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Hell, I’m even willing to stop dropping f-bombs around him if that’s what it takes to remain remotely sane when we are in the same room together.

I sigh as I realize how much I’m thinking of giving in. How much my actions seem to be swayed by him even when he isn’t around.

Impatient that I can’t stop thinking about him, I drop my robe and slip the black dress on. Immediately, I feel a little more in control of my destiny.

Cut the fanciful crap, Keely.You’ve always been in control of your destiny.

Not always…

I freeze as my mind veers to the email waiting on my laptop. The first email consisted of only eight numbers. Eight simple numbers that form a date.

02. 21. 2009.

It’s one part of three dates that are forever seared in my memory. I convinced myself that the email was spam and deleted it.

The second email convinced me it wasn’t.

02. 22. 2009.

But this time it wasn’t just that date. The second email came with a picture. To the casual reader, the date and picture of a dungeon-like room would mean nothing. Together, I’m in no doubt it’s someone from my past.

That mansion, and its labyrinth of underground rooms, has featured large and menacing in my nightmares for the past six years. Why the sender wants to torture me about it is something I haven’t yet worked out. But I know the threat is real. Just as I know I’ll receive another email with the third and final date soon.

My heart thumps wildly, and I force myself to breathe through the terror threatening to seize me. As much as my mind screams at me to confront the danger, I know I can’t do anything until I have a clear demand. Only then can I form a plan of action. One that doesn’t involve the police. Because to involve them will mean divulging the whole sickening truth of what I’ve done. And there is no way I’m about to do that.

All I can do is wait.

Continue to pretend I’m the girl everyone thinks I am. The one whose life is an endless carnival of high-flying job, partying and the occasional sexcapade. I’ve screwed this mask in place for six long years, not even showing a hint of what’s underneath to my best friend, Bethany.

I don’t doubt for a moment that she will try her best to save me if she knows of the many nights I’ve feared going to sleep alone, or the nightmares I deal with in my darkest moment.

But that’s the reason I haven’t told her.

I don’t think I’m worth saving.

What happened that weekend was horrific enough. What I did next was unforgivable.

Nothing and no one will be able to wash me clean.

* * *

I arrive at Jimmy’z at ten and flash a smile at the bouncer. It’s a smile I’ve practiced for years—the one that saysI’m sexy, I can rock your world, so you’d be a fool not to give me what I want.

His answering smile is immediate, his manner deferring, and I don’t need to flash the VIP card languishing in my clutch.

I’m not sure exactly when I decided to use my sexuality as a tool. It’s a characteristic that crept on me without my knowledge or consent, but one I decided to embrace once I realized the path I’d taken. And so far, it’s been the most effective tool in combating my demons. It grants me the control I need to survive.

Strobe lights assault my senses the moment I step into Jimmy’z. I squint and look around. The dance floor is a heaving mass of writhing bodies, and the scent of sweaty pheromones and alcohol fills the air.

I make my way to the bar, very much aware of lingering male interest, but not making eye contact long enough to attract singular attention. I’m more than a little bewildered as to why my libido seems to have chosen one person for its attention, so I’m beyond irritated by the time I slap my hand on the counter to attract the bartender’s notice.

He looks my way with a quirked eyebrow.

“Stoli Gold. Neat.”

I usually start with a cocktail and work my way to the hard stuff, but tonight I’m on edge, both from the email, whose presence is growing larger by the second, and also because I can’t stop thinking about Mason Sinclair.

Maybe I should just fuck him and be done with it. Maybe that will decrease this stupid mystique I’m sure I’ve built up around him in my head. Sure, the fact that he has a huge brain and happens to be good with his hands is a giant-sized turn-on. I’ve always held a fascination for those two characteristics. Combined in one guy, along with those rough and rugged good looks, I’m bound to go a little nuts.