Jackson woke in a full body ache. Between Carla and napping in his secondhand armchair, he felt like he needed a walker. Toward the end of his morning marathon, he swore his dick would fall off. But just as he tumbled out of Carla’s bed and wrestled to get on his jeans, she was pulling down his zipper.

 “One more for the road,” she laughed, sitting on the edge of the bed and pulling him to her. She put his cock into her mouth and he was hard within seconds, but just as he was about to come, she pulled her lips away.

 “There’s something I want,” she purred.

 “Later,” he moaned. “Tell me later.”

 She licked him. “No, now.”

 Jack closed his eyes. If she wasn’t going to finish what she started, he was going to take matters into his own hands.

 Her tongue worked its way down the length of his prick. “There’s a gallery opening ... tomorrow ... at six ... come with me.”

 “How about I just come — now.”

 “Not until you say yes.”

 “Not fair. You’ve got me by the balls.”

 She laughed. “One hour, tops. The Brayston Gallery in Soho. I’ll make it worth your while.”

 “Make it worth my while now.”

 “I promise,” she said, brushing her lips across his head. “But first you have to promise to be my date.”

 Jackson promised. But as soon as Carla delivered on her promise, he regretted his. Once again, he had let his prick guide his actions.

 Jackson stretched his legs onto the window ledge. The temperature had mercifully dropped, and he could feel the slightest of breezes between his toes. He looked at his watch: 3:10 a.m. On a whim, he called Rachel and let the phone ring a good dozen times. Was she sleeping? Still not home? And what about JJ Hyde? After saying goodbye to her by the Obelisk, he had doubled back and followed her to Rachel’s building. Was she there, now? If so, why didn’t she pick up the phone? And what the hell was her relationship to Rachel?

 JJ Hyde, aka Lucy. Lucy. Of all the aliases she could have chosen, why that one? Angelina, Desiree — even Henrietta was sexier. And she had said it with a straight face, didn’t miss a beat. Same with her “I’m-an-accountant” bullshit. She merely shrugged when he mentioned her spending hours bent over W-G tax forms. What she should have said was there was no such thing as a W-G form.

 Obviously, JJ was a seasoned liar; he had to give her credit for that, though. He liked that he couldn’t throw her off her game even when they shook hands. Hell, what a grip. If a guy weren’t careful, she’d rip his balls off.

 Oh, well. He’d talk to Manny in the morning, toss some bills in his face. Jackson was heading that way anyway for his morning run. He told JJ he’d be at the Reservoir Bridge at 8. He bet she’d be there too. Women didn’t blow him off; they just blew him.

 Jackson stared through the open window. The closest streetlight was several buildings down, but he could hear its electrical hum. Sometimes, he imagined it was the sound of cicadas back home. And sometimes, if he tried hard, he could even imagine the rustle of raccoons behind the farmhouse … the shaking of West Virginia sweet gums as the wind slipped beneath them … the whip-like crack of lightening illuminating the cornfields, drowning out the sound of heavy footsteps in the hall, the thump, thump, thump indistinguishable from his panicked heart.

 Jackson closed his eyes, thought about sleeping again. Two to three hours, even 10 minutes would help him catch up. But just as it seemed he would succeed, he bolted upright. A voice calling him from the street below? He leaned out of his window in time to see a black car inching past his building. It was too new and shiny to belong to anyone who actually lived on his block, with its graffitied garbage cans and boarded up buildings. It was some sporty model, though he couldn’t tell which from three flights up. Probably a drug dealer’s car, maybe a pimp mobile. He watched it move slowly, like a shark on the prowl for a live body it could rip from limb to limb. Whoever the poor bastard was, he’d best start praying.

 The car disappeared and Jackson tried again to sleep. Defeated, he threw a leg over the arm of his chair and reached for his dog-eared copy of The Rise and Fall of the Roman Empire. Caesar was always good company.