Unmaking Marchant

4

SURI

Marchant. Marchant Radcliffe. I keep blinking at him, because I can’t believe my sexy bathroom guy is him: Marchant Radcliffe—the pimp.

We’re close enough now that he lifts his head, and his gaze laps up and down my body in a manner I assume he must use with his harem. I feel heat rush into my face, followed by the sting of tears in my eyes, because he didn’t understand me—back there when I was having my little freak-out. We didn’t have a real moment. He’s just good at this stuff. He’s good at…well, at womanizing. He’s a professional.

Lizzy grabs my hand, because my feet don’t seem to want to take me to the plane, and we drop back as Hunter strides forward to greet Marchant.

“You okay?” she asks.

I nod—a little too frantically—and try to keep my wandering eyes off Marchant Radcliffe’s bulky shoulders. We’re less than twenty feet from the plane now, and as we get closer to the fold-out stairs, I can feel my body reacting—my skin warming, my heart rate speeding up—for a pimp, and it makes me feel like a fool.

I remind myself the attraction wasn’t one-sided. The wet-spot still visible on his pants attests to that. I did nothing wrong. There’s no reason I can’t look him in the eye and act like an adult about this.

But what if he says something in front of Lizzy and Hunter? Then they’ll know.

So what if they know?

It would change the way they think of me—that’s what.

I’m Suri Dalton. Suri Dalton of the random-hook-ups-are-just-weird policy. I’m the one who discouraged Lizzy from selling her V-card at a brothel, because having sex is supposed to be meaningful.

Except it wasn’t, was it? Having sex with Adam turned out not to feel so meaningful at all—at least in retrospect. So maybe I was wrong about what sex should be, but that doesn’t mean I want Hunter and Lizzy to know about The Bathroom Incident. I had a personal moment, during which I felt like doing something outside my usual norm, and I’d like to keep that to myself.

Because you screwed around with a pimp.

I quiet the judging voice inside my head by insisting that it could have been any guy. Mr. Love Inc. was simply at the right place at the right time. It isn’t as if I’m attracted to him in particular.

The guys are at the top of the stairs by the time Lizzy and I reach the bottom. By the time we step into the plane, they are, thankfully, out of sight. Hunter’s flight attendant waves us past a curtain separating the cockpit from the cabin, and we step into a mod space done in black and gray and cream—the kind of space that screams ‘I had this specially designed but didn’t give the interior designer much creative leeway or any instructions.’ There’s not much of it, either: just a couch, a recliner, and a table, along with eight plush leather seats arranged in two rows of four along the right side of the plane. The rows face each other, like the benches of a restaurant booth.

When I don’t see Hunter or Marchant at first glance, I allow myself to hope that maybe they’ve closed themselves into the plane’s office. Then I realize that, unlike several of my dad’s planes—the Boeing 767 and Gulfstream—this one doesn’t look big enough to have an office.

Damn.

My hopes come crashing down when I spot them seated across from each other in the rearmost cluster of seats. Hunter’s in a window seat, facing the front of the plane, with Marchant across from him in the seat beside the window seat. I divert my eyes from the back of that red-brown-blond head and am trying to decide if I can invent a reason to go into the plane’s bedroom when Lizzy takes my elbow.

“C’mon, Suri. Let’s sit down.”

It’s clear from Lizzy’s distracted, slightly tired-seeming expression that she has no idea I’m tied in knots. If I run off now, she’ll know for sure, and—my cheeks heat up—Marchant Radcliffe might tell them what happened.

Would he do that?

Of course he would! He’s a pimp. Bragging about his sexual conquests is probably as natural to him as breathing air.

I gulp a big breath back, then paste a neutral expression on my face and smooth my blouse. I can do this. I can act natural. I need to get into that seat beside him and set a tone of normalcy. Strict normalcy.

As for his part, he’s probably already forgotten me. Hoping that’s true (and hoping it’s not), I follow Lizzy with my head held high and my shoulders loose.

