Damn.

I drove licking the corners of my lips. Imagining. As I passed by Ashwood/Dunwoody, the exit for the W Hotel, another ripple rolled through me, made my toes curl inside my hiking shoes. Pleasurable waves and tingling sensations moved through every part of my body, my yoni being the epicenter.

I looked at my mother, looked to see if she was reading my mind. She was still sleeping. And I was glad she was exhausted, probably more from working long hours and jet-lag than the hike itself.

There was a war going on within me. The logical part of me wondered if we were all created this way and unaware, unconscious of the hardwiring, all prone to some sort of serotonin imbalance, all prone to love and obsessive-compulsive acts, all prone to madness. Because obsession was madness.

My thoughts of Mark, my thoughts of Karl, they were never-ending, my yoni perpetually moist.

I struggled, my struggle both terrifying and exhilarating, enhanced by a gathering of fantasies.

I wanted to know if my mother had done battle with self as well.

I wanted to know if this sensation of restlessness was inherited.

But there were things I didn't want to know about my mother.

And there were things she probably didn't need to know about her daughter.

No way could I smile with joy and tell her about my night of exquisite sin at the W.

The memory of the W was resplendent. My smile was victorious. The sperm was chasing the egg. The sensual fantasies that had consumed my imagination at Brasstown Bald lived inside my mind.

I couldn't wait to see them again. Just one more time. And we would be done.

Once again I was seven years old, and it was Christmas Eve.

A huge bouquet of flowers was waiting for me at my front door.

I thought about my identical sins. I smiled. Smiled because it was the largest bouquet I had ever seen in my life. The delivery company was on Spring Road near Cumberland Boulevard, A Petal Pusher.

It came with a Hallmark apology from Logan.

I saw his name and a migraine took root.

Just seeing his name put my body in distress.

The wind left my body. I looked around, expected to see his Range Rover. While my mother went inside through the garage, I took the arrangement to my car, sped Oakwood Trace to Oakwood Way, burned rubber getting to the Dumpster near the entrance at Campbell Road, and shoved them in the garbage, not wanting any scent associated with him inside my home.

But the scent from touching what I didn't want to touch remained on my hands.

The aroma had seeped inside my physical being, had tainted and violated my skin.

Unseen, Logan remained with me, a tick attached to my flesh, sucking away my happiness.

THIRTEEN.

It was early morning and the Southern sun hadn't begun baking the humid air.

I was driving fast, cellular up to my ear, making a call I didn't want to make, but had to.

"Logan, this is Nia. But you know that. Flowers. Why? Four days in a row. This madness has to end. This is over. Please. No more flowers. No more text messages. I...I...I don't know what to fucking say at this point. I don't love you. Will never love you. Move on. Let it end. Just let me be me."

I took another hard breath, anger rising like the sun.

A second arrangement of flowers had arrived after my mother left town. Then two more arrangements followed, each larger than the one before. Then the text messages had started again.

Irregardless of the hurtful things I said, your the one for me. Please except my apology.

This was nerve-racking. This was beyond ridiculous.

Then came the nightmares. I started dreaming that he was outside my door, in the rain, banging hard, ringing the doorbell, screaming, "Open the door. Let me in so I can fuck you like you're a whore. My whore. You can't make love to a whore...whores only understand a good hard fuck."

I had let him get to me. Allowed him to torture my soul, drag my naked body over flaming barbed wire. I'd blocked his numbers. Blocked his e-mail addresses. I'd taken him off my friends list on MySpace. Shit. He'd never been in my "Top 24," so that should have been a clue to him right there.

How did you break up with someone you weren't with? How did you break up with someone who didn't want to see you happy without them? I wanted to call my mother, but the sun wasn't up in L.A.

He wouldn't let it end. He'd lost the battle and was too narcissistic to tuck his tail and walk away.

But under all that puffery, Logan was a child. This was about reclaiming his esteem.

He had told me I was his fantasy. And that was frightening.

I should've turned around. Should've called, canceled the meeting, and turned around.

I didn't.

I was nervous. Beyond tired. I'd spent half the night writing, this time skipping the stimulating and masturbation-provoking smut in order to slave over my sci-fi novel, a project that sounded better with each idea I wrote down. I'd stayed up working on the outline, setting it up in three acts, Hollywood-style.

