"Hated it. They Michael Jackson your work."

"Michael Jackson?"

"They take the original and do so much surgery on it that the final version isn't recognizable."

He laughed. My mind remained on The Jewell of the South, wishing I didn't know she was Mark's wife. She was the woman Mark had given mind-bending orgasms. The woman he honeymooned with and fucked so good her Jamaican moans could be heard through wood and plaster. She was his wife. And he had given her twenty-one orgasms over a weekend.

Karl continued laughing. "They Michael Jackson your work in Hollywood."

"Yup. Lots more freedom in what I do now."

"Less compromise."

I nodded. "Less surgery."

I touched Karl's leg as he drove, only for a second. Needed to touch him so I could purge other thoughts. Thoughts of getting my own twenty-one orgasms. His leg was strong. Part of me wished we had left a record of our ecstasy drying on his sheets. Him not trying anything when we were in his bedroom, him only being aggressive in the presence of his brother, that bothered me. Had wanted him to want to seduce me. I wanted him to lose control, want me as Mark had wanted me. Wanted him to fuck me. Maybe that wish was more about validation and acceptance than sex itself.

I slept alone. Sleeping alone left me anxious. And that anxiety created an emotional duress. I desired human contact. Needed to feed on the energy that radiated from another. Needed that the same way Superman needed the energy from the sun to maintain his powers. If I tried to count the number of nights I'd longed to feel the warmth of a man's body next to mine, I'd have to count beyond infinity. That restlessness had left me open to Logan. That restlessness had allowed me to wallow in mediocre sex just so I wouldn't have to sleep alone.

Never again.

I told myself that Mark was unhappy. I allowed that to justify my behavior with him.

I was lonely. He was unhappy. We could steal away and give each other happiness. And I could give Karl what he wanted. Fun and pleasure without the feeling of restraints, that too being temporary, that too being what I wanted. That was all I wanted at this point in my life. Fun. Plea sure.

I asked myself why I continued justifying my behavior. I knew. Guilt forced justification.

Karl's cellular sang. He read the caller ID, then chuckled before he answered, said a couple of brusque words, then handed the phone to me. It was Mark. Guilt bloomed in an exponential fashion. I'd kissed Karl this morning. My yoni had throbbed for Karl to put me on his bench and fuck me. Not make love. Maybe fuck like we were making love, but still fuck. Pull my hair, slap my ass, be out of control. Now Mark was on the phone. It felt as if I had been caught cheating. Maybe Mark was inside my head; maybe he had found a secret tunnel that lead to my brain, my most clandestine thoughts revealed.

I took a breath and said, "Hey, Mark."

Mark said my name in return. He sounded angered.

"So you're hanging out with Karl."

I paused. "Yeah."

He paused. "That's good."

Another pause.

I asked, "You okay?"

"Work stuff, that's all."

"I meant your leg. When you pulled a muscle...at the W."

Karl chuckled. I wondered if he knew. Wondered if his older brother had told him, had given him the details, told him what happened stroke for stroke.

Mark chuckled. "It's fine. My leg is fine."

"You sure?"

"That was embarrassing."

"Never experienced anything like that."

"Me either."

Karl was rubbing my skin, his hand tracing my flesh, creating sunlight between my legs. Mark's voice was in my ear. Karl's hand on my flesh. Paradise was returning.

Again we were on the elevator in the W, my senses being stimulated in so many ways.

I asked Mark, "Where are you?"

"Heading down 75. I have five houses I can't get closed. Built a home for a preacher out in Gwinnett, had it in escrow, and the reverend cut me a ten-thousand-dollar bad check."

Karl's hand moved up to where my legs met, competing with his brother for my attention.

Tingles rose as I told Mark, "I don't know what to say about that one."

"And the business is slow now. Gets any worse, might have to get a job at Wal-Mart."

"Buyer's market. Over one hundred thousand properties on the market."

"It's killing me."

I pulled my lip in, suppressed a moan.