When we come into their space, Hunter’s eyes sweep Liz like he wants to take her to the bedroom. In the moment they’re eye-screwing each other, I brave my first glance at Marchant Radcliffe. He looks…different. And also the same. Now that I know who he is, I can see details I hadn’t noticed before: like how he’s wearing a flashy, platinum watch I’m pretty sure is IWC—the kind of timepiece that would be deemed totally excessive by a man like dad, but suits a brothel owner perfectly. His tux, originally nothing but a blood-spattered barrier to the body below, is in fact Brioni—the brand favored by James Bond. His light beard is impeccably trimmed, his mane of blond-brown-red hair impeccably cut, impeccably styled. Even his shoes look flawless—and that’s after kicking someone’s ass.

The boy-girl gods must be looking out for me, because while I ogle the pimp, he’s looking down into a drink he’s clutching. Something with orange juice—possibly a screwdriver?

I blink at him, waiting for him to look up. Waiting to set the tone between us. A jab of humiliated panic stings my chest, but I ignore it. When did I become so concerned about what other people think of me?

Lizzy takes a seat beside Hunter, and that’s when Marchant snaps out of his daze. His eyes slide over me, and then he does a double take, his eyebrows shooting up into his hair.

“It’s you,” he says, in that soft, deep, sexy voice. My body reacts with goose bumps and a roller-coaster feeling in my stomach.

I give a little wave that is only slightly awkward and force my legs to lower me into the seat.

Lizzy’s sharp blue eyes inspect the space between us. I can feel the curiosity oozing out her pores. She can tell that something’s up. She’s probably desperate to pounce on me, but she won’t do it in front of Hunter and Marchant. Instead she presses her lips together and looks from me to Marchant, like a school teacher awaiting a pupil’s answer.

I turn to Marchant— No, to Marchant Radcliffe. That’s how I need to think of him. With some distance. I give him a smile I hope is generic. In doing so, I’m forced to look at his face. Kaa-pow! It’s like bumping an electric fence. He’s just so…handsome. The kind of handsome that’s sturdy and square-jawed. Rugged. Like a cowboy. It’s strange. He’s supposed to be a pimp. Someone on the fringe of society. Someone weird. Perverse. Instead, he makes me think of Superbowls and sports cars. And sex.

I jerk my gaze away like he’s a flame and I’m a wax girl. Edgy energy rips through me, making my fingertips shake; making my stomach feel empty. Just ignore it. I cross my legs at the ankle and set my purse on the floor beside my chair. By the time I’m looking up again, Lizzy’s gone full-fledged detective. She’s sitting up straighter in her seat and leaning forward, looking from me to Marchant like a bloodhound on a scent.

“I thought I knew the answer to this question, but…do you guys know each other?”

I open my mouth, but Marchant beats me to it. He grins at me. “I hit on her earlier, in the casino.”

He gives me an exaggerated wink, and Hunter groans. “Leave her alone, man. Suri’s not your kind of girl.”

Except I am. Obviously I am his kind of girl. I just made out with him in the bathroom. More than made out. What is it we did? Second base? Third? I’m so out of practice, I don’t even know.

I slide a glance at Marchant and find him swallowing back some of his screwdriver, wiggling his eyebrows conspiratorially. Like something happened. Damn.

I’m racking my mind for a change of subject when the intercom spits out static, and a deep, drawling voice lets us know we’re preparing for takeoff.

“The flight to El Paso will take approximately one hour and forty-three minutes, guys and gals. Please fasten your seatbelts and leave ‘em on until we are in the air and the fasten seatbelt light goes off.”

I feel grateful that the intercom has helped the subject of Marchant Radcliffe and my acquaintance pass. Then he looks over at me and runs the tip of his tongue along his lower lip. His totally bitable lower lip.

My face heats up. My throat constricts. My eyes even water just a little.

This is nuts.

I glance first at Lizzy and Hunter to see if they notice my bout of temporary insanity. Both of them are looking at me. Looking at me like they know, or looking at me like I’m sitting right in front of them? I can’t tell. I take a deep breath and look down at my feet.

