Cecilee climbed the stairwell of the 51st street subway station with a precarious confidence. Her favourite platform wedges were both a statement and a necessity, thanks in equal parts to her career choice and her tiny 5'1 frame. She reached the top and stepped out into the warm spring evening, inside her chest her heart sang a little. God, she loved this city. She paused for a brief moment to breathe it all in. The sights and the sounds and the people. It wasn't the most happening area of the city but it was still New York City, a far, far, far cry from Withyham.

In comparison to the incredible, sprawling city in front of her, the East Sussex village she grew up in seemed like a completely different world. With a population of less than 3,000 people, it was impossible to walk the streets of her hometown without crossing paths with at least a dozen people who knew far too much about her and her family and her friends and her life and her love life...or lack thereof. Which is why she, the lonely young girl who had preferred to spend her evenings sketching and sewing in her bedroom rather than attend parties and pubs, high-tailed it out of that village as soon as her passport allowed it.

And yes, America had been good to her. But sometimes her soul simply cried out for an evening of tea and toast with her mum and baby sister or for one of her dad's big, burly, all encompassing hugs. Sometimes, just sometimes, she found herself getting lost in the shuffle and missing the people and place and faces of her sweet little English village. And then sometimes, especially after all the excitement of her life in the last five years...and when her thoughts switched to a one Liam Davies...it was nice to be able to just blend into the crowd.

As she turned and headed in the direction of the 17th precinct, she realized this was one of those moments. The crowd of photographers standing impatiently outside the station doors made her insides flutter in a way that was the complete opposite to the heart-warming moment that had just passed as she contemplated her new home and her old one. This was a belly-flipping, bad news kind of feeling.

She stopped walking and pulled her phone out of her pocket and dialed.

"St. Clair," said the tired sounding voice on the other end.

"Hunter? It's Ces. There is--,"

"I know," he snapped, cutting her off. "It's madness out there. My higher ups are losing it on me. This has gotten totally out of hand. Have you seen the site? I should have known my sister would take it one step too far."

Cecilee stomach flipped again. The bad-news-gut-feeling was rarely ever wrong.

"I haven't had time to look yet," she responded quietly, feeling guilty. In reality, she just hadn't been able to bring herself to open TwoOneTwo.com all day. The city's most infamous online gossip magazine (aptly named after the city's most infamous area code) was known for it's harsh and brutally honest look at the socialite and celebrity scene in New York City. It was a world that Sophie, the company’s head of social media, had never been a part of except for the glimpses she received through her best friend Morgan Witherow. For years Sophie's insistence on not reporting on her lifelong friend had been both admired by some and hated by others. Today she broke that pact with herself and with Morgan. And the poor girl didn’t even know.

"Well you should go have a look," he sighed. "It's going to be a mess."

"When am I going to be able to take her home?" she questioned, ignoring his suggestion. Right now she just wanted to follow through with the plan and get Morgan out of there. She had been given the direction to pick up their favorite little convict from the station at exactly 6pm. From there he would take her home to let her shower and change and by the time she was out, Kat and Soph will be waiting to break the news to her.

"If you can get past the crowd without too much of a hassle you can take her now," he said. "She's just in a holding cell. The "angry neighbours" dropped all the charges...conveniently."

Ces had to laugh a little at the absurdity of it all. Of course the "angry neighbours" dropped all the charges, there was never any "angry neighbours" to begin with.

"I can't leave my desk for the moment, but I'll meet you down there in 15 minutes or so with her release papers," he paused. "Do you want me to send Brandon out to make sure you get inside safely?"

Ces snorted, disgustingly.

"I'd rather not be touched by that awful excuse of a man," she said and then quickly covered her mouth with her free hand, mentally kicking herself for speaking before thinking...again. She was sure Hunter had never heard her talk like, especially not about his best friend.

Hunter let out a deep, throaty belly laugh…and she let out a sigh of relief.

"Thank you for that Ces, I needed that after this day," he said, the remnants of the laugh still holding in his voice. "Come on in, I'll let the front desk people know to except you."

