At 6:04 a.m. he sat at his desk. Pen in hand. Papers spread before him like a mountain of cash. Coffee almost gone, the white mug almost lost in the sea of paper. Each sip reminding him of the dwindling supply. Where was the girl? The one who should have refilled it by now. The black one they hired, probably because he isn’t attracted to dark women, likes his sluts pale and quaking. Black women have too much attitude. Talk back. Roll their eyes. All behavior which deserves a strong slap across the face. He takes a final sip, draining the cup, his anger mounting when his office door opens and she steps inside, a coffee pitcher carried on a tray in her hands. Finally.

He ignores her. Focuses on the property rent roll before him, reading the same numbers over and over, the words blurring as she moves close, refills his cup silently. She smells like cake. She moves away. The door clicks shut as his eyes move to the next line. He finishes the column, makes a note in the margin, and reaches for the phone.

“Good morning Marcus.” His attorney’s voice speaks of an awakened man.

“I want this anklet off sooner. This is bullshit. I’m a respected man for Christ’s sake. I have a business to run; can’t do that from the house.”

“It’s been six days. I can’t petition the judge till you’ve been out for at least a month. Just try to behave.”

“How can I not? Jesus, couldn’t you have at least stocked the house with some ass?”

Silence. “It’s three months, Marcus. Three months during which the judge will be examining every move you make. As will the McLaughlin family, the press, and every one of your enemies. You need to stay away from women. Preferably forever. But at least during this time. Otherwise, you’ll be back in prison, simple as that.”

“I’ve been locked up for a year and a half. It’s been so long my housekeeper is looking attractive.”

“Masturbate,” the man says flatly. “Then focus on something other than sex.”

Marcus hangs up the phone. Takes a long pull of coffee. Decides, when the girl returns, that he’ll ask her for breakfast.

The black bitch never comes back.

“Where’s the girl?”

A man he doesn’t recognize rises from a seat at the kitchen table, silverware mid-polish before him. Black uniform, the slacks and monogrammed button-up indicating he is a member of the staff. No name tag needed because he doesn’t give a damn about their names. This one has red hair. Ugh. He’d never met a redhead he cared for. Case in point Katie McLaughlin. That bitch would stalk him to the grave.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Renza, which girl?”

“The one who filled my coffee. It’s been an hour. I’d like some fucking breakfast without having to walk halfway across this house to get some. I have things to do.”

The man blinks. “I’m so sorry. Diana was fired, Mr. Renza. She left.”

“Fired?” He puts his hands on his hips. Glares with all the strength possible considering he is still in his bathrobe. “By who?”

“Mr. Theland did. I was brought in by the—”

He turns, unconcerned with whatever bullshit is about to come out of the man’s weak mouth. Another example of his punishment. How he is free, but isn’t free. His decisions are not his own.

Marcus moves down the hall, his bare feet smacking on the unpolished granite, entering the bedroom with one stiff push on the door, yanking at his sash and dropping the robe to the floor. Falling back on the carefully made bed, he yanks at his pajama bottoms with a frantic hand, his fingers digging at and withdrawing his cock, its length already hard and ready. He squeezes his eyes shut, clenches his toes, and wills his mind to focus on images that will take him to release.

Jerk.

Tug.

The over-conditioned prick does little to respond. He spits on his palm and tries harder.

Recloses his eyes and tries to focus. Tries to push past twenty-two months of abstinence and remember the curve of a woman’s ass. The squeeze and grip of her body as he thrusts inside. The way her breasts bounce when she fucks. The moan when she is broken.

Somehow, despite the faint memories, he manages.

CHAPTER 8

I SIT AGAINST the door and eat apple pie. It doesn’t really taste like an apple pie. It tastes like an apple Pop-Tart warmed in the microwave, with sprinkles of bland crunch on top. But I’m bored and not ready for bed, so what the hell. I chew, the consistency soggy as it is pushed around by my tongue and ground into nothing by my teeth. I chew and stare, my eyes glued to the window as they’ve been for the last seven minutes. I don’t know why I find it so appealing. Appealing: wrong word. Tempting: better. I have survived, for three years, by not focusing on this window. I avoid it most days. Alternate between covering it with paper and ripping it bare and staring outside. Back when I moved in, when I was idealistic and scared, and doing everything in my power to restrain my urges, I painted it shut. Added a fresh coat when I went rose-petal-pink crazy on my cam bedroom a year later. Tug on that window, and it doesn’t matter how many push-ups I do, it isn’t budging. But suddenly, swallowing a thick glob of apple, I want it open. I want the scent of night, to stick my head through and see stars.