How fluent are you in Nurse Speak?

How fluent are you in Nurse Speak? Take the quiz and find out how well you speak the jargon! 

Choose the correct order, in ascending severity, of the following “up-” terms: 

a. Jacked-up, effed-up, stove-up, torn-up 
b. Torn-up, effed-up, jacked-up, stove-up 
c. Stove-up, jacked-up, torn-up, effed-up

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I noticed that there .....

I noticed that there are no B batteries. I think that's to avoid confusion, cause if there were you wouldn't know if someone was stuttering. 'Yes, hello I'd like some b-batteries.' 'What kind?' 'B-batteries.' 'What kind?' 'B-batteries!' and D-batteries that's hard for foreigners. 'Yes, I would like de batteries.'
Read more at 

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Beyonce releases surprise album

cember 13, 2013 -- Updated 0714 GMT (1514 HKT)

NEW ORLEANS, LA - FEBRUARY 03: Singer Beyonce performs during the Pepsi Super Bowl XLVII Halftime Show at the Mercedes-Benz Superdome on February 3, 2013 in New Orleans, Louisiana. (Photo by Ezra Shaw/Getty Images)

(CNN) -- Beyoncé has delivered the ultimate holiday surprise.

Just after midnight on the east coast, the singer suddenly dropped a brand new 14-track self-titled album on iTunes. That's right — without any pre-promotion.

As if this bombshell — which, in her Instagram announcement, she described as a "visual album" — needed anything else, each song also comes with a music video and a download of BEYONCÉ will also score you three additional videos.

Here is the full track list. Notably, there's a duet with husband Jay-Z and a cameo from daughter Blue Ivy:

1. Pretty Hurts

2. Haunted

3. Drunk in Love (feat. Jay Z)

4. Blow

5. No Angel

6. Partition

7. Jealous

8. Rocket

9. Mine (feat. Drake)

10. XO

11. ***Flawless (feat. Chimamanda Ngozi Adiche)

12. Superpower (feat. Frank Ocean)

13. Heaven

14. Blue (feat. Blue Ivy)

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Barack Obama: The 50 facts you might not know

• He collects Spider-Man and Conan the Barbarian comics

• He was known as "O'Bomber" at high school for his skill at basketball

• His name means "one who is blessed" in Swahili

• His favourite meal is wife Michelle's shrimp linguini

• He won a Grammy in 2006 for the audio version of his memoir, Dreams From My Father

• He is left-handed – the sixth post-war president to be left-handed

• He has read every Harry Potter book

• He owns a set of red boxing gloves autographed by Muhammad Ali

• He worked in a Baskin-Robbins ice cream shop as a teenager and now can't stand ice cream

• His favourite snacks are chocolate-peanut protein bars

• He ate dog meat, snake meat, and roasted grasshopper while living in Indonesia

• He can speak Spanish

• While on the campaign trail he refused to watch CNN and had sports channels on instead

• His favourite drink is black forest berry iced tea

• He promised Michelle he would quit smoking before running for president – he didn't

• He kept a pet ape called Tata while in Indonesia

• He can bench press an impressive 200lbs

• He was known as Barry until university when he asked to be addressed by his full name

• His favourite book is Moby-Dick by Herman Melville

• He visited Wokingham, Berks, in 1996 for the stag party of his half-sister's fiancé, but left when a stripper arrived

• His desk in his Senate office once belonged to Robert Kennedy

• He and Michelle made $4.2 million (£2.7 million) last year, with much coming from sales of his books

• His favourite films are Casablanca and One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest

• He carries a tiny Madonna and child statue and a bracelet belonging to a soldier in Iraq for good luck

• He applied to appear in a black pin-up calendar while at Harvard but was rejected by the all-female committee.

• His favourite music includes Miles Davis, Bob Dylan, Bach and The Fugees

• He took Michelle to see the Spike Lee film Do The Right Thing on their first date

• He enjoys playing Scrabble and poker

• He doesn't drink coffee and rarely drinks alcohol

• He would have liked to have been an architect if he were not a politician

• As a teenager he took drugs including marijuana and cocaine

• His daughters' ambitions are to go to Yale before becoming an actress (Malia, 10) and to sing and dance (Sasha, 7)

• He hates the youth trend for trousers which sag beneath the backside

• He repaid his student loan only four years ago after signing his book deal

• His house in Chicago has four fire places

• Daughter Malia's godmother is Jesse Jackson's daughter Santita

• He says his worst habit is constantly checking his BlackBerry

• He uses an Apple Mac laptop

• He drives a Ford Escape Hybrid, having ditched his gas-guzzling Chrysler 300

• He wears $1,500 (£952) Hart Schaffner Marx suits

• He owns four identical pairs of black size 11 shoes

• He has his hair cut once a week by his Chicago barber, Zariff, who charges $21 (£13)

• His favourite fictional television programmes are Mash and The Wire

• He was given the code name "Renegade" by his Secret Service handlers

• He was nicknamed "Bar" by his late grandmother

• He plans to install a basketball court in the White House grounds

• His favourite artist is Pablo Picasso

• His speciality as a cook is chilli

• He has said many of his friends in Indonesia were "street urchins"

• He keeps on his desk a carving of a wooden hand holding an egg, a Kenyan symbol of the fragility of life

• His late father was a senior economist for the Kenyan government

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Nelson Mandela "I hate race discrimination most intensely and in all its manifestations. I have fought it all during my life; I fight it now, and will do so until the end of my days."

• NAME: Nelson Mandela
• OCCUPATION: Civil Rights Activist, World Leader, Writer
• BIRTH DATE: July 18, 1918
• DEATH DATE: December 05, 2013
• EDUCATION: Clarkebury Boarding Institute, Wesleyan College, University College of Fort Hare, University of London, University of Witwatersrand, Johannesburg
• PLACE OF BIRTH: Mveso, Transkei, South Africa
• PLACE OF DEATH: Johannesburg, South Africa
• FULL NAME: Nelson Rolihlahla Mandela
• AKA: Nelson Mandela
• AKA: Rolihlahla
• NICKNAME: Madiba
• ORIGINALLY: Rolihlahla Mandela
• NICKNAME: Black Pimperne

BEST KNOWN FOR

Nelson Mandela became the first black president of South Africa in 1994, serving until 1999. A symbol of global peacemaking, he won the Nobel Peace Prize in 1993.

