Unmaking Marchant

3

MARCHANT

When Jenkins stops the Bentley at the doorway of the Wynn, I’m still working on my blunt.

“Hey dude, we’re here,” Jenk calls over his shoulder. He’s got some new tracks thumping, and with his tortoiseshell glasses and his toothpaste commercial smile, he looks a little ridiculous: my 20-year-old chauffeur. The deal is, I pay for his college and he drives me around to shit like this. Call me crazy, but I need it to be someone younger than me. I feel like hell every time I see an old guy driving someone. Shouldn’t he be fly fishing or watching Andy Griffith or some shit?

I didn’t stab the cherry out when I pressed the blunt into the ash tray, so I take another quick hit and nod as smoke pours out my nostrils. “Yeah, I noticed.” The flickering blue glow of the pools in front of the casino makes this difficult to miss.

I straighten my jacket and fuck with my tie and run my fingers through my newly trimmed beard. I don’t want to get out, but…I kind of have to.

I tuck the .38 in my pants pocket as I reach for the door handle, and Jenk reaches back and slaps my shoulder. “You want me to wait around, right?”

I blink at him, replay his words, then shake my head. “Nah. Go home and study, man. You’ve got…finals?”

He laughs. “Two weeks ago.”

“What?” I rub my dry eyes, trying to make sense of this.

“Two weeks ago. Finals already happened, dude. I’m on a break right now, so I can wait as long as you need.”

I shake my head again. “Park her at the Sahara location and go home. I’ll call a cab or something.”

“You sure?”

Goddamn, this kid is persistent. I cut my eyes at him, trying not to let my foul mood show. “Yeah, man. I got it.”

That’s a lie. But I still owe a guy some money, and I don’t need to involve the kid in whatever might happen. What is it they say? Bad impression. No—it’s bad example. Kids are vulnerable, and I’m an example, right?

It’s Friday night—still early, but the Wynn is hopping. The weed keeps me mellow, so the crowd doesn’t bother me much. I hurry through the massive, marble-columned hallway, trying to keep my head down as I walk toward the private room that’s reserved for the Hearts for Heroes fundraiser Hunter roped me into. It’s for the cardiac unit at the local children’s hospital, and there’s some elaborate system they’re using to raise the money. Something with teams. We’re calling ours the Love Inc. team, even though Hunter set everything up, and we’ve got a couple of extra people.

I feel like an asshole with this gun in my pocket, and I’ll look like one if security sees it, but I can’t take the risk of getting jumped by Hawkins. Rex Hawkins, the guy who’s been threatening to shoot me in the back.

Fuck him. I said I would pay. I just need a little longer to get the money moved. Fuck Hawkins for starting that fight last week at Tao. Fuck Tao, too. I got a month-long ban and a ride to the South MLK police station, and Hawkins got nothing.

I try to shove my anger down as I turn sideways to get past a group of Asian men in pastel business suits. I need to keep my mind on tonight, not get lost in that other shit. But I can’t help it; I wish I was at Tao playing blackjack. I wish I could find Rex Hawkins and kick his fucking ass.

I press my hand against my pocket and remind myself that guns are terrible things. I’m not a gun guy, right? I’m all about the party.

I should throw the gun out.

Where? A trash receptacle? No way. The cameras pick that shit up. I rub my slacks again, but my mind is fucking hazy. I don’t know what to do with the damn thing.

The room we’re in is big, with high ceilings, floor-to-ceiling windows, marble floors, and lots of black, fringed chandeliers that look, to me, like video-game monsters. Tonight the lights inside of them are glowing red. I guess in honor of the whole hearts thing.

Kids with heart defects. Now that shit is sad. Really goddamned sad. When I think about the kids, I need a fucking drink.

This dude comes up, and I swear I’ve got some magic fucking powers, because he’s got a tray loaded with alcohol. I grab what looks like Long Island iced tea and down it before he can make it to the next person.

“Let me grab another one, dude.” I shove a hundred into his palm and grab two more drinks.

“One for my friend,” I mutter as I step away.

