Four stories about sisters and their secrets by Mary Castillo, Berta Platas, Lynda Sandoval and me.  In my novella “Whipped,” Michelle Saez is a total straight arrow by day but lives a shocking double life at night. No one has a clue — not even her ambitious sister Jennifer. When Jennifer decides to run for elected office, Michelle’s scandalous secret could very well derail her bid.  Enjoy this abridged excerpt from chapter eight of my novella.

“You look good,” Rocco says. He means it.  Whether he likes it or not, it’s the truth. I look great.

“So do you,” I lie.  Rocco’s one of those guys who thinks he’s good-looking enough to ignore his appearance. he is, but that’s beside the point. We’re talking principle here. When he worked for the law firm, his Taryn Rose shoes were always scuffed and his Burberry ties always had coffee stains.

Now Rocco’s in the starving artist thing with torn jeans, a wrinkled T-shirt and “mandals.” How did I ever fall for this man?

“How’s the artistic life treating you?” I ask, even though I really don’t care. Of course, I hope the man is literally starving, but as long as I don’t have to feed him, I have greater concerns.

“Awesome!” he says, his eyes lighting up.  ”The band just landed a gig at Crash Mansion.” Rocco digs into the outside pocket of his Ferragamo messenger bag and pulls out a stack of glossy postcards.  He hands me one: a flyer listing a calendar of performances for the band he created called Homeland Security.  Rocco refers to it as “folk hip-hop.” I don’t know how accurate that label is because I can barely stand to listen to it.  I have no problem with the music or the lyrics or anything like that. I just couldn’t get past the notion of a trust fund baby rapping about gentrification, school shootings and the prison industrial complex.  The fact that Rocco’s family emigrated from Buenos Aires to the Upper West Side where he attended the Trinity School before studying at the London School of Economics hardly qualifies him for street cred.  ”When are you going to come here us play?” he asks.

If he begged me, maybe I would go, but it’s obviously a rhetorical question.  Yes it would surprise or even please him if I were to show up at one of his gigs. But Rocco and I both know that not only do I not give a shit about his music but also that he doesn’t give a shit if I like his music.

I could lie again and tell him that I’d really like to, but what’s the point? “I don’t have the time,” I say. “I’m running for City Council.”

Rocco’s eyes flare. “No way!”

I nod then prop my hand on my chin.  ”I had an encounter with my local representative and decided that the district needed better.”

“but I thought you liked Councilwoman Mendoza.  You even voted for her.” Rocco squints in confusion and then leans forward so that no one can overhear him.  ”I remember you threatening not to give me any for a month if I didn’t vote for her, too.”

I roll my eyes at him. “I’m not running for the East Harlem seat.  I’m moving back to the Bronx and running against Raul Cuevas.”

Rocco scoffs. “I’m shocked at you, Jennifer.  And quite a bit disappointed.”

“What are you talking about? You always said I’d make a great politician. You encouraged me to run in the last election.”

“But you’re carpetbagging!”

I crumple up my napkin and toss it on the table. “Oh, that’s bullshit. Save for the few years since I graduated high school, I’ve lived in that district all my life. And quite frankly, it hasn’t changed a lick since I left.”

“Isn’t that a good thing?” Rocco asks. “Things haven’t deteriorated.”

“Things are not supposed to just not deteriorate,” I snap. “They’re supposed to get better.”

Rocco throws up his hands. “Okay, okay, okay.” Then he places his hands over mine. “I do think you’d make a fantastic elected official, and I wish you all the best with your campaign. Tell me what I can do to support you.”

“Glad you asked,” I say. “I need you to repay me the five grand I loaned you.”