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Forty minutes, two decoys, and one uncomfortably silent ride in the back seat of a cop car later, she and Hunter ushered a very hungover Morgan through the front door of the stunning Upper East Side brownstone she had planned on sharing with her future husband. Once she had her up in the master bathroom, she opened the medicine cabinet and pulled two Advil's from the massive Costco-sized bottle sitting on the shelf. Clearly her life with Brock really had been that painful.

She handed them to her friend, who sat slumped on the toilet seat, eyes closed.

Thankfully for them, her intense gin-induced hangover had resulted in Morgan being, literally, unable to open her eyes since they had awoken her from an intense drunk tank slumber in her holding cell. This meant no talking, no questions, no asking to see her cell phone, nothing. Nothing that could incriminate them. Yet.

As Morgan popped the pills easily and without water, Cecilee turned the tap on and started to run her poor friend a bath.

"Morg," she whispered. "Get undressed and climb in. Relax for a bit and I will come up and get you in thirty minutes or so. The girls are both on their way over."

Her friend nodded and opened her eyes briefly.

"Thanks Ces," she quietly muttered. "Sorry for being such a disaster today."

Ces smiled her most genuine fake smile she could muster.

Oh sweetheart, she thought, the disaster is only just beginning.

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Less than an hour later all four woman sat at the high bar-style island in Morgan’s kitchen. Sophie's laptop sitting closed in front of her, taunting them all. Cecilee was starting to feel more and more nauseous by the moment. She still didn't know what the site said but a quick peek at Morgan's cellphone, which she was presently holding captive, revealed more than 100 missed calls and messages from family, friends, press and, of course, the ever-sleazy Brock Andrews. She'd deleted those ones for her best friends benefit, but a quick glance at his venomous texts gave her some insight to what had been written on TwoOneTwo. And it wasn't going to go over well.

Hunter stood on the other side of the island, still in uniform, pulling out glasses and ingredients and searching, it seemed, for something else. The women all watched him silently. No one had spoken since Morgan sat down just minutes before.

"Honestly though, don't you girls drink anything other than gin?" he asked, raising a bottle of Hendrick's in each hand as if to make his point. Blank, slightly appalled stares were all he received in response. Gin had been the drink of choice for the four of them for, well, forever. It was the first drink that Sophie, Kat, and Morgan had gotten drunk off of in their sophomore year of high school and it was the first alcohol that ever graced a 22-year-old Cecilee's lips when she landed in NYC and on Sophie's doorstep.

"Hair of the dog for you, madam," Hunter said, placing a tall glass in front of Morgan. "And liquid courage for the rest of you."

He placed three more glasses in front of each of them. They all quickly took a deep slug of the beverage. Surprise and appreciation registering on each of their faces as they studied the glasses, which were filled with what they had all assumed was just their usual G&T. An explosion of lemony-sweet bubbles danced over Cecilee's tongue. Oh my, she thought, staring into her glass at the swirly lemon curls floating on the top of her drink. These could be fun.

"Wait, why do you guys need--" Morgan asked after swallowing, shattering through her happy boozy thoughts.

"Uhh, I have to get back to the station," Hunter cut her off, quickly wiping his hands on a dishtowel and heading towards the front door.

Coward. He was just as guilty as the rest of them and he knew it, Cecilee thought.

"Whoa, hold up bro! I didn't know you were all, like, a mixologist," Sophie said, ignoring his mad beeline out of the room and taking another deep sip. "These are pretty damn good. And potentially very dangerous."

Hunter leaned his head back into the kitchen, his handsome face now half shadowed by his NYPD-issue hat.

"It doesn't take a mixologist to make one of the world's most classic drinks, Soph," he said, leaning on the doorframe and crossing his arms across his broad chest. "Besides, it's about time you four learn to broaden your horizons from your standard G&T."

His eyes went serious.

"There is nothing wrong with bringing a little change into your life...and a little danger," he smiled a devastating grin at them all. "Who knows? Maybe you'll all learn something from it."

And with those smart-but-too-close-to-home words, he tapped the edge of his hat, turned and was out the door.

"Wait! Hunter! You still didn't tell us what the drink is!" Cecilee shouted from her seat. The front door opened again, briefly.

"It's called a Tom Collins, ladies. Enjoy!"