called a training bra,' which is another word for a bra for girls with absolutely no boobs." He laughed at his own joke, little snorts erupting from the back of his throat.
"Give. It. BACK!" I roared, and lunged at him. I grabbed the heavy book from his hands and started beating him with it. "And this is not a training bra, I'll have you know!"
There was a look of shock on his handsome face. I wasn't sure if that was because he really thought I wore a training bra—or if he was surprised that I was hitting him with a thick textbook. It was entitled Human Development and Human Sexuality, and I'd smuggled it out of the local library without checking it out.
I smuggled it out because I was embarrassed. That was the last thing I thought before Kyle tried to swat the book out of my hands and I whacked him in the face with it. Bright red blood spurted from his nose.
I watched for a second, frozen, as blood ran in rivulets down his face. He dabbed his fingers in it then examined his bloody finger pads as if they belonged to someone else.
"For the record, y'all can be used in the singular," I said, my chest heaving.
Then, before he could come after me, I ran.
Lowell
"I shouldn't be drinking this," I said through a mouthful of delicious tequila and salt. "Too many calories."
"Do not let those assholes get to you," my best friend, Tori, said. She pushed one of her dark-brown curls off her face, fuming. "You're not fat. I don't care what the stupid director said."
"He didn't say I was fat—he said my ass looked like it might weigh too much. Not that it did weigh too much, but that it looked like it might weigh too much," I said and took another rebellious gulp of my drink. "And he's not just a stupid director. He's a stupid successful director. Lucas Dresden is a Hollywood god. And he told me that my ass needs to look like it weighs less before we start shooting those chase scenes on the beach."
Tori looked as if smoke was about to pour out of her ears. It was good that we were in a crowded bar in Venice or she would probably have started yelling a litany of obscenities about Lucas Dresden, my dick director.
"What did you say?