Take that, Hawkins. I’ve got enough money to come through this shit. I’m solvent. I finish the second drink and sit the empty glass by a potted palm tree. My eyes are burning like a motherfucker. My hands itch. Fuck. I’m jumpy as shit. Maybe I should go. I could probably make it over to Tao’s in less than half an hour if I could get a police escort.

I rub my eyes again. Okay, the cops probably wouldn’t do that for me. Not unless I get in trouble. Maybe I should go find Hawkins and shove my fist into his tenth-grade-looking face again. Baby-faced motherfucker.

I cast my bleary gaze around the room. Crowded. Lots of important types here. The mayor and shit. Wonder where the hell Hunter is. I can’t remember who’s on our team. It’s fucking hot in here. I’d love another blunt. Maybe I should go.

I fiddle with the gun and think about going to the bathroom and flushing it down the toilet. I don’t need a gun. I’ve got my fists. Guns kill people—right? I don’t want to do that. I’m a nice guy.

Can guns fit down toilets?

Right out in front of me, in between me and the tables they’ve got set up, this woman walks by, and she’s a fucking fox. Short, blonde-brown hair. Angel face. Ass-hugging jeans. Maybe that’s what I need to shake this weird-ass mood: a good fuck. I push myself up and start to follow her. If I ask, she might be game. I can donate some money to this charity bullshit. Stay in bed with her instead of playing.

I’m on her tail, my eyes glued to her pert little ass in those amazing blue jeans. Fucking hell. The way she moves…

There’s Hunter! I see him in a crowd of well-dressed pricks, crossing through the room behind this one, angled toward me. I need to dodge him, follow the girl, but he holds his hand up. He raises his eyebrows—West’s idea of a friendly greeting—then pulls his phone out of his tux pocket. He’s getting a call, and whatever he hears makes his eyes go wide.

I turn back, and the girl is gone.

Goddamned Hunter. He’s such a cock block.

I turn back toward the lobby, because I’m getting out of here. I don’t have the right head for this hearts bullshit.

I turn, and there’s Hawkins.

“I don’t know what the fuck you want from me, but I told your asshat errand boy that I wouldn’t have the money until Monday.”

Hawkins, standing in front of me in a small, round sitting area off the rented casino room, smirks. “You didn’t tell anyone shit.”

“Monday,” I growl.

Again, that smirk. “So make it Sunday, papa pimp.” He grins and takes a step toward me.

I take a step forward, too, crowding him against the rounded wall. Wormy little bastard. I can take him with my eyes closed. “You gonna threaten me here, when you’re all alone?” I sneer.

“I’ve got friends everywhere, Radcliffe.”

“Good for you, you fucking prick. You’ll get your money Monday. Now, you might want to consider getting the fuck away from me, before I get pissed off.”

His face twists. “Sunday, or I’m coming for it.”

“Why don’t you try?” My self-control snaps and I shove him against the wall, enjoying the sensation of my hands digging into his shoulders. “I might owe you money, but you’re a fucking bully and a cheat. And getting the cops involved at Tao was— hey!”

I was going to say “a bitch move,” but strong arms grab my shoulders from behind.

“Let’s take this outside,” Hawkins says, his beady eyes directing whoever is behind me. One of his thugs, obviously. I force my body to go limp as the man behind me pushes something hard and cool into my lower back, and I’m shoved out a nearby door, into one of the casino’s discreet atriums, with lush green grass, potted trees, and a bunch of cheesy lanterns.

Hawkins’ thug digs his gun into my back, but I don’t give a fuck. I whirl on him, kneeing him in the balls, sending him down to the plastic grass in half a second, before Hawkins’ other goon throws a punch at my jaw.

I dodge it easily. My eyes are fast. One swift kick to the wrist, and his gun is on the ground. One more and that big, fat bastard is bleeding from his ugly fucking head.

I go for my own gun, rounding on Hawkins as I do—but my fingers aren’t working right. I’m having trouble tracking. My mind is racing too damn fast now.

Goon No. 1 is back up, so I backhand the bastard and he flies across the grass. Another big bastard with that distinctive Hawkins Security swagger comes barreling out the door, and I kick him in the balls. Now they’re all down.