Nelson Mandela was born on July 18, 1918, in Mveso, Transkei, South Africa. Becoming actively involved in the anti-apartheid movement in his 20s, Mandela joined the African National Congress in 1942. For 20 years, he directed a campaign of peaceful, nonviolent defiance against the South African government and its racist policies. In 1993,

Mandela and South African President F.W. de Klerk were jointly awarded the Nobel Peace Prize for their efforts to dismantle the country's apartheid system. In 1994, Mandela was inaugurated as South Africa's first black president. In 2009, Mandela's birthday (July 18) was declared "Mandela Day" to promote global peace and celebrate the South African leader's legacy. Mandela died at his home in Johannesburg on December 5, 2013, at age 95.

Early Life

Nelson Mandela was born Rolihlahla Mandela on July 18, 1918, in the tiny village of Mvezo, on the banks of the Mbashe River in Transkei, South Africa. "Rolihlahla" in the Xhosa language literally means "pulling the branch of a tree," but more commonly translates as "troublemaker."

Nelson Mandela's father, who was destined to be a chief, served as a counselor to tribal chiefs for several years, but lost both his title and fortune over a dispute with the local colonial magistrate. Mandela was only an infant at the time, and his father's loss of status forced his mother to move the family to Qunu, an even smaller village north of Mvezo. The village was nestled in a narrow grassy valley; there were no roads, only foot paths that linked the pastures where livestock grazed. The family lived in huts and ate a local harvest of maize, sorghum, pumpkin and beans, which was all they could afford. Water came from springs and streams and cooking was done outdoors. Mandela played the games of young boys, acting out male rights-of-passage scenarios with toys he made from the natural materials available, including tree branches and clay.

At the suggestion of one of his father's friends, Mandela was baptized in the Methodist Church. He went on to become the first in his family to attend school. As was custom at the time, and probably due to the bias of the British educational system in South Africa, Mandela's teacher told him that his new first name would be Nelson.

When Mandela was 9 years old, his father died of lung disease, causing his life to change dramatically. He was adopted by Chief Jongintaba Dalindyebo, the acting regent of the Thembu people—a gesture done as a favor to Mandela's father, who, years earlier, had recommended Jongintaba be made chief. Mandela subsequently left the carefree life he knew in Qunu, fearing that he would never see his village again. He traveled by motorcar to Mqhekezweni, the provincial capital of Thembuland, to the chief's royal residence. Though he had not forgotten his beloved village of Qunu, he quickly adapted to the new, more sophisticated surroundings of Mqhekezweni.

Mandela was given the same status and responsibilities as the regent's two other children, his son and oldest child, Justice, and daughter Nomafu. Mandela took classes in a one-room school next to the palace, studying English, Xhosa, history and geography. It was during this period that Mandela developed an interest in African history,

CONTENTS

• Synopsis
• Early Life
• Mandela's Imprisonment
• Prison Release and Presidency
• Retirement and Later Career
• In Recent Years
• Death and Legacy
• Personal Life

from elder chiefs who came to the Great Palace on official business. He learned how the African people had lived in relative peace until the coming of the white people. According to the elders, the children of South Africa had previously lived as brothers, but white men had shattered this fellowship. While black men shared their land, air and water with whites, white men took all of these things for themselves.

When Mandela was 16, it was time for him to partake in the traditional African circumcision ritual to mark his entrance into manhood. The ceremony of circumcision was not just a surgical procedure, but an elaborate ritual in preparation for manhood. In African tradition, an uncircumcised man cannot inherit his father's wealth, marry or officiate at tribal rituals. Mandela participated in the ceremony with 25 other boys. He welcomed the opportunity to partake in his people's customs and felt ready to make the transition from boyhood to manhood. His mood shifted during the proceedings, however, when Chief Meligqili, the main speaker at the ceremony, spoke sadly of the young men, explaining that they were enslaved in their own country. Because their land was controlled by white men, they would never have the power to govern themselves, the chief said. He went on to lament that the promise of the young men would be squandered as they struggled to make a living and perform mindless chores for white men. Mandela would later say that while the chief's words didn't make total sense to him at the time, they would eventually formulate his resolve for an independent South Africa.

From the time Mandela came under the guardianship of Regent Jongintaba, he was groomed to assume high office, not as a chief, but a counselor to one. As Thembu royalty, Mandela attended a Wesleyan mission school, the Clarkebury Boarding Institute and Wesleyan College, where, he would later state, he achieved academic success through "plain hard work." He also excelled at track and boxing. Mandela was initially mocked as a "country boy" by his Wesleyan classmates, but eventually became friends with several students, including Mathona, his first female friend.

In 1939, Mandela enrolled at the University College of Fort Hare, the only residential center of higher learning for blacks in South Africa at the time. Fort Hare was considered Africa's equivalent of the University of Oxford or Harvard University, drawing scholars from all parts of sub-Sahara Africa. In his first year at the university, Mandela took the required courses, but focused on Roman Dutch law to prepare for a career in civil service as an interpreter or clerk—regarded as the best profession that a black man could obtain at the time.

In his second year at Fort Hare, Mandela was elected to the Student Representative Council. For some time, students had been dissatisfied with the food and lack of power held by the SRC. During this election, a majority of students voted to boycott unless their demands were met. Aligning with the student majority, Mandela resigned from his position. Seeing this as an act of insubordination,

CONTENTS

• Synopsis
• Early Life
• Mandela's Imprisonment
• Prison Release and Presidency
• Retirement and Later Career
• In Recent Years
• Death and Legacy
• Personal Life

the university's Dr. Kerr expelled Mandela for the rest of the year and gave him an ultimatum: He could return to the school if he agreed to serve on the SRC. When Mandela returned home, the regent was furious, telling him unequivocally that he would have to recant his decision and go back to school in the fall.