I knew I should've turned around, but I was beyond the point of no return.

I had to continue my journey, let no one turn me around.

I merged to the far right lane, whipped by three eighteen-wheelers, and left I-285 at exit 7, Cascade Road. At the bottom of the ramp I made a left and went inside the perimeter. The directions said I had to go past Kroger, Bank of America, and at least three gigantic churches. I followed the two-lane road up a street lined with older single-family homes. Where I was going was supposed to be exactly two miles from exit 7. If I remembered what he told me, if I passed by J.R. Crickets or Big Daddy's Cafe, I would've gone one block too far. As soon as I crossed Willis Mills I slowed down, looked to my left, and I saw a community of huge homes tucked behind the trees. I pulled up to the security gate, saw a real estate box, and pulled a flier out. Audubon Estates. Custom homes starting at one million. Twenty-one wooded half-acre to one-acre lots. One home was under construction. Four levels. Elevator. Two libraries. Three kitchens. Media center. Finished basement that had two bathrooms and a kitchen. At least ten thousand square feet. The perfect house to have if you were married to someone you couldn't stand. Plenty of room so you'd never have to see each other. The backs of most of these starter castles faced the woods, so there were plenty of places to bury a dead body.

God, my morbid sense of humor was in rare form.

I backed up to the buzzer and looked up his name. I pushed the button to call the house.

The phone rang three times before he answered, "Hello."

"It's me."

"Okay. Hold on." Sounded like he was pushing buttons on his phone. "Did the gate open?"

"Nope."

The buzzer was malfunctioning; he gave me the private code to his gated kingdom.

I said, "Where do I go?"

"Come around to the end of the street. On the left side. Garage door is up."

He hung up and I entered the code.

The buzzer went off and the dramatic metal gate eased open, parted like a woman's legs.

I had the secret combination that allowed me entry to his kingdom.

I entered his domain, drove slowly, looked at eighteen of the starter castles, nine on each side, before I came up to one on the edges of the cul-de-sac. The community only had one narrow street. One way in, one way out of an area lined with million-dollar homes. In the better parts of L.A., one million dollars would get you a one-level home built in the '40s, no security gate, no yard. Two million would get you a nice home in a neighborhood that was bordered on four sides by a wonderful ghetto.

This was ridiculous.

Now I knew what Dorothy felt like when she stood before the Emerald City waiting to see the wizard.

It looked like the trees in this area should sprout money instead of leaves. I'd never live this way. I admired those who did, but it wasn't my thing. I leaned toward quiet, discreet, and being as invisible as possible with my money. I was too busy admiring the homes and went too far, had driven to the end of the cul-de-sac and had to turn around. As I turned I saw him waving. He was coming out of the garage, smiling. He wore khaki shorts, camouflage tank top, Birkenstock sandals. I forced my mind back to Karl.

After a night fueled by fantasies and alcohol, I didn't know what realities soberness and sunlight would bring. I didn't know if this was a good idea, or if I ever should have accepted this offer to hang out. I was nervous. Hoped I looked good. Hoped he still found me attractive. Hoped I didn't end up thinking he was a jerk. This was daytime. No colorful lights and apple martinis to create a fantasy world.

This was creeping beyond zipless. The hotel was neutral territory, but now I was at his home.

I was supposed to fuck, then release.

He had a three-car garage that faced the side of his home. I pulled up the steep incline that led to his home, was about to park in his extended driveway, but he motioned at the open garage, waved for me to park inside, right next to his Jeep. When I got out of my car, before I could say hello, he was kissing me. He tongued me for a long time. He kissed my face, my eyes, my neck, sucked on my lobes, then put his tongue in my mouth again, made me dizzy, and it felt like I was in a formal dress, dancing to a classic love song, that kiss making me crazy, making me hot, filling me with an unexpected desire.

I was inside a garage, wearing jean shorts, strappy sandals, T-shirt from Trinidad's Carnival. But I felt like I had on a full gown, Cinderella at the ball, knowing I should leave before the clock struck twelve.

He said, "Good morning."

"Morning to you, too."

