She pulls it off, staples the two pages together, and hands it to me with wide eyes. “Are you going to sign that?”

“I have no clue what I’m fucking doing,” I mutter as I walk down the hall toward the main door.

—
I check my watch for about the twentieth time and glance down Nineteenth Street. No sign of Sela yet.

I’ve been parked outside her Oakland apartment at the corner of Twelfth and Nineteenth, not sure what direction she’d be coming from. I’m taking a guess she’s using BART to get to and from school, so I expect to see her walking down Nineteenth from the train station. It’s all supposition, and for all I know she’s got a car that gets her back and forth, but I doubt it. That’s a chunk of change to pay for gas and parking over at Golden Gate, and if she’s in the market for a Sugar Daddy I’m guessing she’s a BART girl.

It’s nearing five p.m., starting to get dark, and I’m about ready to give up for the day. I’ve been sitting in my car nearly two hours and my ass is numb. I’m also starving, as I haven’t eaten since breakfast. I can always try again tomorrow. Or hell, maybe I should just call her. I have her phone number from the database.

Just as my hand reaches for the ignition, I see Sela heading straight toward me. The sidewalk isn’t overly crowded, although there are several people walking in both directions, but regardless…I recognize her immediately. I spent so much time touching and licking that body, I’d recognize it anywhere.

She’s dressed a far cry from her sexy dress of last night. Today she’s got on faded jeans that are ripped in one knee, black Converse tennis shoes, and a faded Raiders sweatshirt to ward off the chill. Her hair is pulled back into a ponytail and she has a heavy-looking backpack slung over her right shoulder as she trudges toward her apartment building.

I hop out of my car and lock it, hoping it will remain safe enough in this neighborhood. While it’s not the worst, it’s certainly not the best, and I’ve heard Audis are popular cars to boost.

Heading toward the front door of the building, I lengthen my stride and make it there about a second before she does. I grab the door, open it, and her head raises up as she says, “Thanks.”

Her eyes flare large with worried surprise and she takes a step back from me. “What are you doing here?”

My hand shoots out and pulls the backpack from her shoulder, and fuck…that’s heavy. “Came to see you. You left without saying goodbye.”

“Wasn’t any need,” she says smoothly. “It was a one-night stand, right?”

“That’s right,” I say with an agreeable smile. “But I have to say, you had me worried when you left without even bothering to get your shoes. That tells me you were running, and I want to know why.”

For a moment, I think she might tell me to go to hell, but her shoulders sag. With a small sigh, she steps past me into her building and says over her shoulder, “Might as well come up and we can talk about it.”

Now that surprises me. I figured I’d have a bit more of a fight on my hands, but I graciously take the offer and follow her inside.

Chapter 9

Sela

Yes. Without a doubt…the red phoenix on the back of Beck’s shoulder freaked me out when I first saw it. It was almost a slap in the face after what we’d shared just hours before.

After what he commanded my body to do.

So I ran without my panties or shoes, luckily caught a cab waiting right outside the hotel lobby, and didn’t have a nosy cab driver asking me where my shoes were.

I tossed and turned all night, but by the time the sun rose, I think I had reasoned out some acceptance in my head.

First, I have no clue what that fucking tattoo means. As sinister as my rapists were, at first I thought it could be a cultlike symbol among sick fucks that like to rape together. I Googled it relentlessly six months ago when I first saw JT on the TV and realized that tattoo was very real and not just a nightmarish figment of my imagination. I researched it thoroughly and didn’t come up with a damn thing. Whatever the reason behind that tattoo, it’s not been publicized in any way.

Second, I have to consider that the tattoo could be something as innocuous as a fraternity thing. In fact, that’s the most obvious answer, and since Beck and JT went to the same college and were friends even prior to that, it stands to reason that perhaps they were in a fraternity together. Or shit…maybe they were on some type of coed sports team that had matching tattoos. Who knows why guys do stupid shit like that?

Third, and probably most important, what I reasoned out was that just because Beck had a tattoo that matched my rapist didn’t mean that he was by association a rapist. I have absolutely no recollection of him being there that night, although I’m the first to admit the Rohypnol I was given has fucked with my memories. I’m relying on nothing more than a deep, internal gut instinct about that. I just don’t get that vibe from Beck. Sure, I could be very wrong about this. I could have piss-poor judgment, and perhaps I’m still riding high on the never-ending orgasms of last night, but I just don’t think he has that in him. He seems like a decent guy, although I do question his choice of business partner who is evil incarnate.

Regardless, by the time I got out of bed this morning, I figured I’d made a crucial mistake by leaving Beck in the shower. It was a missed opportunity on my part to try to keep his interest in me piqued. He was my best chance at getting close to Townsend, and in a burst of emotional panic, I’d messed that up, which meant that I’d have to start all over again in my planning.

But now, Beck is here and I’ve been given a second chance to latch on to opportunity.

He follows me into my small apartment, carrying my backpack for me like a gentleman. I mean, the mere fact he looked up my information and drove here because he was worried seems to lend credence to my gut instinct that he’s a decent guy. Of course, if he is, then I’m a supreme bitch for wanting to use him for my own agenda, but I never claimed to be a saint.

I do, however, have to be careful here, because I can’t let my own personal feelings of affinity for him deter me from my path. I’ve got too much rage invested in my plan for retribution, and if I don’t see this through, I’m afraid the failure will destroy me.

“Want something to drink?” I ask him as I walk into the kitchen. I open the fridge and do a quick perusal. “I have beer or milk that’s probably spoiled. The tap water is decent though.”