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    Willow Hillsborough angrily stabbed at a piece of spinach.  “What a horrible birthday.  This isn’t how I expected to spend my thirty-first birthday,” she mumbled.  Willow set down her fork and dropped her head in her hands, her honey blonde tresses curtaining her face.  What was supposed to be a romantic dinner with her date had turned into a solo dining experience.  Instead of enjoying a scrumptious meal of oysters, lobsters and champagne, all aphrodisiacs, her date preferred to troll the restaurant for clients.
    All around her, couples whispered in each other’s ears, held hands and gazed adoringly in their partner’s eyes.  “But not me,” Willow muttered.  She lifted her head and glanced across the restaurant at her date, Marius Santiago.  He was a driven man, the kind she admired and dated for the last ten years but tonight, instead of admiration, she found herself irritated, even angry.
    A plastic surgeon, Marius had the chiseled looks that his clients paid thousands to get.  But Willow knew his good looks were the result of a beautiful gene pool.  She knew because he kept a family portrait of his siblings, parents, and grandparents prominently displayed in his office.  His brushed bronze skin, strong nose and sharp cheekbones came from his Puerto Rican mother and black father, as did his glossy black hair and full lips. 
    One time he’d casually asked if she wanted breast enhancement surgery, on the house, of course.  She turned him down flat, not only did she not want to end up looking like a Barbie doll, but because she really liked her body, no amount of silicon, saline or collagen was ever going to contaminate it. 
    Willow’s BlackBerry chirped.  She glanced down then groaned.  She recognized the number.  “Can my birthday get any worse?” 
    For the last five years Willow had worked as an entertainment lawyer.  Her client roster was made up of Atlanta’s fresh crop of newly minted entertainers and seasoned celebrities.  She was the go to lawyer for rappers, actors and reality stars for their legal woes.  Her workweek was no less than eighty hours; she practically lived in her office. 
    Willow tapped her finger on the table debating whether to take the call, but she knew she was obligated.  It was, Lynda, the mother of Pretty Boy Troy, a client of hers and she was calling for help.  Pretty Boy Troy was a twenty-year-old rapper who sounded like the late Notorious B.I.G., danced like the legendary Michael Jackson and looked like the popular rapper Drake, had the potential for super stardom.  All he had to do was stay out of trouble, which he wasn’t able to do.  He had opened up for T.I. and Lil Wayne.  His agent was in the process of ironing out a contract for him to tour with Chris Brown.
    Willow clicked on her phone and before she could say hello, Pretty Boy’s mother began spewing her problem.  A couple of weeks ago, Pretty Boy had been driving his hundred thousand dollar car, which puzzled Willow as she couldn’t for the life of her understand why a twenty-year-old needed such an expensive car.  When she was twenty her twelve-year-old Honda Civic had gotten her around just fine.
    The Atlanta Police Department had stopped him for speeding which normally would have garnered him only a ticket.  But the suspicious smelling cloud that billowed out the open door prompted an immediate search.  The APD found just enough weed to arrest him.  He was due in court Monday and his mother hadn’t seen him in days.
    Willow sipped her wine, took a deep breath and tried to calm Lynda down.  “Yes he needs to be in court Monday.  But relax he goes MIA all the time, you know your son, he’ll show up as though nothing is wrong.  He’s okay.”  After another five minutes of coddling and reassuring her, Willow clicked off, then immediately called Troy, she refused to call him by his moniker.
    He picked up his phone on the