But Hawkins has the gun, and he’s circling me. “You high on something, Radcliffe?”

“Life.”

He looks at me like I’m crazy, but he should have looked at me like I’m the fucking Flash, because I grab the gun from him and get him on the ground in half a second. I start wailing on his face, and it feels so good. Just what I need.

From somewhere far away, conscience tells me to lighten up—I’m gonna really hurt him—but I don’t listen. I need this too badly.

I’m feeling better than I have in weeks when I hear a shriek, then feel small hands tugging at my shoulders. I aim a punch behind me and, a millisecond later, hear a woman’s scream.

Holy fuck! I turn around, adrenaline pumping so hard I can feel my heartbeat in my eyes.

It’s her. The blonde in the ass-hugging jeans.

I push Hawkins harder against the ground and search her face. Her cheek is red, like there’s a bruise forming. “Jesus, baby. I’m sorry.”

“You’re going to kill him!” She backs away, scrambling like I’m some kind of monster.

And it fits—because I am.

SURI

The first thing I think: There’s something wrong with him. The guy kicking ass in the tuxedo is too frenzied, too fast, too reckless.

He seems completely unafraid as he takes the big guys—obviously body guards—to the ground. The little guys has a gun, and just as I think I’m going to be witness to a murder, the guy in the tuxedo is on him, and the gun falls into the grass.

The little guy goes down like a rag doll, and Tuxedo Ass-Kicker drops on top of him and pounds his face with a gusto that’s almost scary. Scratch that: It’s definitely scary.

I press my back against the ivy-swathed brick wall that helps create the garden-like façade of the atrium. Blood is everywhere now; all over the thick green grass, coating Scrawny’s face, staining Ass-Kicker’s fists. I’ve never seen so much blood in all my life, not even the night Adam knocked my tooth out.

Finally, Scrawny’s nose starts spraying—literally, spraying blood like a faucet. That makes my stomach lurch. It wakes me up. I fist my hands and lean forward. “Stop it!”

Ass-Kicker doesn’t even flinch.

“Stop right now!”

I take a hesitant step toward them as my ears are filled with the awful sound of bone crunching. When Ass-Kicker doesn’t respond, I rush up to him, throw my arms over his broad shoulders, and shriek right in his ear.

The hand that’s punching Scrawny slings my way—lightning fast, before returning to Scrawny’s face. A few of the knuckles catch me in the cheek hard enough to knock me off his back. I land in the grass, clutching my face as tears fill my eyes.

“Oh my God,” I whisper as Ass-Kicker’s gaze finds mine. His eyes widen and his mouth drops open. “Jesus, baby. I’m sorry.”

“You’re going to kill him!” I scramble to my feet and run toward the door that leads back to the casino’s hallway, but I’ve only taken a few steps when sirens start to wail. Not sirens like an ambulance, but sirens like an alarm system. I’m frozen mid-step when a heavy arm locks around my waist. A deep voice purrs in my ear, “I’ll show you the party.”

The siren, accompanied by flashing red lights, is definitely of the security type. One of the cameras must have seen the fight.

Or me. I did run away from someone claiming to be a security guard, after all.

I tense, imagining scenarios as terrible as getting kidnapped or splashed across the inside pages of a tabloid, and the guy’s grip on me gentles. “I’m a good guy. Swear.”

Then he tugs me through the door, into the casino. I see a flash of light—red light, coming from chandeliers—and then I glimpse the security guard I escaped from. His dark eyes widen and his mouth pulls open into a snarl. “Ma’am—” he growls, and before he can get another word out, I am jerked in the opposite direction.

I’m moving because Ass-Kicker is pulling me. He’s pushing me. He’s bloody and he’s gorgeous and he’s trouble. I should run the opposite way, but Ass-Kicker seems to know where he’s going—and I’m clueless.

We run through a few card parlors and down several crowded halls, up two sets of stairs and into a sleeker, quieter hall before he tugs me into a bathroom that looks more like a formal dressing room.

I’m not sure who drops whose hand, but suddenly I’m just standing there panting, in between a long, Victorian-style burgundy sofa pushed against one wall and a row of clam-shaped, white marble sinks topped with oversized King Edward mirrors on the opposite wall. The bathroom is empty, so my frantic breaths echo off the mahogany stalls.