Mandela's Imprisonment

A few weeks after Mandela returned home, Regent Jongintaba announced that he had arranged a marriage for his adopted son. The regent wanted to make sure that Mandela's life was properly planned, and the arrangement was within his right, as tribal custom dictated. Shocked by the news, feeling trapped and believing that he had no other option than to follow this recent order, Mandela ran away from home. He settled in Johannesburg, where he worked a variety of jobs, including as a guard and a clerk, while completing his bachelor's degree via correspondence courses. He then enrolled at the University of Witwatersrand in Johannesburg to study law.

Mandela soon became actively involved in the anti-apartheid movement, joining the African National Congress in 1942. Within the ANC, a small group of young Africans banded together, calling themselves the African National Congress Youth League. Their goal was to transform the ANC into a mass grassroots movement, deriving strength from millions of rural peasants and working people who had no voice under the current regime. Specifically, the group believed that the ANC's old tactics of polite petitioning were ineffective. In 1949, the ANC officially adopted the Youth League's methods of boycott, strike, civil disobedience and non-cooperation, with policy goals of full citizenship, redistribution of land, trade union rights, and free and compulsory education for all children.

For 20 years, Mandela directed peaceful, nonviolent acts of defiance against the South African government and its racist policies, including the 1952 Defiance Campaign and the 1955 Congress of the People. He founded the law firm Mandela and Tambo, partnering with Oliver Tambo, a brilliant student he'd met while attending Fort Hare. The law firm provided free and low-cost legal counsel to unrepresented blacks.

In 1956, Mandela and 150 others were arrested and charged with treason for their political advocacy (they were eventually acquitted). Meanwhile, the ANC was being challenged by Africanists, a new breed of black activists who believed that the pacifist method of the ANC was ineffective. Africanists soon broke away to form the Pan-Africanist Congress, which negatively affected the ANC; by 1959, the movement had lost much of its militant support.

In 1961, Mandela, who was formerly committed to nonviolent protest, began to believe that armed struggle was the only way to achieve change. He subsequently co-founded Umkhonto we Sizwe, also known as MK, an armed offshoot of the ANC dedicated to sabotage and guerilla war tactics to end apartheid. In 1961, Mandela orchestrated a three-day national workers' strike. He was arrested for leading the strike the following year, and was sentenced to five years in prison. In 1963,

CONTENTS

• Synopsis
• Early Life
• Mandela's Imprisonment
• Prison Release and Presidency
• Retirement and Later Career
• In Recent Years
• Death and Legacy
• Personal Life

Mandela was brought to trial again. This time, he and 10 other ANC leaders were sentenced to life imprisonment for political offenses, including sabotage.

Nelson Mandela was incarcerated on Robben Island for 18 of his 27 years in prison. During this time, he contracted tuberculosis and, as a black political prisoner, received the lowest level of treatment from prison workers. However, while incarcerated, Mandela was able to earn a Bachelor of Law degree through a University of London correspondence program.

A 1981 memoir by South African intelligence agent Gordon Winter described a plot by the South African government to arrange for Mandela's escape so as to shoot him during the recapture; the plot was foiled by British intelligence. Mandela continued to be such a potent symbol of black resistance that a coordinated international campaign for his release was launched, and this international groundswell of support exemplified the power and esteem that Mandela had in the global political community.

In 1982, Mandela and other ANC leaders were moved to Pollsmoor Prison, allegedly to enable contact between them and the South African government. In 1985, President P.W. Botha offered Mandela's release in exchange for renouncing armed struggle; the prisoner flatly rejected the offer. With increasing local and international pressure for his release, the government participated in several talks with Mandela over the ensuing years, but no deal was made. It wasn't until Botha suffered a stroke and was replaced by Frederik Willem de Klerk that Mandela's release was finally announced—on February 11, 1990. De Klerk also unbanned the ANC, removed restrictions on political groups and suspended executions.

Prison Release and Presidency

Upon his release from prison, Nelson Mandela immediately urged foreign powers not to reduce their pressure on the South African government for constitutional reform. While he stated that he was committed to working toward peace, he declared that the ANC's armed struggle would continue until the black majority received the right to vote.

In 1991, Mandela was elected president of the African National Congress, with lifelong friend and colleague Oliver Tambo serving as national chairperson. Mandela continued to negotiate with President F.W. de Klerk toward the country's first multiracial elections. White South Africans were willing to share power, but many black South Africans wanted a complete transfer of power. The negotiations were often strained and news of violent eruptions, including the assassination of ANC leader Chris Hani, continued throughout the country.

Mandela had to keep a delicate balance of political pressure and intense negotiations amid the demonstrations and armed resistance.

In 1993, Mandela and President de Klerk were jointly awarded the Nobel Peace Prize for their work toward dismantling apartheid. And due in no small part to their work, negotiations between black and white South Africans prevailed: On April 27, 1994,

CONTENTS

• Synopsis
• Early Life
• Mandela's Imprisonment
• Prison Release and Presidency
• Retirement and Later Career
• In Recent Years
• Death and Legacy
• Personal Life

South Africa held its first democratic elections. Nelson Mandela was inaugurated as the country's first black president on May 10, 1994, at the age of 77, with de Klerk as his first deputy.

Also in 1994, Mandela published an autobiography, Long Walk to Freedom, much of which he had secretly written while in prison. The following year, he was awarded the Order of Merit.

From 1994 until June 1999, Mandela worked to bring about the transition from minority rule and apartheid to black majority rule. He used the nation's enthusiasm for sports as a pivot point to promote reconciliation between whites and blacks, encouraging black South Africans to support the once-hated national rugby team. In 1995, South Africa came to the world stage by hosting the Rugby World Cup, which brought further recognition and prestige to the young republic.

Mandela also worked to protect South Africa's economy from collapse during his presidency. Through his Reconstruction and Development Plan, the South African government funded the creation of jobs, housing and basic health care. In 1996, Mandela signed into law a new constitution for the nation, establishing a strong central government based on majority rule, and guaranteeing both the rights of minorities and the freedom of expression.

Retirement and Later Career

By the 1999 general election, Nelson Mandela had retired from active politics. He continued to maintain a busy schedule, however, raising money to build schools and clinics in South Africa's rural heartland through his foundation, and serving as a mediator in Burundi's civil war. He also published a number of books on his life and struggles, among them No Easy Walk to Freedom; Nelson Mandela: The Struggle is my Life; and Nelson Mandela's Favorite African Folktales.

