He nodded. "You?"

I shook my head. "But I heard about Trapeze."

"It's all about the women. Where women go to celebrate their sexuality. It's an environment where women are in charge. It's not always about having sex. Do as much or as little as you like."

I nodded like I understood. "You have these fliers out because...?"

"I photographed the women in the shots."

"Oh."

"Was reviewing my work."

"Looks good to me."

"Not my best. Was a rush job. Could've been more creative."

I put the flier down, pulled my eyes away from the invitation to be open and participate in clandestine transgressions with professional strangers, my mind craving to be in an adult playground where women were in charge, a place where I could do as much or as little as I desired.

I said, "Let's see the rest of this castle."

I took Karl's hand, and he gave me the tour.

The living room was lovely, great modern furniture set off by a huge oriental rug. The family room had a stone fireplace, another oriental rug, a large flat-screen television mounted off to one side, yet everything symmetrical. A wonderful walk-in pantry was between the kitchen and the formal dining room.

Houses like this made me want to get naked. Not for sex, at least not right away. Every room was so large, so open. His back deck spread half the length of the house, nothing outside the windows but trees and privacy. And with Simfani Blue's voice following me from room to room, I wanted to hibernate, stay all week, at least a weekend. Have sex, eat, sleep, shower, and watch films.

And listen to Simfani Blue moan like she was in 912 Weeks.

Turtles made of mahogany, golden cricket players made out of one continuous strand of wire, wooden plaques showing the natives climbing coconut trees, some plaques with flying fish, marlin, pictures from their carnival, images from their beaches, his entire culture was represented throughout his home. The representation wasn't overwhelming, was just enough to give it a subtle Ca rib be an flavor.

Karl also had sculptures, framed art by African American artists like Bibbs and Gatewood, but what caught my attention were the family pictures. Most I didn't really see. My eyes went to a picture of Karl and a stunning woman. Smiling. Him in a tuxedo. Her in a wedding dress. Newlyweds. She looked similar to Mariah Carey and Alicia Keys, as if someone had blended their DNA and created his spouse. I stared at her eyes, slanted eyes the color of new envy, and she stared at me in return. I wondered if she was Kenya, his angel.

I said, "You were married?"

"That's not me."

"Oh. Mark?"

"Yeah, that's that ugly motherfucker."

"Language."

"Yeah, that's him."

I studied the photos again. I studied Mark and the stunning woman who was his wife.

I said, "Nice photos. Your work?"

He shook his head.

I said, "You weren't the photographer at your brother's wedding?"

Again he shook his head. "Nah."

I studied her again, looked at her eyes, her nose, said, "She looks very familiar."

"WBS-TV Atlanta. 'The Jewell of the South.'"

My mouth dropped open. "Mark is married to Jewell Stewark?"

"Yeah, that's little Miss Pussy Controller."

"She looks..." I caught myself, made my excitement fade like smoke in a strong breeze. "I never would've recognized her from this picture. Her face...it's the same...she's older...hair's different now."

"That's her with darker hair. Copying Halle Berry's cut. Looked horrible on her."

Karl would reveal nothing about his brother, as if there were some familial code, maybe part of the unwritten code of silence that existed between men, but he would chastise and verbally humiliate his brother's wife. Little Miss Pussy Controller. Blood was thicker than water. Whatever bonded twins was thicker than blood. Mark was married to Jewell Stewark. "The Jewell of the South."

I said, "She's Jamaican, right?"

"Her grandparents were."

"Well, to me if she had Jamaican roots, she's Jamaican."

"Okay. She's Jamaican."

"Married herself an island man."

"Yeah. That hater married herself an island man."

Jewell Stewark. Mark's wife.

I said, "Something else is different."

"Rhinoplasty."

"Wow."

"Made a difference in her career. Got that fat nose trimmed down to a decent size and dyed her hair."

I stared in the eyes of the woman who had Mark in a horrible marriage. Never would have thought it was her. I wondered if she was awake when he came home, his suit damaged, smelling like both rain and left-behind lust. The feelings I experienced were not the feelings that came with a zipless night. I moved my eyes away from that photo, felt stirred by a twinge of jealousy as I took Karl's hand and put my eyes on other photos, particularly those of Ali and other boxers. Karl was in the photo with Ali.