Karl held me close and kissed me like I was his preferred lover, like my tongue was flavored with chocolate-covered sin. Guilt rose inside of me. I tried to pull away from him, tried to slow this down, but we kissed again. I melted into him, so close we were one body with two heartbeats. I sucked his lips, tiptoed and brushed my tongue along his neck, touched his chest, tasted his shoulders.

Any problems I had before I came here didn't matter anymore.

My exhaustion ceased to exist.

If this was how brothers competed, let the competition continue until my last breath arrived.

We separated reluctantly, both of us smiling like teenagers. Just like that, I felt like calling him names like sweetie, baby, honey. But I didn't. I tried to keep it cool as I followed him up the three steps that led inside his butler's pantry, then we went left toward his kitchen. Dark wood floors and cabinets. Stainless-steel appliances and a Sub-Zero refrigerator. The television was on in the living room, its sound coming out of the walls. I expected him to be up watching CNN, but he was looking at Smallville, he'd recorded that on TiVo. He turned the flat-screen television off and came back. Told me he hoped I was hungry. I was. He'd made a simple, healthy breakfast. Turkey sausage. Oatmeal. Fresh mangos. My tattooed Mandingo had given me mangos. The fruit of the islands. The fruit of passion. I put a slice of mango in my mouth and a memory returned. In my mind his brother's tongue was stirring me while he fed me. Karl smiled at me. His eyes telling me he was reliving the same carnal moment.

I said, "I thought most photographers were starving artists."

"I thought most writers rode public transportation."

That got a laugh out of me. "Touche."

Karl aimed the remote at a sensor on the kitchen wall. Music came on all over the house. Roger and Zapp were telling me that they heard it through the grapevine. When that song ended, Karl used the remote and changed the CDs in his system until he found what he was searching for. Then all over his home a woman was singing, her timbre making the atmosphere double in its eroticism, some moaning and wonderful singing, her voice hot like morning sex.

I asked, "Nice song. Who is that?"

"Simfani Blue."

Karl's wicked kisses had started something. The music he had on was dragging in the same direction. I wasn't expecting this. Not this fast. I sat on a barstool, humming and shifting like I was trying to contain a wildfire. Simfani Blue continued singing, continued moaning like she was on the stairway to heaven. Her voice was orgasmic, like she was singing as a lover ran his tongue down her spine.

Karl was looking at me, smiling as he ate his oatmeal.

I ate the last of mine and said, "This is a very nice home."

"Thanks. Mark built it for me about three years ago."

"He built all of the homes in this development?"

"He built three. There have been several builders up in here."

"Nice area."

"Lots of break-ins. Everyone in the community has been hit at least once. Some twice."

"You've been hit?"

"Twice. Mark's been hit once. Guy near the entrance was hit three times."

I shook my head.

He said, "Black-on-black crime ain't no joke in the ATL."

"Same in L.A. My mother lives in View Park. Everybody out there is getting burglarized."

He used his fork to pick up the last slice of mango. He put the mango to my mouth. I let my tongue trace the fruit, let the juices ease inside my mouth before I savored the entire piece.

We stared at each other. In that moment, we were back at the W.

After we ate he loaded the dishwasher. While he did that I picked up what looked like an invitation to a party. What caught my eye wasn't the beautiful colors on the flier, but the sexy woman who was naked on a bed, her breasts nice and large as she sucked her finger and looked directly at the camera, her expression like she was in the middle of pleasure. She had long, dark, curly hair, her race ambiguous, but she looked familiar, very familiar. There was nothing vulgar about the photo, made her look human, feminine, like a professional woman celebrating life in her birthday suit. WEDNESDAY NIGHT HOOK-UPS. It was a newsletter for an adult club called Trapeze. The flier promised 100% pure swinging. A second newsletter for Trapeze was under the first, that one advertising TROPICAL HEAT SATURDAY. Couples had to pay thirty-five dollars to get in. Single males had to pay seventy-five. Single females ten.

"Nia Simone."

When Karl said my name I broke away from the newsletters, divorced myself from my overactive imagination and looked at him. His air conditioner was on, his home lukecool, but my face and neck became warm. Our eye contact was strong, direct. I wondered if he had left these out for me to see.

I asked, "Ever been?"