Mandela was diagnosed and treated for prostate cancer in 2001. In June 2004, at the age of 85, he announced his formal retirement from public life and returned to his native village of Qunu.

On July 18, 2007, Mandela convened a group of world leaders, including Graca Machel (whom Mandela would wed in 1998),Desmond Tutu, Kofi Annan, Ela Bhatt, Gro Harlem Brundtland,Jimmy Carter, Li Zhaoxing, Mary Robinson and Muhammad Yunus, to address some of the world's toughest issues. Aiming to work both publicly and privately to find solutions to problems around the globe, the group was aptly named "The Elders." The Elders' impact has spanned Asia, the Middle East and Africa, and their actions have included promoting peace and women's equality, demanding an end to atrocities, and supporting initiatives to address humanitarian crises and promote democracy.

In addition to advocating for peace and equality on both a national and global scale, in his later years, Mandela remained committed to the fight against AIDS—a disease that killed Mandela's son, Makgatho, in 2005.

In Recent Years

Nelson Mandela made his last public appearance at the final match of the World Cup in South Africa in 2010. He remained largely out of the spotlight in his later years, choosing to spend much of his time in his childhood community of Qunu, south of Johannesburg. He did, however, visit with U.S. first lady Michelle Obama, wife of President Barack Obama,

CONTENTS

• Synopsis
• Early Life
• Mandela's Imprisonment
• Prison Release and Presidency
• Retirement and Later Career
• In Recent Years
• Death and Legacy
• Personal Life

during her trip to South Africa in 2011. 

After suffering a lung infection in January 2011, Mandela was briefly hospitalized in Johannesburg to undergo surgery for a stomach ailment in early 2012. He was released after a few days, later returning to Qunu. Mandela would be hospitalized many times over the next several years—in December 2012, March 2013 and June 2013—for further testing and medical treatment relating to his recurrent lung infection. Following his June 2013 hospital visit, Mandela's wife, Graca Machel, canceled a scheduled appearance in London to remain at her husband's his side, and his daughter, Zenani Dlamini, Argentina's South African ambassador, flew back to South Africa to be with her father. Jacob Zuma, South Africa's president, issued a statement in response to public concern over Mandela's March 2013 health scare, asking for support in the form of prayer: "We appeal to the people of South Africa and the world to pray for our beloved Madiba and his family and to keep them in their thoughts," Zuma said.

Death and Legacy

On December 5, 2013, at the age of 95, Nelson Mandela died at his home in Johannesburg, South Africa. Zuma released a statement later that day, in which he spoke to Mandela's legacy: "Wherever we are in the country, wherever we are in the world, let us reaffirm his vision of a society ... in which none is exploited, oppressed or dispossessed by another," he said. For decades to come, Nelson Mandela will continue to be a source of inspiration for civil rights activists worldwide.

In 2009, Mandela's birthday (July 18) was declared Mandela Day, an international day to promote global peace and celebrate the South African leader's legacy. According to the Nelson Mandela Centre of Memory, the annual event is meant to encourage citizens worldwide to give back the way that Mandela has throughout his lifetime. A statement on the Nelson Mandela Centre of Memory's website reads: "Mr. Mandela gave 67 years of his life fighting for the rights of humanity. All we are asking is that everyone gives 67 minutes of their time, whether it's supporting your chosen charity or serving your local community."

Personal Life

Mandela was married three times, beginning with Evelyn Ntoko Mase (m. 1944-1957). The couple had four children together: Madiba Thembekile, Makgatho (d. 2005), Makaziwe and Maki. Mandela wed Winnie Madikizela in 1958; the couple had two daughters together, Zenani and Zindziswa, before splitting in 1996. Two years later, Mandela married Graca Machel, with whom he remained until his death in 2013.

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M O D U L A R S Y S T E M INTERNET

The Internet is made up of millions of computers linked together around
the world in such a way that information can be exchanged between any
computer at any time. These computers can be in homes, schools,
universities, government departments, or businesses small and large.
The Internet is often described as 'a network of networks' because all
the smaller networks of organizations are linked together into the one
giant network called the Internet. All computers are pretty much equal
once connected to the Internet; the only differences will be the speed of the connection which is dependent on your Internet Service Provider
and your own connecting device such as modem, network card.
The Internet is the transport vehicle for the information stored in files or
documents on another computer. The Internet itself does not contain
information. It is a slight wrong statement to say a "document was found
on the Internet." It would be more correct to say it was found through or
using the Internet. What it was found in (or on) is one of the computers
linked to the Internet.
The Internet is also called Information Superhighway, Cyberspace, the
Virtual World or INET. INET is short form of InterNET.

The most important properties of The Internet

 Network dedicated,

 Based on the Internet suite of protocols (TCP/IP protocol),

 A non-commercial,

Self-governing,

Used for mostly to communication and research,

 No real center or central "Hub.",

Not an online service,

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release me .............. J . K e n n e r

