There was a ding and the door slid back, revealing the red-and-white vending machine of his dreams. As he stepped aside and let lovely, sparkly Rachel-with-no-last-name pass, he was well aware that he was using her, but that was a two-way street: Their conversation at the bar next to the hotel had started up over the fact that she was wrenching her wedding band off.

Apparently, her husband was fucking a friend of hers.

And it had taken Adrian ’bout a minute and a half to come up with the perfect payback.

He’d bought her a couple of drinks and then one more, and he knew he had her when she asked if he was staying in the hotel. He told her yes, he was . . . with his best friend. Who was a lot better-looking than he was.

Right, total lies-ville on that one. But he liked to share with Eddie if the women were up for it. Given the state of his buddy’s game, the fucker would never get laid if Ad didn’t bring ’em home.

“Hold up,” he said as he stopped at his machine, got his wallet out, and peeled free a couple of bills.

“You know,” his date said, “I’ve never been with anybody like you.”

Yeah, he was damn sure of that one. “Really?” As he smiled at her over his shoulder, she focused on the loop in his lower lip—and to oblige, he deliberately licked over the dark gray metal. “I ain’t so bad, am I?”

Her eyes were hungry. “Not at all. Hey, do you have a girlfriend? I never asked.”

Adrian turned back to the machine and fed the money in, listening to the little whirrrrrr as the George Washing-tons were sucked into the thing’s gullet.

“No,” he said, pushing the pad for a regular. “I’m not with anyone.”

Actually he had been . . . all too recently. Which was why, even though he always liked his sex, he’d been so hell-bent on picking the chick up last night and hitting on Rachel tonight.

Washing off after Devina had used him was always a process. Sure, right after she released him, the hot water and soap got rid of his blood and the other stuff that coated his skin . . . but the filthy dirty thing always persisted.

This lovely little morsel of humanity, however, was going to help replace the sensations that lingered in his body.

The ones that had nothing to do with the fading bruises on his skin.

The shit with Devina stayed with him, lingering in the back of his mind, festering. To the point where there were now two of him: the one who bantered with Jim and stayed alert and was ready to fight for Isaac Rothe’s soul . . . and the one who was curled up in the recesses of his mental park, shaking and numb and all alone.

“Diet?” he asked.

“Yes, please.”