But I didn't see Karl in any of his brother's wedding pictures.

He said he wasn't the photographer at his brother's wedding.

I didn't ask, again not wanting to get too personal.

We rode the elevator up two levels to his office, which was almost as large as the main floor of my townhome, had its own giant bathroom. A family room was on the top level too. Mounted big-screen televisions were in each room. Great art from Puerto Rico, Barbados, and Antigua were on the walls. After that we rode the elevator down to his basement. The entire basement was his studio. Wide-open spaces. Lots of professional lights. At least six rooms. Had sections set up for doing studio shots. He showed me some of his work. A lot of it was erotic, beautiful women in very creative poses, made up in body paints, some in very creative settings, like abandoned ware houses, or on stark white sheets.

He said, "You should come over and let me shoot you one day."

I shrugged. "Don't think I could do it."

"It'll be just us. Every shot will be tasteful." He paused talking long enough for him to gather lenses and another Nikon, no doubt his backup camera. "If you don't like the shots, we'll delete them all."

I stared at his creativity. Vanity rose. "I'll think about it."

"Let me show you the rest of the crib."

The bedrooms were two levels up, above the main floor. His master bedroom was so large that the fifty-inch television over the fireplace couldn't be seen from the bed. But it was laid out so the television was for the sitting area, and the king-size bed was for other things. It gave the feeling that seduction started in the sitting area, on his big red lounger, then moved deeper, as if there was an imaginary line that separated the sitting area from the fucking area. His bed was huge, pastel colors, lots of big pillows. I wanted to run and dive on the mountain of pillows, bounce on the mattress like I was a little girl, maybe have a pillow fight that evolved into something else. He took my hand and for a moment I thought he was going to lead me to the leather bench at the foot of his bed, do creative things and take his plea sure at sunrise.

I wanted him to. I wanted him to make love to me like I was his wife, his brand-new bride.

With that thought I brought my hands to my face, tried to rub the green out of my eyes.

Overhead, in between the lyrics, Simfani Blue moaned, echoed sensuality.

I thought Karl was about to turn his master bedroom into his own private Trapeze. Maybe blindfold me, start making love to me, then have Mark sneak out of the closet, change up on me and see if I could feel the difference. But he showed me the oversized bathroom, the oversized bathtub, walked me through the his-and-hers walk-in closets, then we left, took the stairs back down to the main level, then to his garage.

He had to get to his client in Greensboro, the drive being at least three hundred miles.

That disappointed me. Leaving without marking territory in some way, even if it was a quickie.

I put my overnight bag in his Jeep, got inside, and we were leaving the land of starter castles. As we exited Karl's community, Simfani Blue's voice remained in my head, her sensuality stayed with me.

The image of Mark and his wife lived inside my head.

I wished I hadn't seen that picture. My inner hamster was running fast, making that wheel spin, giving undeserved energy to the part of me that produced envy.

But maybe it was for the greater good. A reminder to not get caught up.

As we were leaving and came upon the largest of the mini castles, I saw her.

If I hadn't seen her wedding picture only minutes ago, I would've been excited to see her. I recognized her face better now, six years older than her wedding picture in Karl's home. Her hair no longer dark, no longer in the trendy Halle Berry cut, now golden and long and straight, the same as Calleigh Duquesne on CSI: Miami. That Swedish color change and the rhinoplasty made the unspoken half of her heritage become bold, highlighted, and underlined. Her small eyes and oval-shaped head were on billboards all over Georgia, part of the award-winning local news team, her striking face always up front.

She was standing in the driveway of a four-level home on the left. Jewell Stewark was dressed down: tight jeans, sling-backs, and a white short-sleeved blouse. She was with the gardener, pointing at her landscape, her face showing her displeasure with his work. That wasn't the face she showed the rest of Atlanta. Jewell Stewark filled my sense of sight; my other senses denied their rampant curiosity.

Karl blew his horn as he approached her castle.

