So, maybe I should have asked who I would assisting because of course it’s him.

A six-hour flight. Six hours where I was forced to sit next to him. Listening to him breathe and snore in his sleep. I shove the door to the hotel room open and drag my luggage in behind me. It smells like a moldy cellar in here. The carpet has numerous stains. The bedspreads look like something out of Miami Vice. “Wow, Hud, way to splurge on a hotel.” He stops at the foot of the bed, and I walk around him. “Fuck, is that blood?”

Ignoring him, I walk to the window and stare out at the twinkling lights of New York City. Of all the places I would have to travel with Tyler, it would be this fucking city—the place that ripped a fissure through us. Fate is such a sadistic bitch sometimes. Sighing, I snatch the curtains closed.

“What did the curtains do to you?” he asks.

I glare over my shoulder at him. “I’m not in a good mood. A cramped flight with a screaming baby and you.”

“Are you on your period or something because you are a fucking nightmare right now.”

I glare at him and feel my left eye twitch which makes him start laughing.

“I love that we’re sharing a room,” I say, walking away from the window. “It’s fan-fucking-tastic.”

“I mean, what did you expect? It’s Hud. He shoots porn for a living. At least he booked a room with double beds.”

I take another quick glance around the room. I feel dirty just standing in here. It feels moist in the room—dirty and moist. “This is a shitty hotel,” I say.

“Yep, pretty sure there have been a few murders go down in here.” He points to the bottom of the mattress. “I mean, does that look like blood to you?”

My gaze falls to a very suspicious stain on the box springs. “Oh, God, I’m going be sick.”

“I’m sure they cleaned it…some.” He says, laughing.

I bend down, unzip my suitcase, and pull out my toiletries bag. When I straighten up, Tyler’s back is to me, and he’s pulling his shirt over his head. My eyes inadvertently skim over his hard muscles, my traitorous body heating. The muscles in his forearm twitch as he unzips his fly. I should turn away, but I’m unable to tear my gaze away. He’s slowly shoving the hips of his jeans down in the same teasing fashion a stripper would. I swallow. My heart rate kicks up a notch. He glances over his shoulder and catches me blatantly gawking at him. “You looking at my ass or that stain?”

“The stain,” I say walking to the bathroom. I stare at myself in the mirror as I brush my teeth, silently scolding myself for being attracted to him. Am I that fucking weak? Jesus! Blue foam is dripping down my chin, and I shake my head at my reflection. A desperate whore. A porn star called me a desperate whore. Fuck him.

After I rinse my mouth and wash my makeup off, I walk out of the bathroom straight to the other bed. I can feel Tyler staring at me so I reach over and flip the lamp off as I crawl under the comforter.

We lay in silence. I can’t help but realize how immature and ridiculous this entire thing is, but no matter how hard I try to be mature, I can’t. He picks at me and pushes buttons that make me revert back to a hormonally imbalanced fourteen-year-old on her period.

“Hey, titch?”

“Yeah?”

“I like you without makeup.”

My breath catches in my throat because that got to me in a way it shouldn’t. It made me remember what we used to be to each other, and damn, I like to ignore that.

Part of me thinks I'm an idiot—both for wanting him and for not giving into him. We grew up together. I loved him in a way I doubt I will ever love another man, and I know that because I’ve hated him more than I’ve ever hated anyone before. Hate is a product of failed love only when you can’t find it in you to let go. And you know what? I fucking hate him because I love him.

“Sweet dreams,” he says.

“Goodnight,” I mumble and close my eyes even though I doubt I’ll be doing much sleeping.

Porn star… I mean, after all, it’s just a job, right? Maybe I'm shallow. What the fuck am I thinking, shallow? He screws other women. I can just imagine how that would work out if I actually got involved with him. He’d come home from a day at work and I sure as hell wouldn’t ask him, ‘How was your day, babe?’ Because I wouldn’t want to know. There’s stigma…and, again, he would be fucking other women.