Even from this angle, I’m tempted by the man whore next to me. His pants leg doesn’t quite reach his slouching black sock, so I can see the barest swatch of thick, hair-dusted shin. Ridiculously, it heats me up.

Maybe that test was wrong. Maybe I am ovulating today. Clearly, my hormones are insane.

This guy owns a brothel, Suri. Where women—and men!—sell their bodies. Do you approve of that?

I actually shake my head as I argue with myself.

I think prostitution is disgusting. Damaging. And I think that whoever runs those sorts of shows is taking advantage of vulnerable women—and men.

An inconvenient memory flits through my mind: me, with my head thrown back and Marchant Radcliffe’s hand down my pants. Me, wanting to mess around with a dangerous stranger because I thought it might give me a feeling of control. Me, making the choice to give myself away for free.

I could blame it on him. On his sex appeal. On that tux. I could say he tugged me into his orbit, because sex is his profession—but that would be a lie.

As the plane begins to taxi down the runway, I’m hyper aware of how much space he takes up in the seat beside me. His shoulders spill into my space, and I have to take a deep, measured breath to keep myself cool and collected.

The plane’s wheels bounce off the runway for the final time, and we’re airborne—just barely. Marchant sprawls his legs out in front of him, as if he’s stretching. His left leg touches my right one. Heat spills through me. I dare not look down.

I blink straight ahead as Hunter pulls out an iPad and Lizzy pulls out a Kindle, and they lean their heads together, talking about how bright the screens are—or aren’t. I catch a WTF widening of Lizzy’s eyes at me, and I divert my eyes—to Marchant’s leg, now pressed against mine.

I feel empty and achy in between my legs. I feel all tingly and weak. Sexed up…

Oh, God.

Using his Super Pimp powers, Marchant Radcliffe senses my moment of lust and goes in for the kill. He throws his arm around my shoulders, pulls me nearer to him, and rests his head on top of mine, inhaling. I can feel his hard, warm chest puff out. Can feel his face stroke my hair.

“Mmmm. You smell fucking good.”

I’m frozen. A mouse being batted between a cat’s paws.

He loosens his grip, and I can feel him looking down at me. “You’re Trent Dalton’s daughter.”

I give a half nod without meeting his ridiculously pretty brown eyes, which he has pointed at me in some kind of Super Pimp seduction stare. “That’s me.”

“No one told me how fucking hot you are.”

I force myself to look up at him, to meet his eyes. To keep breathing, even as my gaze retreats down to my lap.

I haven’t been called “hot” since, I don’t know, freshman year of college? But I’m blushing, and I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t be if this was anyone but Marchant Radcliffe.

I swallow hard and flick my gaze to him. “No one told me you had such bad language.”

He laughs and gulps back some of his drink. When he moves the glass away from his face, I’m struck again by his sheer male radiance. “You don’t use ‘swear’ words?” He makes air marks around swear, and says it in a meek, little old woman type of voice.

“I use them when they’re warranted,” I say, trying not to laugh at his voice.

“You are fucking hot. It’s warranted.”

I take a deep breath. “You come on strong,” I say, and I’m proud of how dry my voice sounds—like I don’t care one bit.

“That’s what they tell me.” He’s proud. I’m sure coming on strong has gotten him into a million pairs of blue jeans. But I don’t like guys who come on strong—do I?

With one arm still around me, Marchant Radcliffe reaches into the magazine rack, pulling out a smallish bottle of Grey Goose I guess he had hidden, and adds a few inches to his drink. Then he offers it to me.

“You look like you could use a little liquid R&R.”

As he says it, he presses his leg against mine again.

Butterflies shoot through my stomach. I move my leg. Shake my head.

“I’m fine. Maybe a little tired.” Because I already got smashed once today, I think as I direct my gaze to the curved ceiling. Because I’m losing my damn mind.