Mark went on, "This morning I have to get over to Midtown so I can meet with some investors and look at building some properties down at Atlantic Station."

"Okay. Anything I can do to help?"

"Yeah. Buy two or three million-dollar homes from me and all will be fine."

"Sure. Let me borrow the reverend's checkbook."

He laughed. "Wish I could kiss you right now."

"Me too."

He asked, "How's that scrape on your knee?"

I chuckled. "It's fine."

"Hold on, Nia. Got another call. Guy I've been trying to reach since yesterday."

"Okay."

The phone clicked.

I looked at Karl. He winked. Mark stimulated my heart. Karl kept me moist.

Mark's voice came on the line, said, "Hey, buddy, thanks for getting back to me so fast. Here's what I needed to know. If you had to do a subpanel, what's the additional cost, just for my knowledge? Also, I need the numbers on you pricing out that basement with a full kitchen and marble."

I said, "Same line, Mark. Your phone didn't click over."

"Sorry, Nia." Mark chuckled again. "Look, I'm having a hard time getting this phone to click over and I really need to catch this guy and get this issue resolved before I get to this meeting."

"Handle your business. Wish you were rolling with us."

"Me too." I heard some envy in his tone. "Have to run."

"Talk to you soon."

"Miss you."

"Will I see you anytime soon?"

"Things are crazy right now."

I sighed. "Miss you too."

With reluctance, trying to hide my longing, I clicked the phone off.

Karl continued rubbing my leg, kept me aroused.

I smiled. I felt better. Hearing Mark's voice had made me feel better.

This was strange. What I felt was strange.

I felt validated. He had put himself out there, expressed himself emotionally.

He had told me he missed me. That was better than a huge bouquet of flowers.

"Miss you."

As we moved down Cascade Road and away from Audubon Estates, those words stayed with me. Simple words that were a powerful magnet against my moral compass.

FOURTEEN.

Reggae played as we left the city, my Carina Ayiesha CD putting sweet reggae in the air.

Karl and I chatted, talked nonstop until we were on the part of I-85 North that led into Franklin County. I saw her face three times. The Jewell of the South. Three billboards with her image smiled at me along the way. As if she was following me. Time went by fast and before I knew it, we were sixty miles outside Atlanta. Jewell vanished as did my guilt. It was me and Karl.

No Mark.

Thinking about what I couldn't have was wrong. I needed to shift my focus.

The CD ended and Karl switched to satellite radio.

I turned and inspected Karl's body art as he drove. His tattoos were dark and very unique. They amplified his physique. What used to be a symbol of sailors and criminals was now a fashion statement embraced by doctors, lawyers, and engineers. Getting a tattoo was another rite of passage.

I asked, "Ever been married?"

"Never." He paused for a second, thinking. "You know what marriage is?"

"Okay. What is marriage?"

"Marriage is when a man stops disappointing many women and focuses on disappointing one."

"Is that what happened to Mark and his wife?"

He paused, masked what ever he had with a thin smile. "Ask Mark."

"I'm asking you."

He paused again, nodded like he was debating giving up government secrets.

I said, "Not asking for details."

"I've seen them go from being elated to emotional and motivational erosion."

"Now who's getting all Dr. Phil? Just when I thought you didn't read."

"I read. I don't read the shit Mark reads, but I read."

"So you've had a front-row seat watching your brother and his celeb wife."

He took a breath, thinking. "I've watched them live in hell forever, since before they married."

I asked, "If the marriage is that bad, why don't they end it?"

"I guess some motherfuckers like living in hell."

"But why?"

"Maybe they think they are in Palm Springs."

Karl's hand came to my leg, once again making me tingle from my yoni to my heart. I moved my legs apart. He massaged me while Ricky Nelson sang about going to a garden party where nobody knew his name. Then we were sixty miles away from Greenville. Billboards for Cafe Risque, the 24-hour strip club, were posted every mile, maybe less, letting the truckers know the pole dancers were corralled at exit 173.