Chapter 15

They represent men like Louis. Men I chased before I met Marcus. Men I decided to sleep with to use them, not the other way around.

I touch my bottom lip and silently thank Marcus for stopping me last night—for keeping me from crossing the line that would have forced me to add “LD,” Louis Dale’s initials, to my collection.

I haven’t done that—put a man in my crosshairs or cornered him like that—since before Atlanta. But last night I craved that release, that control. This morning I would only have regretted it.

I turn on my side and look over my back. From this angle I can only see that I have something red inked between the dimples above my butt. But it doesn’t matter; I know the tattoo. Even though I’ve only seen it in a mirror, I know the lines and curves: a decorative “M” intertwined with an “S,” a pretty monogram.