He takes another long swig of his drink, and just when I’ve almost managed to peg him as a stereotype—rollicking frat boy/man whore in grown-up clothes—he grabs my hand and shuts his eyes.

“I know you’re gonna pull it away, but could you just give me a minute? Kinda helps…ground me.”

My hand twitches around his and I find myself staring at his eyelids. “You don’t like to fly?”

“That’s the short version,” he mumbles.

“I assumed you’d be in the jet set.”

He flips his eyes open, and they look dark. Just…weirdly dark. “I don’t want my own plane.”

I get an odd feeling in my chest, like he’s telling me something more personal than he doesn’t like to fly. I flip through my mental list of celebrities, politicians, and business people who’ve been in plane crashes or near-crashes, but I don’t remember Marchant Radcliffe being among them. And then I remember: his parents died in a plane crash.

I stare at my knees, because I’m not sure how to respond to him, and I’m surprised to feel his hand stroke down my neck. It feels good. Tickles. He leans in closer, brushing my fingers with his and resting his head on my shoulder.

It’s easy to pretend that this is the kind of passion I’ve been looking for. Then I peek my eyes open and notice Lizzy and Hunter have looked up from Hunter’s iPad and are staring.

I tug my leg away from his, attempt to shrink away from him even though his arm is still around me. “I’m not your type, remember?”

“I know that.” He’s nuzzling my neck.

Lizzy and Hunter get up abruptly, heading toward the bedroom just a bit too quickly, and Marchant and I are left alone. His arm is still around me, and I’m forced to face the fact that I like it.

“Is this an every woman thing, or just me?” I whisper—because despite myself, I have to know. “Are you just someone who likes to toy with people?”

He pulls away, and it’s like a house of cards falling. His eyes are surprisingly bleak when he says, “It’s a ‘me thing,’ Suri Dalton.” He laughs, humorless. “I’ve…I don’t know. I’ve got problems.”

As I move from my seat to one across from him, desperate to put some space between us, I decide it’s a me thing, too. Because even as he takes a long swig straight from his bottle, I can’t seem to get my body to calm down.

MARCHANT

Goddamn. This is gonna happen here, and when it does, this beautiful angel is gonna see it.

I stand up, bottle in my hand, but there’s nowhere to go. The bedroom door is closed, and most of the cabin is this open fucking room.

I pace toward the cockpit and my mind is filled with crazy shit. I duck behind the curtain and I breathe into my elbow.

Calm down, fuckhead. You just gotta make it till we land.

I twist the cap off the Goose and pour it down my throat.

“Mr. Radcliffe?”

I blink at the flight attendant who just appeared in front of me. I can’t remember her name right now, although I’m aware that I should know it. She touches my arm, and I’m tempted to slap her.

“Can I get you anything?”

I move away and shake my head, already drifting back into the cabin.

Standing here, looking at the back of Suri Dalton’s hair, I feel like I’m stuck in a movie I can’t turn off. I feel like the only way out is to open the door and just…jump.

That’s crazy.

Fuck me.

I sink into the recliner and take a deep pull of my vodka. Put one arm over my head. I try to pretend I’m in my garden house.

I swallow—the sound of it is so loud—and open my eyes, so my eyelashes brush the leather of the chair’s arm. For a moment, my body is completely immobile. As I imagine her arms around me. As I think of what I’d like to do to her throat. To her breasts. As I return to the image of her arms around me. It’d feel good to be hugged. Held.

And then I hear her coming up on me. I hear her soft voice, asking, “Are you okay?”

Without lifting my head, I say, “I’m fine. I’m just fucking drunk. Started drinking…way too early.”

I wish that was really the problem.

5

SURI

So maybe my first instinct, back there in the atrium, was right. Maybe something is wrong with this guy. And it’s not that he’s a pimp, and it’s not that he’s a player. I think Marchant Radcliffe must have an alcohol problem.

Clearly, the universe has decided my adventure into bad-boy land has lasted long enough, and offered me a solid reason to stay away from him. And I’m grateful for that. I tell myself I’m grateful for it as I watch him stride into the big, steel elevator on the first floor of El Paso’s University Hospital.

