“I'm a recovering addict who visits brothels and has a penthouse at a casino. You've seen me fucking a porn star—not too easy, either. You're riding an awful fucking lot on intuition.”

“I'm surprised you went to a brothel for sex,” I say after a few minutes. “Are you?” he smiles a little ruefully. “You could get it on your own.” “True. But I'm emotionally detached. Women don't like that.”

“My life has been fucked up this way ever since that night with Sarabelle. I woke up the next morning stark naked, sprawled out on my back, with a splitting headache, a killer case of dry-mouth, and a lipstick heart drawn around my left nipple. When I sat up, the room tilting around me…”

“With the exception of Hunter West, who's been my own personal porn since that fateful night Mom's Porsche broke down, I don't find that many men attractive. Maybe I am a lesbian, but I don't think so.”

“You've fucking destroyed me. First, she did, and now, you are.”

“Something's wrong with Hunter. I can tell the moment he steps into the ring. I've been watching him from afar for years, and I'm an old pro at his body language. Hunter West is a guy who's used to setting the agenda. His limbs are usually loose and relaxed, carried with the kind of self-assurance that comes from knowing you've got it all handled.”

“I imagine Hunter sitting at a poker table in a Vegas casino. He's resplendent in black jeans, a black shirt, and a Stetson. His poker face is beautiful; intriguing. I feel my body heat again as I think about kissing his lips. I wonder if the women there fall all over him. I bet the escorts would pay him to take a tumble.”