Drawn by the noise, she looked up, her face in an abrupt smile, like she was prepared to wave and say good morning to one of the kings and queens of the chocolate village, but she saw it was Karl.

Her smile vanished. There was no wave. Karl's sister-in-law's lips tightened and went south. Her charm-school posture and body language reeked of self-importance, like her name should be on the Walk of Fame. Her eyes came to me. Anger eclipsed her mixed beauty. Felt like I was looking directly into the sun with my naked eyes. I couldn't stop staring at Mark's wife. Couldn't pull away. That's who Mark was intimate with. His tongue on her yoni. Her mouth on his lingam. His thick dick pounding her into bliss. Her riding him, coming down hard, making him come for her. I imagined it all. Before I could be blinded, she turned away, as if looking in Karl's direction would turn her into a block of stone.

She didn't yield the Julia Roberts smile that was on billboards.

She didn't look friendly and professional like she did on television.

Jewell Stewark looked cold-blooded, like she came from a long line of evil bitches. Like her heart was damaged and impenetrable, her soul made of ice. She looked like instant hatred, just add water.

Karl chuckled and mumbled, "Yeah, fuck you too."

He had blown his horn just to force her attention, did that to rile her, I knew that.

I didn't ask what that family feud was all about.

Anxiety rose like humidity.

I reminded myself that this was supposed to be zipless. But this had moved to the far right of zipless. I felt its fever, the heat of infatuation, it warmed my nervousness. Too much was on my mind as I rode in silence. On satellite radio, Aaliyah began telling the world that she was writing a four-page letter and sealing it with a kiss. Her four-page letter made me think of Logan's wretched six-page manifesto.

Karl asked, "Your book is going to be like War of the Worlds meets Children of Men?"

I shifted. "Plus Lord of the Flies and Something New."

Jewell Stewark remained with me. I wondered what it would be like to break up a marriage. I wondered if that was empowering. Or just plain mean. Either way, I didn't want to find out.

Karl said, "I'll be the first one in line at the bookstore."

"You might be the only one in line."

"After I buy it, I want you to sign it."

"Feel free to buy more than one."

"What got you into sci-fi?"

I told him my French stepfather was a sci-fi aficionado, loved stories set in the future and on distant planets. He loved Heinlein's work to death. My stepfather wrote stories filled with sophistication and realism as a hobby, and reading his work, reading the books he left on my desk, books which made me think outside the box, it inspired me to play that what-if game and taught me how to manipulate everyday situations. And my stepfather loved The Twilight Zone, loved the twists and the statements that were made about mankind, our frailties and fears, a theme that was in almost every episode.

Karl said, "So he's why you became a writer."

"He gave me the love of reading, the love of writing."

"Why do you ghostwrite?"

I smiled, almost didn't want to answer, didn't want to get too personal, but it was too late. Karl was touching my leg, that rubbing being the equivalent of taking sodium pentathol. I gazed at his kissable lips and told him that when I grew up in Los Angeles, I was always around Benzes, Bentleys, and the self-important people in the movie industry who spent their lives drinking, sniffing cocaine, and popping antidepressants in between taking their bipolar dogs to therapy. I knew preteen actors and actresses who went to work in chauffeured limousines. I knew kids who threw temper tantrums on the set and had adults kissing their spoiled asses. My mother had a stage built in our backyard in hopes of me becoming an Oscar-winning actress. Being on stage never interested me. Being famous never interested me. I was too private to want to live my life in the tabloids or on the world's hypocritical stage. Acting didn't interest me because actors didn't interest me. What interested me were the people who created the words the actors brought to life. The writers. The unsung heroes whose names only a few recognized.

My words were in another place but my mind was on The Jewell of the South.

Karl asked, "Have you ghostwritten any sci-fi?"

I answered, "Did some work on a couple. Nothing major. Mostly been getting contracts to do smut. You know, sexy bathtub masturbation books. Erotic books with weak plots and soft endings."

The way Jewell Stewark had scowled at Karl was both intriguing and disturbing.

I said, "I did a few projects in Hollywood. Screenplays."

"How was that?"