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.