I reach down to tug off one of my flats, which has given me a blister, and when I look back up, I find him slumped against one of the sinks, drained of that fierce animation that made him seem like a super-hero—or super-villain—just a minute ago. In fact, he looks tired enough to pass out. As I roll my gaze up and down his body, focusing for a moment on his familiar-looking face, his brown eyes rise to mine.

“You okay?” he asks, in that low, rough voice of his.

I frown, half because his voice is just so sexy; half because I’m not sure what he’s referencing. He waves at his eye and it clicks. He hit me. Right.

I step to the sink beside him and look in the mirror, surprised to find there’s not even a bruise. The area around my left cheek bone is a little puffy and a little red, but nothing to throw engagement rings about.

Still— “I must be crazy to have run in here with you.”

He frowns, looking almost insulted. “What’s wrong with me?”

“I just saw you try to beat some guy to death!”

He shrugs. “No, not to death.” His eyes bore into mine. “He started it, too.”

So he was defending himself. And enjoying it.

I should leave, because this guy is obviously, I don’t know—I guess the only obvious thing is that he’s bad news—but instead I lean my exhausted body against the sink. I’m sweaty and I’m still buzzed and still a little worried that the sirens going off were meant for me.

I don’t think I did anything wrong, but clearly, security disagrees. The guard with the fuzzy eyebrows was hunting me. Unless he’s not really a guard. What if he’s not a guard? What if he’s a kidnapper?

I take a deep breath.

Unlikely.

Just as I tell myself I’m going to make the rational decision and leave, my antihero straightens to his full, impressive height, strips his coat off, and tugs the pearly cuff links off his sleeves. He pushes them up, revealing thick forearms, and pumps some soap into one of his bloodstained palms.

I know his wrists and hands are red because he just kicked ass like a thug, but that doesn’t prevent me being mesmerized by them. They’re big and thick and slightly square, and they seem like competent hands. He’s got them washed and dried on one of the casino’s monogrammed towels within seconds, but after that his eyes flick up to the mirror, and I guess he notices at the same time I do that his crisp dress shirt is bloodstained, too.

He unbuttons it, and as I get the first peek at his deliciously ripped chest, I feel my cheeks color. I turn around to wash my hands as well. They don’t need washing, but now that he’s half undressed, I feel shy about walking past him to the door. Why have I stayed so long, anyway? Just to ogle him? How embarrassing.

I glance back over at him as I grab a towel, and I realize he really is beautiful: a living, breathing statue come to life. My eyes are drawn to his throat. It’s thick and smooth and neatly shaven, in contrast to his lightly bearded face.

His face, I notice, looks kind of tight; his eyes troubled.

“Why’d you do that to that guy? I mean…how did it get started?

His mouth presses into a solemn line, then twists into a bitter scowl. “That guy’s an ass. And he was the one who started it.”

I almost laugh, because what he said sounds so eighth grade. Then he leans over the sink and splashes water up his arms and on his chest, and suddenly he seems much more adult.

I realize that I’m being obvious, but it’s too late. He turns the sink off, wipes his arms and chest with a towel, and looks right at me.

Since I’ve already embarrassed myself, and I’m still kind of drunk, I steal one final glance at him, looking for tattoos or piercings: anything that gives even a little bit more info about who he is. At first I see nothing but his beautiful skin and well-honed body. Then I notice something dark along his side—a vertical scroll of text just over his hip.

I crane my neck a little, and the text jumps out at me: MARCH 15, 2007.

March 15 is the day I broke things off with Adam. I wonder what it means for him. Probably something sad. Why else would someone have a date tattooed on their body? Unless it’s something good.

His eyes, when I look back up at them, seem slightly unfocused, but he doesn’t seem to be on drugs or anything. Maybe he’s a nice guy with a thousand friends. A nice guy just having a bad night. His suit looks bespoke and his shoes look like Berluti Derbys. He dresses like a guy who could even run in Hunter’s circle. The thought rings a soft bell inside my fuzzy head, and suddenly I get the feeling that maybe I should know him…but that’s impossible. Right?