release me
A N O V E L
J . K e n n e r
B A N T A M B O O K S N E W Y O R K
1
A cool ocean breeze caresses my bare shoulders, and I shiver,
wishing I’d taken my roommate’s advice and brought a shawl
with me tonight. I arrived in Los Angeles only four days ago, and
I haven’t yet adjusted to the concept of summer temperatures
changing with the setting of the sun. In Dallas, June is hot, July
is hotter, and August is hell.
Not so in California, at least not by the beach. LA. Lesson
Number One: Always carry a sweater if you’ll be out after dark.
Of course, I could leave the balcony and go back inside to the
party. Mingle with the millionaires. Chat up the celebrities. Gaze
dutifully at the paintings. It is a gala art opening, after all, and
my boss brought me here to meet and greet and charm and chat.
Not to lust over the panorama that is coming alive in front of
me. Bloodred clouds bursting against the pale orange sky.
Blue- gray waves shimmering with dappled gold.
I press my hands against the balcony rail and lean forward,
drawn to the intense, unreachable beauty of the setting sun. I
regret that I didn’t bring the battered Nikon I’ve had since high
school. Not that it would have fi t in my itty- bitty beaded purse.
And a bulky camera bag paired with a little black dress is a big,
4 J. K e n n e r
fat fashion no- no.
But this is my very fi rst Pacifi c Ocean sunset, and I’m determined
to document the moment. I pull out my iPhone and snap
a picture.
“Almost makes the paintings inside seem redundant, doesn’t
it?” I recognize the throaty, feminine voice and turn to face Evelyn
Dodge, retired actress turned agent turned patron of the
arts— and my hostess for the evening.
“I’m so sorry. I know I must look like a giddy tourist, but we
don’t have sunsets like that in Dallas.”
“Don’t apologize,” she says. “I pay for that view every month
when I write the mortgage check. It damn well better be spectacular.”
I laugh, immediately more at ease.
“Hiding out?”
“Excuse me?”
“You’re Carl’s new assistant, right?” she asks, referring to
my boss of three days.
“Nikki Fairchild.”
“I remember now. Nikki from Texas.” She looks me up and
down, and I wonder if she’s disappointed that I don’t have big
hair and cowboy boots. “So who does he want you to charm?”
“Charm?” I repeat, as if I don’t know exactly what she
means.
She cocks a single brow. “Honey, the man would rather walk
on burning coals than come to an art show. He’s fi shing for investors
and you’re the bait.” She makes a rough noise in the back
of her throat. “Don’t worry. I won’t press you to tell me who.
And I don’t blame you for hiding out. Carl’s brilliant, but he’s a
bit of a prick.”
“It’s the brilliant part I signed on for,” I say, and she barks
out a laugh.
The truth is that she’s right about me being the bait. “Wear a
cocktail dress,” Carl had said. “Something fl irty.”
r e l e a s e m e 5
Seriously? I mean, Seriously?
I should have told him to wear his own damn cocktail dress.
But I didn’t. Because I want this job. I fought to get this job.
Carl’s company, C- Squared Technologies, successfully launched
three web- based products in the last eighteen months. That track
record had caught the industry’s eye, and Carl had been hailed as
a man to watch.
More important from my perspective, that meant he was a
man to learn from, and I’d prepared for the job interview with
an intensity bordering on obsession. Landing the position had
been a huge coup for me. So what if he wanted me to wear something
fl irty? It was a small price to pay.
Shit.
“I need to get back to being the bait,” I say.
“Oh, hell. Now I’ve gone and made you feel either guilty or
self- conscious. Don’t be. Let them get liquored up in there fi rst.
You catch more fl ies with alcohol anyway. Trust me. I know.”
She’s holding a pack of cigarettes, and now she taps one out,
then extends the pack to me. I shake my head. I love the smell of
tobacco— it reminds me of my grandfather— but actually inhaling
the smoke does nothing for me.
“I’m too old and set in my ways to quit,” she says. “But God
forbid I smoke in my own damn house. I swear, the mob would
burn me in effi gy. You’re not going to start lecturing me on the
dangers of secondhand smoke are you?”
“No,” I promise.
“Then how about a light?”
I hold up the itty- bitty purse. “One lipstick, a credit card, my
driver’s license, and my phone.”
“No condom?”
“I didn’t think it was that kind of party,” I say dryly.
“I knew I liked you.” She glances around the balcony. “What
the hell kind of party am I throwing if I don’t even have one goddamn
candle on one goddamn table? Well, fuck it.” She puts the
6 J. K e n n e r
unlit cigarette to her mouth and inhales, her eyes closed and her
expression rapturous. I can’t help but like her. She wears hardly
any makeup, in stark contrast to all the other women here tonight,
myself included, and her dress is more of a caftan, the
batik pattern as interesting as the woman herself.
She’s what my mother would call a brassy broad— loud,
large, opinionated, and self- confi dent. My mother would hate
her. I think she’s awesome.
She drops the unlit cigarette onto the tile and grinds it with
the toe of her shoe. Then she signals to one of the catering staff,
a girl dressed all in black and carrying a tray of champagne
glasses.
The girl fumbles for a minute with the sliding door that opens
onto the balcony, and I imagine those fl utes tumbling off, breaking
against the hard tile, the scattered shards glittering like a
wash of diamonds.
I picture myself bending to snatch up a broken stem. I see the
raw edge cutting into the soft fl esh at the base of my thumb as I
squeeze. I watch myself clutching it tighter, drawing strength
from the pain, the way some people might try to extract luck
from a rabbit’s foot.
The fantasy blurs with memory, jarring me with its potency.
It’s fast and powerful, and a little disturbing because I haven’t
needed the pain in a long time, and I don’t understand why I’m
thinking about it now, when I feel steady and in control.
I am fi ne, I think. I am fi ne, I am fi ne, I am fi ne.
“Take one, honey,” Evelyn says easily, holding a fl ute out
to me.
I hesitate, searching her face for signs that my mask has
slipped and she’s caught a glimpse of my rawness. But her face is
clear and genial.
“No, don’t you argue,” she adds, misinterpreting my hesitation.
“I bought a dozen cases and I hate to see good alcohol go
to waste. Hell no,” she adds when the girl tries to hand her a
r e l e a s e m e 7
fl ute. “I hate the stuff. Get me a vodka. Straight up. Chilled.
Four olives. Hurry up, now. Do you want me to dry up like a leaf
and fl oat away?”
The girl shakes her head, looking a bit like a twitchy, frightened
rabbit. Possibly one that had sacrifi ced his foot for someone
else’s good luck.
Evelyn’s attention returns to me. “So how do you like LA?