I’m trying to think of it like…I don’t know…a muffin. A really good blueberry muffin—my favorite kind of muffin. Except this muffin got dropped in dirt. Or kitty litter! Yep. You wouldn’t want a blueberry muffin dropped in kitty litter, no matter how good a muffin it was. No matter how delicious it looked from far away. Because eating a muffin dropped in kitty litter would be like asking to get sick.

So as my eyes dart over his handsome face and his impressive body—a body just as scrumptious as any blueberry muffin—I remind myself that he’s a drunk. At least I think he might be. It’s a definite possibility.

Also possible: He got drunk because he’s scared of planes. Because his parents died on a plane. I wish I knew more about that. I wish I could ask Lizzy about it.

Since she and Hunter came out of the bedroom, right before we landed, I haven’t been able to get her to look me in the eye. I’m not sure what’s with her sketchy behavior, but the bitchy prude inside me says she knows something happened between Marchant and I, and she respects me less for it.

I keep my gaze on my feet again as the elevator lifts us to the third floor. I think of Cross. I think of how I wasn’t thinking of Cross on the plane ride over. I’m a pretty shitty friend.

I think, again, of putting the moves on Cross. What was that all about? I’ve tried hard to self-analyze, but I’m honestly not sure. Not completely. I’m not in love with Cross. I know that. I love him the same way I love Lizzy, except he’s also an attractive and charming guy.

I guess…I don’t know. I hate to be one of those people who excuse themselves by saying things like, “I just wasn’t in a good place,” but that’s what it comes down to, I guess. That and I was just dumb dumb dumb.

The elevator door opens, cutting off my thoughts, and putting us off inside a wide, white hallway. Anxiety spreads through me, because I remember this from last time—from Cross’s motorcycle accident back in November—and I really don’t want to remember that.

A lump tightens in my throat as I wonder if this will be like that. Memories toss themselves into my consciousness like a stack of Polaroids thrown into the air: Cross, bleeding, swollen, bandaged. That horrible breathing tube. The catheter bag. I remember talking to Adam on my cell phone from the waiting room while Cross endured his first long surgery, just a few hours after the crash, and my stomach twists.

I’m in the back of the group, so I allow a tear to slip out of my eye as I breathe the acrid scent of rubbing alcohol, lemon disinfectant, and rubber. We walk a few dozen more feet to a big, half-circle desk., “OR Waiting Room” is written above the desk in stainless steel letters.

One of the people behind the desk—a slim, short man wearing light brown scrubs—glances up at us. “Can I help you?”

Lizzy pulls her wallet out of her purse and wiggles an ID out of one of its pockets. It’s a fake that says Elizabeth Carlson—one she had made so she could visit Cross in the ICU after his first accident. She slides it across the table. “We’re here for Cross Carlson.”

The man behind the desk looks into her face, a blend of curiosity and pity. “Are you the wife?”

“Sister,” she says softly, and Hunter takes her hand.

The man’s blue eyes meet Lizzy’s. “Maybe you can help us. We haven’t been able to find Ms. Carlson.”

“Ms. Carlson?”

The man nods, frowning. “Meredith Carlson?”

I clutch my purse as the room tilts around me, and the man in scrubs explains that Cross arrived with his wife. I tell myself he must be wrong—the man is obviously wrong.

“She was very upset,” he tells us.

Lizzy straightens her shoulders, and explains, in her most gathered, Lizzy voice: “I think there’s a misunderstanding. My brother isn’t married.”

The man behind the desk shrugs. “Could have fooled me.”

I stare at Lizzy’s shoulders, and Hunter starts asking questions like how long until we’ll get an update, and is Cross still in surgery, and the man in brown scrubs tells us yes; the surgeon will be out to speak to us soon.

“Is he okay?” I hear myself ask as the others head for little plastic seats.

“He’s in surgery, ma’am.”

“But he’s…okay? Like…when they brought him in, he was doing pretty well?”