My eyes gravitate to his rock solid pecs, but I jerk my gaze back up and frown at him. “Do you get in fights a lot?”

He rubs his forehead. “Only lately.”

“You need to be more careful.” That would be Mother Suri, who comes out at times of injury/sadness. He doesn’t protest.

“I was careful.” He pulls something small and metallic from his pocket and sets it in the sink. “Didn’t use that, did I?”

My blood runs cold. “Oh my God, you had a gun?”

His brow tightens. “Lots of people have guns.”

“I guess so.” I look at the door, wondering how fast I can get out the door while at the same time trying to puzzle what it is about this guy.

It’s a familiar feeling. Maybe I don’t know him, but something about him feels very familiar. Or maybe it’s simply how he makes me feel. He’s clearly a mess, and that makes me feel needed. Kind of how I felt with Cross recently, as he’s recuperating.

Who else was a mess? Adam.

I tilt my head a little, wondering if I’ve suddenly developed a fetish for men with issues. First, I was in a decade-long relationship with a guy who became an alcoholic—and a mean one, at that—and now I find myself getting hot for a guy who just got into a casino fight? Do I think I don’t deserve a ‘nice’ guy?

But no.

I can tell right away that that’s not it.

Adam was a nice guy, until he wasn’t. And this guy…I want to lip-lock someone like this dude, a brawny badass, just so I can turn and walk away. So I can be the badass.

I could kiss him, I think. Take him by surprise and kiss him once, deep, and then ZIP out the door, and I’d be on his mind for the rest of the night.

I assess his face. It’s a strong face—a sportsman’s face—with a square jaw, a gladiator’s nose, a short beard, and those deep brown eyes topped by strong brows. His hair is slightly messy, and it’s hard to name a color: brown, blond, red?

He takes two steps closer to me, and I know I should probably hit the door and run from my weird, slutty impulse, but that chest. God, that chest is just amazing. It’s freaking…Spartan. I’m shocked to find that I feel heavy, achy, damp between my legs. I tense my muscles there and the feeling spreads.

“You should go now,” I tell him, but my voice cracks on the word “go.”

This seems to catch his attention. He raises one brow. “You sure?”

I nod, and he turns away, toward the door. My eyes cling to his back—it’s sleek, gym-ripped, and slightly tanned—and immediately, I feel a sinking sense of loss. This is a good thing, I start to tell myself.

And then he turns around. He grabs one arm of the couch and pushes it in front of the door, then turns to me. My mind fast-forwards. I can feel him stepping toward me before he even moves—and then he does. He is. He’s within reaching distance, and his arms are going around me, pulling me to that chest, where I can feel the raw, pure heat of him.

“You’re beautiful,” he says, thumbing my short, highlighted hair out of my face. “I saw you earlier…walking down the hall. God…this ass.” He squeezes it, bringing my hips flush with his strong thighs. I shut my eyes as his mouth covers mine, caressing then pulling away. His forehead touches mine, and he stares down at me.

“Your lips make me feel…well,” he whispers, and as I’m wondering what exactly that means, he kisses me under my ear, along my neck, just where I’ve always liked it best.

His hands skate down my belly, playing with the waist of my jeans. Alarm bells peel in my head, but his mouth knows the code. I’m surprised to find my own hands pulling him closer.

“Oh, God.” I want this, too. This…abandon.

His hands are in my shirt now, crawling up my belly, sneaking underneath my bra, gently skimming my breasts. I look into his face, opening my mouth to say I’m not sure what, but I find nothing but reverence in his features. Reverence and the kind of need that makes no sense, considering we’ve never even met.

His nimble fingers take care of my jeans button while his other hand continues stroking my breast. His hand is in my pants. I’m holding onto his hips. My eyes slip shut as his mouth worships my throat. He smells like shaving cream and…male.

“Not Adam,” I whisper. Or Cross.

“No.” He smiles, then lifts me up onto the nearest sink, where he spreads my legs, pushes my jeans down, and finds me underneath my lilac thong. His finger strokes me up and down. It feels amazing. I’m already wet.

