But I do tremble a bit when he steps even closer. “Romp implies something casual. Nothing about this will be casual. I don’t have sex—I fuck. You understand?”

I nod. “Of course I do.” Does he not? What kind of drugs was he doing that he forgot a whole night?

“So let me get this straight. You want to fuck me?”

I blush three shades of pink. “I know, I’m being blunt. It’s not my usual style, but…yes.”

“Think about this,” he warns. “Whether you really want to be here, doing this with me. Because once you commit, you work on my terms.”

“I understand.” I just hope he doesn’t walk out on me the way he did at the hotel. “I’ll go back to the pent house for tonight and let you know tomorrow.”

He’s leaning out his doorway as I go. I already know my answer.

MARCHANT

I’ve just swallowed my pills the next morning when I hear the knock. I wonder if it’s Rachelle, coming back for something she forgot, but I get a tingly sixth sense as I stride toward the door. I look down at myself before moving for the knob. I’m wearing battered pajama pants and an equally battered grey undershirt. Suddenly it doesn’t feel like enough. And it’s not—because my sixth sense was correct. Through the small window at the top of the door, I see Suri Dalton.

She’s gorgeous in a little yellow dress and strappy leather sandals. She’s got on sunglasses I’m pretty sure are Ray-Bans. With her smooth, tanned skin and her pouty, bitable lips, she looks good enough to eat.

I tug the door open, feeling a little like the big, bad wolf. I don’t usually fuck the women on my payroll, but this one came to me.

Still, my conscience stirs; it’s Suri Dalton. She’s beautiful and rich as sin—just about perfect, and she’s throwing off an innocent vibe so strong I can practically smell it. I sort of feel like I’m bro-ing out trying to score with her; like back in my frat days, when the only kind of girl I wanted was the Sunday School Sorority Girl.

On the other hand, Suri Dalton is a grown woman who knows what she wants.

I’m not sure why I’m it—especially when I think about the few hazy things I can remember from the time we’ve spent together—but should I give a shit? I know I’d love to fuck her.

Not for long. No more than a week, and definitely no strings attached. That’s my rule for life, because I would never ask anyone to share my baggage.

I can’t be her friend, either. Too much attraction.

So let’s say I’m taking her on out of curiosity—because I’m curious to see just what she wants from me.

I can already tell it’s gonna suck when the hourglass runs out. I haven’t been with any woman for more than a night—well, consecutively—in years. And Suri isn’t just any woman.

I need to remind myself that this is about sex. She probably sees me as sex personified—she wouldn’t be the first—and wants to pop her stranger-fucking cherry. And I am a stranger to her, thank God. She pulled me from the pool and that’s all. There’s no record of her at the hospital with me. She didn’t see my pitiful state. She sees me as sex.

I peer down at her, already getting hard.

She smiles—a wholesome, winning smile. “I’ll do it. I mean, I’ll take the job.”

“I was hoping you’d say that.”

I think I see a light blush on her cheeks as she shifts her weight from one sandaled foot to the other. “I don’t have to start today necessarily. In fact, I probably need to go home for a few days and get some of my things. But I wanted to let you know my decision. Also, I’m meeting a team here in about an hour to show them where to look for my grandmother’s ring. I lost it…that night. Which is why I saw the pool,” she tacks on quietly.

I nod. What she means is, that’s how she found me at the bottom of the pool. This morning when I woke up, I remembered a little bit more. Shivering. Getting sick. Feeling like I couldn’t breathe.

Damnit, I’m a mess. I was a mess. I tell myself that shit’s behind me now. I can go back to life the way it used to be. Quiet and solitary; responsible living with the occasional quick fuck. Never anything serious.

And never with anyone who hits me like she does.

I look her over, floored by how fresh and clean she looks. Like sunshine. She tucks a strand of her short, brown-blond hair behind her ear, looking a little uncomfortable, as if she can sense my scrutiny. I offer her a small smile. “Do you want some coffee? Waffles?”

I’m feeling more clear-headed today, so my heart pounds slightly as I wait for her answer. It’s strange; nerves. Like I’m a 15-year-old virgin again. I had my first post-hospital boner this morning, and it was all for her. The fantasy of sweet Suri, sucking my cock with a cherry red condom on it.

“Sure,” she says finally. “I’d like that.”

I swing the door open. “Come on in.”

I think about my house as she follows me through the open living area into the kitchen. Most people who see the place are surprised by how cozy it is. Two fluffy couches in the den, a big, oak chifferobe to hide my flatscreen. Built-in shelves filled with books and other shit I hang onto. The funniest thing: Unlike the main house and the other two manor houses, I decorated this place myself. And I don’t go for that sleek, shiny shit like Hunter does. I like to be comfortable.

The kitchen is done in various shades of brown and beige and wood, with a deep red, cherrywood breakfast table. I’m not much of a cook, but I like to try sometimes, so I’ve got pots and skillets hanging above a small island.

I’ve already got the waffle mix whipped up, because now that I’m mostly just back to my Lithium, I expect to be hungrier. I need the weight if I’m going to get back to the gym. And I am. I need the work outs to keep me level.

I pull out a chair for Suri Dalton, and she sits in one elegant motion. She looks up at me, smiling like I’ve done something funny. “You cook,” she says. “Like Hunter. I’m surprised.”

I laugh at that as I move around the kitchen. “No. Bro can cook. I just fuck around in the kitchen.”

“That looks like a real waffle iron to me.”

“Rachelle,” I say, and belatedly realize she doesn’t know what that means. “She won this at a charity raffle. The one she had at home was nicer, so she gave it to me.” I wave in a kind of general way around the kitchen. “I get a lot of her castoffs.”

“Sounds nice.” At first I think she might be sarcastic, but when I look up at her, she seems sincere. I wonder if she likes to cook, but I won’t ask.

I pour some batter into the iron and prep two plates with some fruit Rachelle actually did cut and bring over.

“Milk, Orange juice, or apple?” I ask her as I close the iron and turn to the refrigerator.

“Apple, thanks.”

I pour her juice, plus some water for myself, and glance over at her as she sits there watching me, all prim and pretty. Prim doesn’t really do her justice, though. She’s not prim. She’s more like…put-together. Neatly put-together and kind of…elegant.

She leans forward over the table, distracting me from my thoughts with a hint of cleavage. “So I want to know some more about you. Now that you’re my client and all. And I’d like to know a little bit about the history of this place.”

My chest squeezes as I think about all the shit that burned. The cheesy, framed first dollar that I made. The ribbon from our ribbon-cutting at the original brothel, on the Strip. A bunch of pictures of escorts who’ve worked here. I wish I wasn’t so fucking sentimental.

The waffle hisses a little, so I open the iron and drop it out onto a plate. I’m buttering the thing when I realize I’m not sure how she likes it, and anyway…didn’t she ask me something? I gather the syrup and the butter, plus some silverware, and try to remember what she asked. I feel better today—more like me—but I’m still kind of foggy.