“They took him back to surgery,” the man says. “That’s all I know.”

“Did you see him?” The man’s neutral expression begins to slip, and I add, “I’m just trying to find out all the information I can.”

“Well, he can’t tell you.”

I turn to find Marchant Radcliffe standing right behind me. He has one eyebrow arched and both arms crossed. For some reason, the stern, knowing look on his handsome face pisses me off.

“This is none of your business.” I look into his blood-shot eyes. Eyes that are blood-shot because he’s drunk.

He blinks. “You want to tell me my business?”

Heat crawls over my skin at the challenging tone. The same kind of challenge Adam used to issue when he’d been drinking. I hold my head up higher. “I’m not doing that. I’m telling you what your business is not. My concern for my friend is not your business. Not unless you have something helpful to say.” I nod at the chairs behind him. “You can go and sit back down now.”

His eyes, on mine, feel hot. “You want me to leave?”

“Did I say that?”

“Do you?”

“I don’t care if you leave or not.” My voice wavers, because I’m upset about being in a hospital again, and now Marchant Radcliffe has turned Adam on me. I whirl away from him, headed toward where Lizzy and Hunter are sitting, when another set of wide steel doors opens and a man wearing pale blue scrubs, a little blue hat, and black sneakers strides out.

He looks around the room, gaze swinging first to me and then to Lizzy. “Meredith Carlson?”

I close the distance between he and I, my stomach twisting into a sick knot as I note a few blood smears on his scrubs. My heart is beating so hard I can barely speak, and when I do, my voice sounds low and thick. “Is he okay?”

The doctor—a man about my father’s age—blinks his pale brown eyes. “Are you Meredith Carlson?”

“I’m— no. I’m not. He doesn’t have a wife.”

The surgeon’s thin brows notch, his eyes darting around the room as if he’s already dismissed me. “I was told he has a wife.” His eyes search the space behind me, and Lizzy steps into my peripheral vision with her hand extended. “I’m Lizzy. I’m his sister.”

“I’m Dr. Hilcox.” The doctor’s hand clasps hers, and he gives her a little nod. “Your brother came through the surgery just fine. He had a bullet wound to the shoulder and a fractured ankle. I also cleaned an older wound—his hand.” The man’s lips draw up, like he’s about to tell us something unpleasant, and my pulse skyrockets. “During the procedure, he asked repeatedly for Meredith. I understand he’s had some injuries recently. Perhaps some emotional trauma, from being back inside a hospital. In the recovery room after his surgery, he got quite worked up. We had to increase his sedation.”

“He was asking for someone named Meredith?” Lizzy frowns.

The surgeon nods, looking from me to Lizzy, like he simply can’t believe neither of us is named ‘Meredith’. He shrugs, looking around the waiting room once more before telling us Cross should be settled in the ICU in twenty or thirty minutes, and we’ll be able to visit him one at a time. “Wait here or in the ICU waiting room. A nurse will let you know when it’s time.”

“The ICU?” I speak before I think about it, and the surgeon’s eyes snap onto mine.

“Yes. The ICU.”

“But I thought he…” I shake my head, feeling dizzy and disoriented. “I thought it wasn’t serious. The nurse said…”

“What nurse?” the doctor asks. He looks peeved. Like he’s in a hurry and I’m keeping him from something.

“The nurse who called. She said he wasn’t hurt badly.”

The surgeon’s eyes narrow. “Our nurses don’t make phone calls about patients. Can you tell me what you’re talking about?”

I frown. I’m feeling…frozen. Like I’m in a state of shock. “He’s really in the ICU? I just…I haven’t even been worrying.” God. I feel like such an awful friend.

All I can think about is how Cross would feel about being back inside an ICU. I was with him so often after he woke up from his coma. Cross and I. Just Cross and I. He told me things he hadn’t told anyone…and…God, it breaks my heart to think he’s here again. Inside another hospital. Recovering again.