“This is crazy,” I gasp.

“I like crazy.”

I guess New Suri does, too, because I let him finger me. While his deft hand makes me gasp, I hook my leg around his waist and pull him closer—close enough so I can rub him through the soft material of his slacks. He’s hard and…huge. Like whoa huge. I can feel the head of him so well, even through his pants. I fold my hand around it, stroking down his length, and he’s stretching his fingers inside me, and oh man, he’s got the right spot. I am shaking, panting, clenching, coming apart to the sound of his low, wicked laugh. By the time I have the wherewithal to look up into his brown eyes, I’m desperate to have him inside of me.

Then my hand around him pumps once more, and I watch his face tighten. He gives a low grunt, brown eyes closing, body slackening, and…

Oh my God! He’s going to need another pair of slacks.

His eyes flutter open, and he laughs, low and quiet, almost like he’s embarrassed.

I gawk at him. “Who are you?”

He grins, totally lazy, dominant male. “A guy with a penthouse. We can get to know each other better there.”

I look down at myself, at my unbuttoned jeans, my still-trembling legs, my frisky hands—and I feel like Cinderella must have when the clock struck midnight. I meet his eyes—hypnotic eyes. “I- I can’t go with you. I’ve got to find my friends.” And my purse, I realize. Holy crap, I lost my bag! That must be why I was getting chased! My purse is so enormous…maybe they thought I was trying to leave a bomb or something. I probably looked even sketchier after I asked for Hunter. He’s kind of a high-profile guy.

I slide off the sink, and my mystery man is there to catch me when my legs wobble. Looking at my face, into my eyes. Buttoning my jeans. I’m astonished when he sinks down to his knees and kisses me again, through my blue jeans.

“Beautiful woman.” He grins up at me, then gets back to his feet. “Can I walk you somewhere?”

I look down at where he’s laced his hand through mine. It feels…good. Too good, considering. I pull my fingers out of his and shake my head. “No. No—thank you.”

I step toward the door, unable to tear my eyes away from him as he turns the sink on, splashing himself on his torso and lower on his pants legs to disguise the stain near his...

My face burns. I’m not some girl who messes around with strangers in casinos. I’ve never even had an orgasm from anyone else’s hand but Adam’s. Well, except my own.

Something about that thought brings tears to my eyes. The stranger is washing his hands again, drying them roughly with a monogrammed towel, and I realize I’ve missed so much in my time with Adam. We lost any semblance of spontaneity—any shred of lust or adoration—before we finished high school, and since then…since then we’ve just been drifting. I’m drifting.

The stranger’s eyes find mine, and twin tears fall down my cheeks. I don’t even know this guy, but I know I need someone like him. Someone who will make me feel. Someone who can’t keep his hands off me.

This man, as his eyes hold mine…he seems to understand. He steps slowly to me, strokes my cheek. His eyes are so raw and real, I’m sure he sees right through me, down into the pitiful depths of my self-doubt. “There’s nothing to feel bad about, okay?”

I nod—except I’m remembering what happened with Cross. The humiliating rebound attempt that probably wrecked our friendship.

Shameful tears fill my eyes as I turn and push through the bathroom door. Do I need affection so badly that I’ll let myself get intimate in a casino bathroom?

I wipe my hand over my eyes, looking down at the glossy hallway floor and moving as quickly as I can when I hear someone say, “Suri!”

I jump as I slam into something, and there is Lizzy, dressed in skinny jeans, a giant beige sweater, and charcoal Chucks. She looks pink-cheeked and beautiful.

“Oh my God, Suri! Are you okay?”

I wipe my eyes and nod. “I lost my purse and security acted bizarre, and I didn’t believe the guy was really security; I thought he was a kidnapper, so I ended up running off.” I roll my eyes at myself. “It’s a sad, pathetic story—” and that’s not even telling half of it. I sigh softly. “Where were you when I called?”

“I’m so sorry, I fell asleep!”

Lizzy looks nervous, but before I can ask why, Hunter appears behind her, and he has my purse.

“Hunter. Thank you.”

“The casino’s director of resident operations said to tell you he’s sorry about the misunderstanding. Whatever that means.”