What have you seen? Where have you been? Have you bought a
map of the stars yet? Dear God, tell me you’re not getting sucked
into all that tourist bullshit.”
“Mostly I’ve seen miles of freeway and the inside of my
apartment.”
“Well, that’s just sad. Makes me even more glad that Carl
dragged your skinny ass all the way out here tonight.”
I’ve put on fi fteen welcome pounds since the years when my
mother monitored every tiny thing that went in my mouth, and
while I’m perfectly happy with my size- eight ass, I wouldn’t describe
it as skinny. I know Evelyn means it as a compliment,
though, and so I smile. “I’m glad he brought me, too. The paintings
really are amazing.”
“Now don’t do that— don’t you go sliding into the polite
conversation routine. No, no,” she says before I can protest.
“I’m sure you mean it. Hell, the paintings are wonderful. But
you’re getting the fl at- eyed look of a girl on her best behavior,
and we can’t have that. Not when I was getting to know the real
you.”
“Sorry,” I say. “I swear I’m not fading away on you.”
Because I genuinely like her, I don’t tell her that she’s
wrong— she hasn’t met the real Nikki Fairchild. She’s met Social
Nikki who, much like Malibu Barbie, comes with a complete set
of accessories. In my case, it’s not a bikini and a convertible.
Instead, I have the Elizabeth Fairchild Guide for Social Gatherings.
My mother’s big on rules. She claims it’s her Southern up-
8 J. K e n n e r
bringing. In my weaker moments, I agree. Mostly, I just think
she’s a controlling bitch. Since the fi rst time she took me for tea
at the Mansion at Turtle Creek in Dallas at age three, I have had
the rules drilled into my head. How to walk, how to talk, how to
dress. What to eat, how much to drink, what kinds of jokes to
tell.
I have it all down, every trick, every nuance, and I wear my
practiced pageant smile like armor against the world. The result
being that I don’t think I could truly be myself at a party even if
my life depended on it.
This, however, is not something Evelyn needs to know.
“Where exactly are you living?” she asks.
“Studio City. I’m sharing a condo with my best friend from
high school.”
“Straight down the 101 for work and then back home again.
No wonder you’ve only seen concrete. Didn’t anyone tell you
that you should have taken an apartment on the Westside?”
“Too pricey to go it alone,” I admit, and I can tell that my
admission surprises her. When I make the effort— like when I’m
Social Nikki— I can’t help but look like I come from money.
Probably because I do. Come from it, that is. But that doesn’t
mean I brought it with me.
“How old are you?”
“Twenty- four.”
Evelyn nods sagely, as if my age reveals some secret about
me. “You’ll be wanting a place of your own soon enough. You
call me when you do and we’ll fi nd you someplace with a view.
Not as good as this one, of course, but we can manage something
better than a freeway on- ramp.”
“It’s not that bad, I promise.”
“Of course it’s not,” she says in a tone that says the exact
opposite. “As for views,” she continues, gesturing toward the
now- dark ocean and the sky that’s starting to bloom with stars,
“you’re welcome to come back anytime and share mine.”
r e l e a s e m e 9
“I might take you up on that,” I admit. “I’d love to bring a
decent camera back here and take a shot or two.”
“It’s an open invitation. I’ll provide the wine and you can
provide the entertainment. A young woman loose in the city.
Will it be a drama? A rom- com? Not a tragedy, I hope. I love a
good cry as much as the next woman, but I like you. You need a
happy ending.”
I tense, but Evelyn doesn’t know she’s hit a nerve. That’s why
I moved to LA, after all. New life. New story. New Nikki.
I ramp up the Social Nikki smile and lift my champagne fl ute.
“To happy endings. And to this amazing party. I think I’ve kept
you from it long enough.”
“Bullshit,” she says. “I’m the one monopolizing you, and we
both know it.”
We slip back inside, the buzz of alcohol- fueled conversation
replacing the soft calm of the ocean.
“The truth is, I’m a terrible hostess. I do what I want, talk to
whoever I want, and if my guests feel slighted they can damn
well deal with it.”
I gape. I can almost hear my mother’s cries of horror all the
way from Dallas.
“Besides,” she continues, “this party isn’t supposed to be
about me. I put together this little shindig to introduce Blaine
and his art to the community. He’s the one who should be doing
the mingling, not me. I may be fucking him, but I’m not going to
baby him.”
Evelyn has completely destroyed my image of how a hostess
for the not- to- be- missed social event of the weekend is supposed
to behave, and I think I’m a little in love with her for that.
“I haven’t met Blaine yet. That’s him, right?” I point to a tall
reed of a man. He is bald, but sports a red goatee. I’m pretty sure
it’s not his natural color. A small crowd hums around him, like
bees drawing nectar from a fl ower. His outfi t is certainly as
bright as one.
10 J. K e n n e r
“That’s my little center of attention, all right,” Evelyn says.
“The man of the hour. Talented isn’t he?” Her hand sweeps out
to indicate her massive living room. Every wall is covered with
paintings. Except for a few benches, whatever furniture was
once in the room has been removed and replaced with easels on
which more paintings stand.
I suppose technically they are portraits. The models are
nudes, but these aren’t like anything you would see in a classical
art book. There’s something edgy about them. Something provocative
and raw. I can tell that they are expertly conceived and
carried out, and yet they disturb me, as if they reveal more about
the person viewing the portrait than about the painter or the
model.
As far as I can tell, I’m the only one with that reaction. Certainly
the crowd around Blaine is glowing. I can hear the gushing
praise from here.
“I picked a winner with that one,” Evelyn says. “But let’s see.
Who do you want to meet? Rip Carrington and Lyle Tarpin?
Those two are guaranteed drama, that’s for damn sure, and your
roommate will be jealous as hell if you chat them up.”
“She will?”
Evelyn’s brows arch up. “Rip and Lyle? They’ve been feuding
for weeks.” She narrows her eyes at me. “The fi asco about the
new season of their sitcom? It’s all over the Internet? You really
don’t know them?”
“Sorry,” I say, feeling the need to apologize. “My school
schedule was pretty intense. And I’m sure you can imagine what
working for Carl is like.”
Speaking of . . .
I glance around, but I don’t see my boss anywhere.
“That is one serious gap in your education,” Evelyn says.
“Culture— and yes, pop culture counts— is just as important
as— what did you say you studied?”
“I don’t think I mentioned it. But I have a double major in
r e l e a s e m e 11
electrical engineering and computer science.”
