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.