I bite my lip and turn away. Lizzy and Hunter keep talking to the doctor, but I need to find somewhere to collect myself. I notice Marchant noticing me, and he acts like he’s going to break away from the discussion to check on me.

No thank you.

I take off down the nearest hall I see. My emotions are like clothes being tossed around a dryer. I can’t tell up from down. All I know is that I’m hurt, and I don’t want to see Marchant Radcliffe or anyone else right now.

He follows me. Of course he does. I pick up my pace, till I’m practically running past doors and carts and metal structures like wine racks but laden with oxygen tanks, past a nurse wearing mint green scrubs when I can feel him closing in on me.

“Suri Dalton, slow the fuck down!”

I toss a blurry glance back over my shoulder. “Don’t curse at me! And go away!”

I don’t know why I’m so upset. I just can’t synthesize it. Then I remember—they said Cross was married—and it’s like something bursts open inside my chest, and I’m directionless and dizzy and distraught, and I realize what I’ve wanted this whole time: to be settled. I knew I wanted that, of course, but I didn’t know how much until right now. I think of Cross’s strong, stable arms around another woman and I feel like something is clawing at my heart.

Why don’t I have that?

Why didn’t he want me?

Why didn’t Adam care enough about me to change?

For a moment, I almost forget I’ve got Marchant Radcliffe on my heels. Then I can’t forget, because he’s right there on me, grabbing my arm.

I push away from him, and he pushes me up against the wall. His arms touch down on either side of me, pinning me in. His hand goes into my hair and I can feel him breathing, smell him breathing. Smell the vodka.

“Jesus, woman. You can move.”

I react irrationally, because in the moment, I’m grieving. Not just for the loss of any chance I might have wanted with Cross, but for the loss of what I thought I had with Adam.

I miss being coupled! I miss snuggling up to a warm body in bed. I miss being known. Being accepted and loved.

I blink at the beautiful man in front of me, and I push against his chest as I start to cry. “Go away,” I sob. “I’m upset!”

His mouth is on my neck so fast, I don’t know what hit me. “That’s exactly why—” he says as he bites me— “I’m not leaving you alone.”

He kisses me, and I kiss him back. My hands are all over him, grabbing at his hips, pulling him into me. He grabs my breasts, my ass. His hand moves to my back, where his fingers dig so hard they almost hurt.

As he looks at me, his eyes grow stormy. Just like Adam’s used to. “You his girlfriend, Dalton?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Are you Carlson’s girlfriend?”

“Why?”

“Are you?” He looks pissed off.

“No.”

“You wish you were?”

“That’s not your business.”

“Everything about you is my business.”

“You’re crazy.”

“And you’ve got a thing for Carlson.”

“No I don’t. We’re just friends.” But I sound guilty.

His face goes from furious to disdainful in a second. He looks me up and down—scornful in his assessment. And like before, in the bathroom at the Wynn, I feel as if he can see every part of me I don’t like. His eyes return to mine, heavy with the verdict of his judgment. “I had pegged you for lonely and inexperienced, Dalton. Not desperate.”

I’m pretty sure my mouth falls open, because I’m shocked. Not just by the meanness of his comment—although it is definitely mean—but because it snags me like an arrow in between the ribs. Because it’s true. I’m both lonely and desperate. How did I get here? I blink at him, and the hall around me seems to tilt.

“You’re an asshole,” I whisper.

He glares, a smirking, petulant look that reminds me slightly of a child. Or a drunk. I close my eyes. He’s just like Adam. Nice guy, sober. Mean drunk. I’m single for mere weeks and the first guy who catches my eye is a mean drunk!

My eyes tear up again, and I think it’s probably good that I’m infertile—a failsafe, because apparently the only men I’m going to end up with are assholes.

I rub my eyes and get a blurry glimpse of Marchant Radcliffe. He looks serious. Almost solemn. “You’re right,” he says. “I am an asshole. Crippled Carlson’s probably a better choice.”

He shrugs, then stalks toward the elevators, and this time I know my mouth is hanging open.