“I understand.” I squeeze my eyes shut. I guess that’s what I get for name-dropping.

I take the purse and Hunter frowns at Lizzy, then me.

Lizzy’s face goes serious—that plastic, frozen kind of serious that always makes my blood run cold.

“Is something wrong?” I frown at Hunter, who’s wearing a Lakers cap and a t-shirt. “I thought you had a fundraiser tonight…”

Lizzy turns to me and takes my hands, and my stomach clenches. “Suri, Cross is in the hospital—in El Paso.”

“What?”

“You know how he was down in Mexico for that motorcycle convention? Well, apparently he got into another accident. But don’t worry, it’s not—”

“Oh my God. Is he okay?” My voice cracks, and tears fill my eyes so rapidly I can’t see Lizzy’s face.

“It’s okay, Suri. A nurse called Love Inc. looking for Marchant, who isn’t there, and when Rachelle didn’t get Marchant, she tried Hunter.”

Liz nods at Hunter, who expounds. “The nurse said that he was fine, but being prepped for surgery.”

“Another surgery?” My stomach clenches. “Then we need to go.” I look around the hall as my mind shifts from nimble hands and warm lips to white hospital halls. “Let’s go to El Paso now. I have my plane.”

“Hunter’s is already on the runway,” Lizzy says. “I wanted us to be there when he woke up.”

“Good idea.”

She nods. “Your bags should already be on it.”

Lizzy lightens the mood by telling ridiculous knock-knock jokes as we ride a shuttle from the back of the casino, past the palm-shaded golf course, toward the Wynn’s VIP airport. I glimpse hangars as our path takes us over a small hill, and I’m amazed at how little I remember from when I landed…two hours ago?

“Suri.”

“Hmm?”

“You’re supposed to say, ‘Boo who?’”

“Oh. Right.” I shift my gaze from a W-shaped shrub to Lizzy’s face. “Boo who?”

“Open the fucking door.”

“What?”

Lizzy laughs. “’Who’s there?’ ‘Boo.’ You said, ‘Boo who?’ and I say, ‘Open the fucking door.’ It’s funny. Remember humor?”

“I’m just so worried.”

“Suri, he’s okay. A nurse told Hunter he’s okay. Nurses don’t lie.”

“I thought nurses couldn’t reveal a person’s medical condition.”

“That’s doctors.”

“Oh.”

The shuttle drops us off near the fence dividing the golf course from the airport—a fence I really don’t remember going through at all—and I try to keep myself centered as I think about my mystery bathroom guy, and Cross, and my bathroom guy, and Cross, and how it’ll be between us now, post-embarrassment. I guess he’ll probably be normal. Maybe extra nice. It’s me who’s going to be awkward.

That low, deep voice rolls through my mind: “There’s nothing to feel bad about, okay?”

He might have been a brawler and a bathroom slut, but my mystery guy was nice. I could tell.

I think of Adam at his book signing and feel a burst of anger. Adam sucks. Because he didn’t really love me. Or rather, we weren’t really in love. It took a dramatic act to help me figure that out. Is it because I wanted a happily ever after so badly I just overlooked all the signs?

Yes. And with Cross, I saw signs that weren’t there.

We’re approaching the twinkling landing strips, dotted with light-bathed control towers and those sleek, glass-looking hangers, when my mind starts playing tricks on me. Standing beside one of the planes, I think I see the guy from the bathroom.

I squint at him, because surely it’s not the same guy, but as we get closer, I grow more certain.

My feet stop moving; Lizzy and Hunter take a few steps forward without noticing I’ve stopped. Lizzy is the first to turn around.

“Sur—you coming?”

“Who is that?” I whisper.

“Who, Marchant?” She jerks her thumb his way. “Radcliffe. I’ve talked about him before.”

But I don’t. I…can’t. He can’t— “He can’t be Marchant.”

My head spins and I grab onto Lizzy’s forearm for support. I shake my head and look at him—the scoundrel’s handsome face and scruffy beard. This can’t be Marchant Radcliffe. Womanizing asshole. Pimp.

I just let him give me an orgasm.