I scream for the other me to push him away. To slam her hands down and crack his head. To thrust a knee up and break his jaw.

But she doesn’t. The opposite in fact, as she slowly loses control.

Her clenched jaw loosens. Her lips part. Her skin flushes. I see her body writhe. Her little gasps.

And then there is that building pressure. The sense of an impending explosion. It’s filling her—me—us. And oh, fuck, it feels good. And it’s getting bigger and bigger and I look down, but it’s not Bob who’s touching us. Using us.

It’s Jackson.

And that’s when it hits. A fierce orgasm rocks through me, and I realize that there is no other me. There’s just Elle. Just Sylvia.

Just shame. And confusion. And the cold, deep fear that if I keep breaking like this, I’ll never manage to put myself together.

The sound of my scream yanks me from both the nightmare and the memory.

I glance around, afraid that people have heard me. But I only screamed in my head.

I stand still and draw in one breath and then another, trying to shake the nightmare as I get my bearings. I’m in Los Angeles. I’m on Hollywood Boulevard. I’m standing on the sidewalk by the entrance to the Hollywood and Vine subway station, and I’m holding on tight to a signpost.

Atlanta is gone.

The past is gone.

But the dream still lingers. And Jackson—the man I could have loved, the man I brutally left—lingers as well.

I drag my fingers through my hair. I’d been so lost in my memories—so wrapped up in Jackson—that I hadn’t been paying attention. I’ve walked several blocks—a solid fifteen minute walk—without even realizing what I was doing.

“Shit.”

I bite out the curse, more scared than angry, because it’s been a long time since I’ve disappeared into myself like that. I tell myself that it’s okay. I’m just edgy and unsteady. But as I stand there, fighting the memories and the fear and the horrible nausea, I know that I have to get my shit together.

I glance around once again, but more for show than to actually get my bearings. I know where I am. More than that, I know what I want. What I need.

I’m practically vibrating with pent-up energy, and I need to burn it. Need to take control, be the one in charge.

And I know exactly how to manage that.

I turn off Hollywood Boulevard and head up Vine. In front of me, the cylindrical Capitol Records Building rises into the night sky, as if lighting my way. I’m not going that far, though. Instead, I’m heading for Avalon, an iconic Hollywood hotspot that’s been around in various incarnations since the twenties. Currently, it’s a popular dance club with excellent DJs and pretty fine techno music on Fridays. More importantly, it’s got a stellar dance floor and guaranteed crowds. I know, because this is where I used to come to lose myself in the days before Jackson.

I still come to dance or cut loose when I’ve had a crappy day. Sometimes alone, sometimes with friends. But that’s all about the beat. Getting lost in the music.

That’s not why I’m here now.

Tonight, I’m broken. And I’m willing to fix myself the only way I know how.

As usual, there’s a line, but it moves fast, and soon enough I’m through the doors, trading the traffic sounds and Hollywood lights for a raucous techno-beat and the violent pop of purple, white, and blue lights shifting and changing over a dance floor full of writhing, throbbing bodies. There, I think, and start to edge myself through the crowd.

I scan faces as I go, searching for the right one. Because this isn’t about dancing. It’s about shaking off this entire fucking day. It’s about erasing my memories and my nightmares.

Mostly, it’s about proving that I’m no longer some weak little girl to be intimidated and frightened.

It’s more than that, too, and I damn well know it. This is about Jackson. About the way he blew me off. About the way he touched me. And about the goddamn devil’s bargain he tried to toss at me.

A bargain that I know damn well I can’t take, because didn’t I run from him once already?

I’m on the dance floor, hands in the air and my hips moving in time with the music when I see him. Not Jackson—not even close, really. But he’s tall and he’s dark and right then, that’s good enough. He’s standing by the stage, not dancing, but bouncing a little. He’s holding a highball glass with what looks like watered down whiskey, and every few moments, he takes a sip. I dance my way over to him, getting up close and personal with a few other candidates in the process, then pause in front of the one I picked.