The Consequence of Revenge

The man should have taken a long hard look at himself in the mirror—I wasn’t the only single bastard, not by a long shot, and how the hell would a woman make my life better? Women always equaled more drama.

“Are you saying I need love in order to find a job?”

“Well, clearly threatening you didn’t work.”

“You’re not my dad.”

“It’s time to stop arguing when your comebacks are along the lines of ‘You can’t make me’ or ‘You’re not my dad.’ Just saying.” Jason held up his hands.

“Max!” Milo huffed from a few feet away, “you need to go!”

With one final look at Jason and the rest of the crew, I nodded my head and turned on my heel.

Suddenly I felt really optimistic about the opportunity.

Optimistic, until I saw a group of twenty-five women. Boarding. The. Exact. Same. Plane.

“Welcome!” The orange guy from before ran in front of me. “We’re going to start filming so just . . . act normal.”

Someone reached into my pants and added a microphone to my shirt. My mouth dropped open as the heads of the women slowly turned.

Unfortunately I recognized one of them right away.

The barista from Starbucks.

Yeah, here’s hoping she doesn’t push me out of the plane.

CHAPTER NINE

MAX

“Well, go ahead.” Orange man ushered me forward, and I stumbled a bit and tried to think of an excuse as to why I needed to stay back and stare at the ground. Who was I kidding? I wasn’t ready for this! I had absolutely zero protection, no backup whatsoever. And was I really stable enough to find love and keep it? Not that I wanted love, but if it presented itself . . . yeah, I was overthinking things. It was a TV show. I needed to get in, get out, and go home. Period.

Safety! I needed safety or a home base or something that I could like sit on that would protect me from the women. Invisible cloaks be damned! Hell, where was the elderly eye patch lady when a guy needed her? She’d have scared even the bravest of women. Swear, I’d kangaroo myself into her fanny pack—and like it.

“Ladies.” Orange man clapped his Oompa Loompa hands together. “Welcome to Love Island! I’m Rex Harding, and I’ll be your host for the next three weeks.”

Oh, so were we all choosing porn names? Was that how reality TV worked? If so I would totally call myself Maximus Hightower. Dibs. For real. I could see my tagline now. “Afraid of heights? Why not climb my tower?”

So my tagline needed work.

“Ladies.” Rex pushed me toward the crowd of perfume. My throat started constricting as flowery scents invaded my nostrils and choked the life straight out of me. Must. Get. Oxygen.

I had a sudden vision of a giant flower chasing me through the airport with a woman attached to every petal.

“As you can see”—Rex cleared his throat—“this is the new Bachelor, Max.”

Maximus Hightower, but whatever.

A series of sighs and giggles erupted from the swarm, making me shake a little in my tight leather boots.

Must. Not. Make. Eye. Contact. Swear my balls didn’t know whether to rejoice or just tremble with fear. On one hand, I had a few beautiful women salivating in my direction—on the other, I had a few beautiful-but-desperate women salivating in my direction, and a desperate woman was not an attractive woman. Feeling lonely was a foreign emotion for me, but over the past ten minutes that’s exactly how I’d felt. It sucked, because it made me wonder how much I relied on my friends to keep me happy while I found myself.

One of the girls licked her lips and mouthed a “Hi.” Then promptly dipped one of her talons into her mouth and bit.

Tremble with fear. Definitely tremble with fear.

“So.” Rex laughed. “Everyone be sure to check your bags. And remember, nothing over fifty pounds.”

I snorted.

All eyes went to me.

“Ah.” I stuffed my hands in my pockets. “Dare I say a few of you are going to be overweight?”

Some of the girls gasped and covered themselves with their arms.

What? I meant their suitcases! Not them!

Sighing, I scratched my head and grabbed my own suitcase and stood in line.

“You’re shorter than I thought you’d be,” a tall woman who looked like she could eat me sniffed above my head.

Um, I was six-one. Not short by any means.

Then again, I only came up to her shoulder. Holy shit, her feet were huge! How did she find heels? She was an Amazon and I was the little plaything she wanted to chase through the forest. Shit. Did that make me Little John? Or like . . . Maid Marian? You know, from that one cartoon with the foxes.

Damn, I’d had a thing for Maid Marian when I was little. She was foxy. Ha-ha! Yeah, I was glad I had myself to keep me company while I fought for my life.

I stepped away from Predator and shrugged. “Yeah, well, you’re tall.”

Good one, Max. Swear brain cells everywhere just rolled over and died with all the juice it took for me to come up with that one.

“I know.” She smirked. “But height has its advantages.”

Okay, I’m a dude. We have perverted minds and all that. But I had nothing. Nothing. I tried to conjure up images of what the hell height had to do with anything and all I could think of was her picking me up with her bare hands and me wrapping my legs around her chick-style and holding on for dear life lest she drop me on my head and cause me to have a concussion.