Chapter 3

Sela

I look in the mirror, still shocked with my new appearance.

Six months ago, I ditched every bit of metal in my face and ears except a hole in each lobe that now sports tiny gold hoops. I’m lucky everything closed up nicely with barely perceptible scarring. I cut friendship ties with Mark and the handful of others, making my life more solitary than normal. I joined a gym, spent my precious money on a trainer, and got rid of twenty pounds that were seemingly welded onto my lower stomach, ass, and hips. I spent even more precious money by coloring my golden blond hair a rich, chocolate brown—eyebrows too—and now my blue eyes sizzle like electric orbs. The dusting of freckles across my nose and cheeks also stands out against the dark hair, and I find I like the look. I’m like a slightly younger version of Jennifer Garner but without the bangs.

Innocent and fresh. Two words that should never be used to describe the dark and damaged woman I’ve become.

My last step to transformation included a full wax, because I didn’t want blond pubes giving away my disguise. It was painful but necessary, should I find myself in a position to take my disguise that far.

I am ready.

I wash my hands and look into the bathroom mirror.

“You can do this,” I murmur to myself, remembering a time ten years ago that I stared into a mirror just before slicing open my wrist. “You can totally do this, Sela.”

Infiltrate.

Murder.

Repeat.

It’s a simple plan, really.

I give a quick scan of my makeup and deem it perfect. I had to have someone teach me, because I never wore this crap before. Never cared about my looks or catching a man’s attention.

Until now.

Now I’m getting ready to step out into the ballroom of the Four Seasons hotel and put myself on display. My dark hair falling in lustrous waves over bare shoulders, my skimpy dress and ridiculous heels I spent weeks practicing in, and a sexy attitude I also practiced, all in the hopes of catching Jonathon Townsend’s eye.

Six months ago, I hurled on my living room carpet.

Within minutes of that, I developed a plan for justice.

It’s taken me a long time to get here, but now today is the first day of the rest of my new life. It’s where I’m going to make things right for poor Sela Halstead.

I’m going to make him suffer and then I’m going to end him.

My nefarious plan is quite easy, at least to my way of thinking that admittedly might be colored by an overabundance of rage and an overwhelming need for retribution. After only a few hours of Internet research, I had all I needed to know about my rapist.

Jonathon Townsend, age thirty-two.

Attended Hillcrest Preparatory. Bachelor’s and MBA from Stanford.

Wealthy by birth. Spoiled by circumstance.

Launched The Sugar Bowl three years ago and made millions upon millions.

Playboy. Bachelor. Rapist.

Those are the basics, and I find it hilariously ironic that his own business is going to be my way in to him. My research on The Sugar Bowl was fastidious and there were dozens of articles about it. CNN even did a documentary about the revolutionary and unconventional website platform that hooked up Sugar Daddies with Sugar Babies.

Quite brilliant, actually.

Sugar Daddies are wealthy men, usually in their fifties and sixties, who are looking to regain their youth by dating much younger women. Beautiful women too. Now there are some more youthful Sugar Daddies, but they are few and far between and obviously in high demand. I wondered why the vast majority of Sugar Daddies were old enough to be grandfathers, but according to the CNN film, most wealthy men in their thirties and forties were trying out the family life with cute suburban wives and a passel of kids. It’s usually not until divorce hits and the resulting fat belly sets in that these guys start scrambling to prove their manhood. Statistically speaking, that most often happens in a man’s late forties after the kids are grown and the wife doesn’t give it up anymore.

The Sugar Bowl makes all of this easy for these poor, ignored men by providing a database of willing Sugar Babies.

Sugar Babies are young women, usually between eighteen and twenty-six, although some can be a bit older. CNN says the average age is actually twenty-two, and that’s because most Sugar Babies are joining as a means to get their college tuition paid. At twenty-six, I’m stretching the outer limit of the normal range, but my face is very youthful and I could pass for twenty if I wanted.

While most sugarships—that’s a combination of “sugar” and “relationships”—are formed through introductions facilitated through the Web database, much like some of the popular dating sites, The Sugar Bowl also hosts regional parties where the Daddies and the Babies can mix, mingle, and have face-to-face time to see if there are any common bonds.

What’s the typical “sugarship” look like?

Well, there’s actually a written contract. In a signed agreement, all expectations are laid out. The Sugar Daddy clearly defines what he wants from his Baby. It could be a live-in companion or someone to travel with. It could be as simple as just a weekly dinner date. In return, the Daddy promises the Baby certain things. That could be money, tuition expenses, a car, expensive jewelry, whatever.

Bottom line: the Daddy pays for the Baby.

One thing you will never find in the agreement is an expectation to have sex. In fact, after I joined The Sugar Bowl two weeks ago, it was interesting to read their sample agreement online and find that it actually has a clause that “specifically prohibits discussion and/or agreement regarding sexual acts in exchange for monetary compensation and/or gifts.”

Squeaky-clean on its face, but as CNN showed during the documentary, sex is most often implied. Numerous former Sugar Babies were interviewed. Most of them were very happy with their experiences, having come out of college debt-free. Most of them also admitted that sex was a given and were unapologetic about having their expenses paid in return for a little roll between the sheets.

I find it sickening and repulsive, and yet…here I am. Getting ready to attend a San Francisco Sugar Bowl Mixer, and I have it on good authority from Jonathon Townsend’s secretary, Karla Gould, that he’s going to be here. I’m not the least bit ashamed that I researched and targeted her as an unwilling accomplice in my plans. I learned that she’s thirty-three, divorced, a single mom of three, and desperate for friends. I ultimately stalked her, forming a friendship after a “chance meeting” in her favorite coffee shop. That happened two months ago, and I played up my down-on-my-luck poor college student trying to pay for her master’s degree, which led to Karla suggesting The Sugar Bowl to me. While she’s too old and too overweight to be a marketable Baby, she had no problem with urging me in that direction, and I did a great acting job looking surprised at the suggestion, slightly dubious yet equally intrigued.

Karla was a good inside source, and I even once met her at her office for lunch and got a peek inside the great Jonathon Townsend’s empty office. I almost shuddered in ecstasy as I imagined jamming a letter opener through his eye and deep into his brain while he sat at his desk and computed his millions.

My plan is simple, and as such, will involve a great deal of luck.

I am going to try to catch Jonathon Townsend’s attention tonight. It’s well-known that he prefers blondes, but it’s also well known he prefers big tits, and I have a set of those. My blond hair is not an option, because I don’t want him to recognize me.

I don’t think he will, because I have learned in my research that he’s an egomaniac. I also learned that he fucks a lot of blondes and I have to imagine all of our faces blend together. While I can’t be sure, I’m betting on his cocky arrogance and the fact it probably had him forgetting about me even before the semen in my hair dried that night.

Rage sparks, froths, and bubbles low in my gut as I think about it.

Infiltrate.

Murder.

Repeat.

Keep your eye on the prize, Sela.

Infiltrate…get Townsend’s attention tonight. Make him lust after you. Get him to take you to his house. Make him divulge the other two rapists’ names, which shouldn’t be a problem inducing him to do that given the gun in my purse.

Murder…easy enough. Bullet between the eyes.

Repeat…find the other two and stalk them. Bullets between their eyes as well.

I stare at myself in the mirror just a moment more, taking in the smoky eyes, plump and glossed lips, cleavage on full display. I know what I’m doing is rash, probably not the most airtight of plans, but I can’t help it. I have rage and hate driving me forward. Even if I get caught and spend the rest of my life in prison, it will be better than living with myself having not done anything at all.

Watch out, Mr. Townsend. Your time is almost up.