But no biggie, really. I don’t have enough of an emotional connection to care if he flunks. He’s been good for a few laughs, and while sex with him is mediocre at best, he doesn’t bother me too much. As with any man that I’ve been sexually involved with over the years, there is a mutually beneficial exchange. I let them use my body to get off, and they in turn make me feel as if I’m worthy to let them get off. It’s this whole fucked-up, twisted reasoning I have in my head that no amount of psychological counseling has been able to straighten out so far. Our “friends with benefits” deal works out for the most part, except when he comes over, gets high, and then has Dorito breath. He sure as shit isn’t getting any tonight the way things are going.

Just as well. I have to study for a big test tomorrow and I intend to pass it with flying colors, regardless if Mark does the same. It’s the end of my first year in the master’s course and I’m halfway there. It’s a goal I can’t sacrifice.

I suck on the tiny ring pierced straight through the middle of my lower lip. A gift to myself when I got accepted into the program. It joins the matching two rings in my left eyebrow, and will hopefully be joined by a bridge piercing when I can muster up enough extra shifts at the diner to pay for it. Facial piercings have been my newest addiction; the sweet agony of metal punching through flesh feels oh so good to me. I was forced to move to the front of my face after both ears ran out of room.

Mark sets the Doritos on the couch next to him and wipes his orange fingers on his jeans. He takes a swallow of beer and places his left hand on my thigh. Leaning his head onto my shoulder, he says, “Want to fool around?”

I give a mighty shrug and dislodge him. “Not now.”

“But I’m horny,” he says with a whine.

Not attractive.

“You’re always horny,” I say as I try to concentrate on the first line of the chapter.

“You usually are too,” he points out, hand moving up my thigh.

I roll my eyes, because that’s not exactly true. I just accommodate whenever he’s horny.

Whatever.

My gaze slides across the TV, past it, then notices something vaguely familiar before snapping right back to the screen.

A good-looking man who looks recognizable is being interviewed on TV. Charcoal-gray tailored suit, white dress shirt, and a pale blue tie. He flashes dimples in his grin as he talks to the reporter.

“…the success of The Sugar Bowl has surpassed all of our expectations,” he says with a twinkling eye. “It shows the world that there’s a lot of room in our society for unconventional relationships.”

The reporter, if she can be called that since this is an entertainment “news” channel, uncrosses and recrosses long, sexy legs in a short skirt. She tries to look hard-hitting when she leans forward in her chair, exposing more cleavage from a low-cut blouse, and asks, “But what about those opponents that say what you’re doing is nothing more than prostitution?”

The man gives a charming laugh, picks at some imaginary lint on his leg, which is crossed in a dapper fashion over the other. “There is absolutely no money exchanged for sexual services. The Sugar Bowl does nothing more than charge a fee to our Sugar Daddies so they can join the website and make connections. None of the arrangements made thereafter are for sex; it’s merely for companionship.”

“But sex does occur,” the reporter says silkily.

“Of course sex occurs,” he admits with a languid smile. “People have sex. It makes the world go ’round.”

The camera fades to black and then rolls to footage of a beach. It looks tropical in nature, as the water is crystal clear with a tinge of pale blue, and the sand is pristine white. The reporter’s voice comes over the shot and says, “Jonathon Townsend is never shy to talk about sex, and by the looks of things, he gets plenty from the abundant supply of Sugar Babies that flock to his company daily.”

The camera zooms in on a couple frolicking in the ocean. It’s the man who was just being interviewed, wearing a pair of well-fit swim trunks on his muscular frame. A beautiful young woman with long blond hair wraps her arms around his neck as his hands go to her ass. As they kiss, the reporter’s voice says, “It’s rumored that Jonathon Townsend, or JT to his close personal friends, made an estimated eighteen million dollars last year in earnings from The Sugar Bowl, which certainly makes him more attractive than his already fine physique he recently showcased as he cavorted in the Maldives with his newest flame. With the service having over five million subscribers and still climbing at an astronomical rate, it’s clear that JT’s star is still on the rise.”

JT?

My skin tightens and the hair on my arms stands on edge. The fingers on my right hand involuntarily seek my left wrist, rubbing lightly over the tiny, half-inch scar there that seems to throb in acknowledgment of something, but I’m not sure what.

My eyes are glued to the TV as I watch the man and woman kissing passionately, clearly not worried that they are on public display. Then he releases his hold on her, turns toward the camera with a smile on his face, and I see his torso.

Red bird.

Phoenix with flames at the wings and tail.

Stretched in flight up his left rib cage.

A shudder seizes my body and a surge of nausea hits me hard. I swallow against it as I lurch off the couch, awkwardly stumbling around the coffee table toward the TV. The camera zooms in closer on the couple, and as if the man known as Jonathon Townsend knows he’s being watched, he looks right into the lens and grins, close enough that I can see his brown eyes.

Brown eyes. What I think might be filled with apology, but no…that’s malice. Evil, taunting malice.

“Damn, baby…sorry…looks like we left some spunk in your hair,” he says with a jeering laugh.

I cry out, stumble backward, and the coffee table catches the backs of my knees, causing me to fall down hard on it. My right hand grips my left wrist, the scar now shrieking in agony.

“Sela…you okay?” Mark says, his voice sounding like it’s stuffed into a drum and sealed tight because the blood is rushing through my head with such force it’s blocking other noise.

“Get out,” I whisper, choking on the words because my throat is so dry.

“What?” I hear him rise from the couch, see his legs rounding the coffee table in my periphery.