“So you’ve got brains and beauty. See? That’s something else
we have in common. Gotta say, though, with an education like
that, I don’t see why you signed up to be Carl’s secretary.”
I laugh. “I’m not, I swear. Carl was looking for someone with
tech experience to work with him on the business side of things,
and I was looking for a job where I could learn the business side.
Get my feet wet. I think he was a little hesitant to hire me at
fi rst— my skills defi nitely lean toward tech— but I convinced him
I’m a fast learner.”
She peers at me. “I smell ambition.”
I lift a shoulder in a casual shrug. “It’s Los Angeles. Isn’t that
what this town is all about?”
“Ha! Carl’s lucky he’s got you. It’ll be interesting to see how
long he keeps you. But let’s see . . . who here would intrigue
you . . . ?”
She casts about the room, fi nally pointing to a fi fty- something
man holding court in a corner. “That’s Charles Maynard,” she
says. “I’ve known Charlie for years. Intimidating as hell until
you get to know him. But it’s worth it. His clients are either celebrities
with name recognition or power brokers with more
money than God. Either way, he’s got all the best stories.”
“He’s a lawyer?”
“With Bender, Twain & McGuire. Very prestigious fi rm.”
“I know,” I say, happy to show that I’m not entirely ignorant,
despite not knowing Rip or Lyle. “One of my closest friends
works for the fi rm. He started here but he’s in their New York
offi ce now.”
“Well, come on, then, Texas. I’ll introduce you.” We take one
step in that direction, but then Evelyn stops me. Maynard has
pulled out his phone, and is shouting instructions at someone. I
catch a few well- placed curses and eye Evelyn sideways. She
looks unconcerned “He’s a pussycat at heart. Trust me, I’ve
worked with him before. Back in my agenting days, we put to-
12 J. K e n n e r
gether more celebrity biopic deals for our clients than I can
count. And we fought to keep a few tell- alls off the screen, too.”
She shakes her head, as if reliving those glory days, then pats my
arm. “Still, we’ll wait ’til he calms down a bit. In the meantime,
though . . .”
She trails off, and the corners of her mouth turn down in a
frown as she scans the room again. “I don’t think he’s here yet,
but— oh! Yes! Now there’s someone you should meet. And if you
want to talk views, the house he’s building has one that makes
my view look like, well, like yours.” She points toward the entrance
hall, but all I see are bobbing heads and haute couture.
“He hardly ever accepts invitations, but we go way back,” she
says.
I still can’t see who she’s talking about, but then the crowd
parts and I see the man in profi le. Goose bumps rise on my arms,
but I’m not cold. In fact, I’m suddenly very, very warm.
He’s tall and so handsome that the word is almost an insult.
But it’s more than that. It’s not his looks, it’s his presence. He
commands the room simply by being in it, and I realize that Evelyn
and I aren’t the only ones looking at him. The entire crowd
has noticed his arrival. He must feel the weight of all those eyes,
and yet the attention doesn’t faze him at all. He smiles at the girl
with the champagne, takes a glass, and begins to chat casually
with a woman who approaches him, a simpering smile stretched
across her face.
“Damn that girl,” Evelyn says. “She never did bring me my
vodka.”
But I barely hear her. “Damien Stark,” I say. My voice surprises
me. It’s little more than breath.
Evelyn’s brows rise so high I notice the movement in my peripheral
vision. “Well, how about that?” she says knowingly.
“Looks like I guessed right.”
“You did,” I admit. “Mr. Stark is just the man I want to see.”
2
“Damien Stark is the holy grail.” That’s what Carl told me earlier
that evening. Right after, “Damn, Nikki. You look hot.”
I think he was expecting me to blush and smile and thank
him for his kind words. When I didn’t, he cleared his throat and
got down to business. “You know who Stark is, right?”
“You saw my resume,” I reminded him. “The fellowship?”
I’d been the recipient of the Stark International Science Fellowship
for four of my fi ve years at the University of Texas, and
those extra dollars every semester had made all the difference in
the world to me. Of course, even without a fellowship, you’d
have to be from Mars not to know about the man. Only thirty
years old, the reclusive former tennis star had taken the millions
he’d earned in prizes and endorsements and reinvented himself.
His tennis days had been overshadowed by his new identity as an
entrepreneur, and Stark’s massive empire raked in billions every
year.
“Right, right,” Carl said, distracted. “Team April is presenting
at Stark Applied Technology on Tuesday.” At C- Squared,
every product team is named after a month. With only twentythree
employees, though, the company has yet to tap into au-
14 J. K e n n e r
tumn or winter.
“That’s fabulous,” I said, and I meant it. Inventors, software
developers, and eager new business owners practically wet themselves
to get an interview with Damien Stark. That Carl had
snagged just such an appointment was proof that my hoopjumping
to get this job had been worth it.
“Damn straight,” Carl said. “We’re showing off the beta version
of the 3- D training software. Brian and Dave are on point
with me,” he added, referring to the two software developers
who’d written most of the code for the product. Considering its
applications in athletics and Stark Applied Technology’s focus
on athletic medicine and training, I had to guess that Carl was
about to pitch another winner. “I want you at the meeting with
us,” he added, and I managed not to embarrass myself by doing
a fi st- pump in the air. “Right now, we’re scheduled to meet with
Preston Rhodes. Do you know who he is?”
“No.”
“Nobody does. Because Rhodes is a nobody.”
So Carl didn’t have a meeting with Stark, after all. I, however,
had a feeling I knew where this conversation was going.
“Pop quiz, Nikki. How does an up- and- coming genius like
me get an in- person meeting with a powerhouse like Damien
Stark?”
“Networking,” I said. I wasn’t an A- student for nothing.
“And that’s why I hired you.” He tapped his temple, even as
his eyes roamed over my dress and lingered at my cleavage. At
least he wasn’t so gauche as to actually articulate the basic fact
that he was hoping that my tits— rather than his product— would
intrigue Stark enough that he’d attend the meeting personally.
But honestly, I wasn’t sure my girls were up to the task. I’m easy
on the eyes, but I’m more the girl- next- door, America’s- sweetheart
type. And I happen to know that Stark goes for the runway supermodel
type.
I learned that six years ago when he was still playing tennis
r e l e a s e m e 15
and I was still chasing tiaras. He’d been the token celebrity judge
at the Miss Tri- County Texas pageant, and though we’d barely
