“So you’re home now?”
I glance around the hotel and frown. “I’m at the Redbury.”
The pause is so long that I pull my phone away from my ear so that I can make sure we haven’t been disconnected.
“Did you fuck him?”
“No!” My tone is full of righteous indignation, which, considering Jackson had his fingers in my panties, is a little bit disingenuous. “I wasn’t even with him most of the time. I—oh, shit, Cass. I went to Avalon.”
“Fuck me sideways, Syl. Seriously?”
Now the worry is plain in her voice, and it’s clear that she understood my meaning—I didn’t go there just to dance.
I rush to reassure her. “It’s okay. I’m okay.”
“Am I giving you another tattoo?” Her words are controlled and evenly spaced. Not anger, I think. But fear.
“No,” I say, grateful that Jackson showed up when he did. “Almost,” I admit. “But no.”
“I’m on my way,” she says.
“No, Cass, really. I’m fine. I’m going to get cleaned up and get to the office. See if I can find another architect who will make the investors happy.” I say it lightly, even though I know there’s no way in hell.
“You’re sure? You don’t have a car, and I’m not that far away.”
“I’m sure,” I say. “And you don’t want to leave Zee, and she doesn’t want to spend the morning with me. Seriously, it’s all good.”
“Okay. Listen, Zee lives in Silver Lake, and my cell signal is for shit here, so if you call and I don’t answer, leave a message and I’ll call you back from her landline.”
“I won’t. I’m fine. Quit playing Mommy.”
“I’m worried about you.”
“Don’t be,” I say gently. “It’s all good.”
I can practically see her dissatisfied expression. “Fine. Tonight, then. I’ve got a one o’clock that should take a couple of hours, but after that I’m free. Meet me at the shop at three?”
And because we both need reassurance that I’m all right, I nod. “Yeah,” I say into the phone. “We can grab a late lunch.”
“Forget the late lunch. I’m going to want an early drink.”
I laugh, and we end the call.
I briefly consider whether I should go back to sleep for a few hours or just grab a taxi and get out of here. After I hit the bathroom, though, I decide to compromise on a shower. Because this bathroom is truly fab. With black tiled walls, ultra-modern fixtures, and a walk-in rain shower.
I turn the water on and wait for the temperature to adjust, standing naked in front of the mirror as I do.
Am I giving you another tattoo?
Cass’s words seem to echo in the small room, and I slide my hand down until my fingers brush the lock that Cass inked just above my line of pubic hair. The first of so many. The mirror isn’t a full-length style, but if I stand back far enough I can see most of myself. And the truth is, I don’t need to see anyway. I know where they all are. Every souvenir. Every mark. Every pain, and every memory.
I turn my leg out, revealing the curving red ribbon inked onto the soft skin between my torso and left thigh, the ribbon curling from my pubis to my hip. And on it, the ornately scripted initials, TS, KC, DW. Small and intricately designed, like the text of a medieval manuscript, so that the letters appear to be little more than a random design. Of course, they are anything but.
I remember that night with Jackson—one night that held all the force and emotion of a lifetime. He’d traced his finger on the ribbon, and asked what it meant. I’d told him that it meant nothing, but that was a lie. The initials mean everything. They are a mark of both shame and power. A reminder of who I was, and who I will never be again.
They represent men like Louis. Men I’d gone after in those years before Jackson. Men I’d taken to bed so that I could use instead of being used.
I drag my teeth over my lower lip, silently thanking Jackson for stopping me last night. Preventing me from going so far that I would have no choice but to add LD—Louis Dale—to my collection.
I haven’t done that—trapped a guy in my sights and gone after him like that—since before Atlanta. But last night, I’d craved that release, that control. This morning, I would only have regretted it.
I shift sideways so that I can glimpse my back. From this angle I can tell only that something has been inked in red between the two dimples above each of my ass cheeks. But that’s okay, I know the tat. Even though I have never seen it except in reflection, I know the line and the curves. An ornate J intertwined with an S, like a fancy monogram.
