Full Disclosure

ELEVEN

You know when you look good? I looked good. I went straight from the photo shoot to the Waldorf Astoria in Beverly Hills. I brought my assistant Kayla with me, since I wasn’t sure there wasn’t something fishy going on. Kayla is beautiful, with brown hair and a small streak of lovable crazy. I was angry when I walked in, because I had gone through all these lawyers, and every person I told was another potential leak.

We entered the lobby lounge and stood at the edge. The hotel had just opened the summer before and was done up in a 1920s art deco style, with lots of sleek Gatsby touches like a crystal waterfall chandelier and an ornate fireplace. A man in a suit was standing at the fireplace, his back to us as he sipped a martini.

“That’s probably him,” I said.

He turned his head toward us in a classic leading man move, but he did a double take. Neither of us expected the other to look so good. We had, as they say, a moment.

“Oh, my God, he’s so fucking hot,” Kayla said.

“Be cool,” I said. Let’s just say it: he is gorgeous. He walked right over to us with his hand out, super charming.

“You must be—”

“Stormy,” I said, extending my hand.

He took it, looking right at me with these ridiculous blue eyes. “Michael Avenatti,” he said.

I jostled Kayla to stop her from staring. “This is my assistant.”

He gestured to a small table with three chairs, and we sat. He ordered another martini, and he did it so suavely that it felt wrong not to get a cocktail, so I went with a vodka cranberry. I would need something to distract me if I had to go through the whole saga and watch my assistant try to eye-fuck this lawyer.

“So,” he said, “tell me what happened.”

I was still mad about being stood up by the other lawyer and saddled with this pretty boy. I barreled through it, telling the whole story brashly because this was going to be one more guy who just wanted to hear about the freak show but wouldn’t actually do anything to help me. I could tell this Avenatti was sizing me up and down, trying to figure out if I was lying or not.

I’m colorful when I speak, and I don’t hold a lot back. I didn’t talk to Avenatti any differently from how I talk to Kayla, or Keith, or anybody else I know.

I saw a crack in his façade as he smiled. Michael now says that’s the moment he fell in love with me as a client. The moment he realized I owned who I was and wasn’t afraid to acknowledge it.

I looked Michael up on Wikipedia that night. “He’s forty-seven,” I told Kayla. “Race car driver on the side.” I saved the photo of him for the caller ID on my phone. I reeled off a bunch of his cases, and Kayla just looked at me like I was speaking dolphin.

“Single?” she asked.

“Separated.”

“Hmmph,” said Kayla.

“I’m not taking on the president to get you laid,” I said.

“Yeah, but if it was an added benefit…” she said.

Since I got to choose where we were going, I thought I’d haze him a little. I told Mr. Waldorf Astoria boy to meet me at an out-of-the-way dive bar I know on Sunset and Hollywood. Kayla, of course, wanted to come along, still desperate to fuck him.

Kayla and I ordered the fish tacos, and Michael said he wasn’t hungry. Getting down to his fighting weight, I guess. And there, in the dive bar, we worked out our strategy.