exchanged a dozen words at the mid- pageant reception, the encounter
was burned into my memory.
I’d parked myself near the buffet and was contemplating the
tiny squares of cheesecake, wondering if my mother would smell
it on my breath if I ate just one, when he walked up with the kind
of bold self- assurance that can seem like arrogance on some
men, but on Damien Stark it just seemed sexy as hell. He eyed
me fi rst, then the cheesecakes. Then he took two and popped
them both in his mouth. He chewed, swallowed, then grinned at
me. His unusual eyes, one amber and one almost completely
black, seemed to dance with mirth.
I tried to come up with something clever to say and failed
miserably. So I just stood there, my polite smile plastered across
my face as I wondered if his kiss would give me all the taste and
none of the calories.
Then he leaned closer, and my breath hitched as his proximity
increased. “I think we’re kindred spirits, Miss Fairchild.”
“I’m sorry?” Was he talking about the cheesecake? Good
God, I hadn’t actually looked jealous when he’d eaten them, had
I? The idea was appalling.
“Neither of us wants to be here,” he explained. He tilted his
head slightly toward a nearby emergency exit, and I was overcome
by the sudden image of him grabbing my hand and taking
off running. The clarity of the thought alarmed me. But the certainty
that I’d go with him didn’t scare me at all.
“I— oh,” I mumbled.
His eyes crinkled with his smile, and he opened his mouth to
speak. I didn’t learn what he had to say, though, because Carmela
D’Amato swept over to join us, then linked her arm with
his. “Damie, darling.” Her Italian accent was as thick as her
dark wavy hair. “Come. We should go, yes?” I’ve never been a
big tabloid reader, but it’s hard to avoid celebrity gossip when
16 J. K e n n e r
you’re doing the pageant thing. So I’d seen the headlines and
articles that paired the big- shot tennis star with the Italian supermodel.
“Miss Fairchild,” he said with a parting nod, then turned to
escort Carmela into the crowd and out of the building. I watched
them leave, consoling myself with the thought that there was
regret in his eyes as we parted ways. Regret and resignation.
There wasn’t, of course. Why would there be? But that nice
little fantasy got me through the rest of the pageant.
And I didn’t say one word about the encounter to Carl. Some
things are best played close to the vest. Including how much I’m
looking forward to meeting Damien Stark again.
“Come on, Texas,” Evelyn says, pulling me from my thoughts.
“Let’s go say howdy.”
I feel a tap on my shoulder and turn to fi nd Carl behind me.
He sports the kind of grin that suggests he just got laid. I know
better. He’s just giddy with the anticipation of getting close to
Damien Stark.
Well, me, too.
The crowd has shifted again, blocking my view of the man. I
still haven’t seen his face, just his profi le, and now I can’t even see
that. Evelyn’s leading the way, making forward progress through
the crowd despite a few stops and starts to chat with her guests.
We’re on the move again when a barrel- chested man in a plaid
sport coat shifts to the left, once again revealing Damien Stark.
He is even more magnifi cent now than he was six years ago.
The brashness of youth has been replaced by a mature confi -
dence. He is Jason and Hercules and Perseus— a fi gure so strong
and beautiful and heroic that the blood of the gods must fl ow
through him, because how else could a being so fi ne exist in this
world? His face consists of hard lines and angles that seem
sculpted by light and shadows, making him appear both classically
gorgeous and undeniably unique. His dark hair absorbs the
light as completely as a raven’s wing, but it is not nearly as
r e l e a s e m e 17
smooth. Instead, it looks wind- tossed, as if he’s spent the day
at sea.
That hair in contrast with his black tailored trousers and
starched white shirt give him a casual elegance, and it’s easy to
believe that this man is just as comfortable on a tennis court as
he is in a boardroom.
His famous eyes capture my attention. They seem edgy and
dangerous and full of dark promises. More important, they are
watching me. Following me as I move toward him.
I feel an odd sense of deja vu as I move steadily across the
fl oor, hyperaware of my body, my posture, the placement of my
feet. Foolishly, I feel as if I’m a contestant all over again.
I keep my eyes forward, not looking at his face. I don’t like
the nervousness that has crept into my manner. The sense that he
can see beneath the armor I wear along with my little black
dress.
One step, then another.
I can’t help it; I look straight at him. Our eyes lock, and I
swear all the air is sucked from the room. It is my old fantasy
come to life, and I am completely lost. The sense of deja vu vanishes
and there’s nothing but this moment, electric and powerful.
Sensual.
For all I know, I’ve gone spinning off into space. But no, I’m
right there, fl oor beneath me, walls around me, and Damien
Stark’s eyes on mine. I see heat and purpose. And then I see nothing
but raw, primal desire so intense I fear that I’ll shatter under
the force of it.
Carl takes my elbow, steadying me, and only then do I realize
I’d started to stumble. “Are you okay?”
“New shoes. Thanks.” I glance back at Stark, but his eyes
have gone fl at. His mouth is a thin line. Whatever that was— and
what the hell was it?— the moment has passed.
By the time we reach Stark, I’ve almost convinced myself it
was my imagination.
18 J. K e n n e r
I barely process the words as Evelyn introduces Carl. My
turn is next, and Carl presses his hand to my shoulder, pushing
me subtly forward. His palm is sweating, and it feels clammy
against my bare skin. I force myself not to shrug it off.
“Nikki is Carl’s new assistant,” Evelyn says.
I extend my hand. “Nikki Fairchild. It’s a pleasure.” I don’t
mention that we’ve met before. Now hardly seems the time to
remind him that I once paraded before him in a bathing suit.
“Ms. Fairchild,” he says, ignoring my hand. My stomach
twists, but I’m not sure if it’s from nerves, disappointment, or
anger. He looks from Carl to Evelyn, pointedly avoiding my
eyes. “You’ll have to excuse me. There’s something I need to attend
to right away.” And then he’s gone, swallowed up into the
crowd as effectively as a magician disappearing in a puff of
smoke.
“What the fuck?” Carl says, summing up my sentiments exactly.
Uncharacteristically quiet, Evelyn simply gapes at me, her expressive
mouth turned down into a frown.
But I don’t need words to know what she’s thinking. I can
easily see that she’s wondering the same thing I am: What just
happened?
More important, what the hell did I do wrong?
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RELEASE ME
by
J. Kenner

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