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The sudden presence of pressure against my bicep makes my eyes snap open, all my instincts flaring to life. It’s muscle memory after years of being on edge.

It’s a good thing I’m practiced at keeping myself under control—no such thing as letting myself fly off the handle. Otherwise Little Miss Drowsy next to me would end up with my hands around her slim neck. She probably wanted to die when we all got a look—and listen—at what she was amusing herself with before the flight, but something tells me she would feel differently if she woke up to find me choking her.

I’m sure I wouldn’t be the first person who’s ever considered it.

She isn’t trying to attack me, unless her plan is to drown me in drool, which is already beginning to leak from the corner of her mouth and soak into my shirtsleeve now that she’s resting against my arm.

Even in sleep, she can’t help but be irritating.

What am I supposed to do? We’re barely halfway through the flight, and while I’ve developed a reputation for being a coldhearted bastard, I’m not a complete asshole. I don’t want to shove her away or make a big deal of this. Something tells me she’d find a way to make me regret it. Maybe not deliberately, but she seems like the type with a talent for making people wish they had never crossed paths with her.

It’s obvious there’s only one thing I can do, and I do it as gently as I can. Barely a flinch, half a shrug, all in hopes of making her move away and continue her nap without invading my space.

Instead of rebounding off my arm, she does the opposite, winding her arms around mine like a baby monkey clinging to its mother. Is she kidding me with this? If she wasn’t starting to snore like a drunken sailor—a distinctly unattractive behavior—I might think she was faking. But no, she’s already embarrassed herself enough today and wouldn’t deliberately make things worse. Besides, I don’t think anybody could fake that and sound so realistic.

“. . . glass of wine,” she mumbles, snuggling up against me, shifting until her head is on my shoulder. Good, she can spread the drool around a little.

The way I see it, I have two options.

I can forcibly peel her away from me and make her wish she had taken a bus.

Or I can ignore her and get through the flight without causing a scene. I’ve watched enough videos taken by passengers recording midair drama to know I don’t want to star in one.

Instead of staring at the top of her golden head, I turn my face away, toward the aisle, just in time to notice a man in jeans and a V-neck sweater angling his body so the flight attendant can scoot past before he continues on his way to the bathroom.

There’s nothing out of the ordinary about him. He’s a traveler like everyone else in this metal tube. V-neck sweaters have never exactly been my taste, but that’s hardly anything to raise an alarm about.

So why is there a red flag waving in the back of my head by the time he reemerges? That one’s easy. It’s obvious when a person is going out of their way to avoid looking at you, but that’s exactly what he does. His gaze flutters my way before darting off as he starts up the aisle.

Fuck me. And I thought having blondie over here attached to my arm was the worst thing I would deal with during this flight. Hair rises on the back of my neck, and a dozen different scenarios go through my head like a series of violent short films. Is he like me? Was he sent by a competitor to take me out? Will he be waiting for me when we get off the plane in Vegas? Is he alone or working with someone?

Just in case the answer is yes, I need to prepare myself. Now the weight on my shoulder is nothing compared to the psychological weight of knowing someone on this plane might want me dead.

Not that it would be the first time.

Minutes stretch into eternity, like time itself is trying to piss me off. I need this flight to be over. I need to know what the man in the V-neck sweater is up to. I close my eyes again, committing his appearance to memory. The too-long brown hair, lightly waved. Deep-set dark eyes. A slightly crooked nose, the kind that tells me it was broken and poorly reset. Have I seen him before? On a job, maybe?

“Ladies and gentlemen, we ask that you return your seats to their upright position and lock tray tables in place as we prepare for our descent.”

Finally. “Hey. Hey, you.” Now I shake my shoulder more deliberately, but still as gently as I can, considering the circumstances. “We’re getting ready to land.”

She releases a soft moan, one that means there’s been some serious napping going on. I wouldn’t be surprised if she woke up with no idea where she is or even who she is after sleeping so deeply.

Her contentment doesn’t last long. It turns to vapor somewhere between her eyes fluttering open and the peeling of her face away from my shirt. My very wet shirt.

“Oh my God!” Maybe she isn’t this fluttery and awkward because of the wine, as it turns out. It’s been a few hours since her last drink, and this seems to be her natural state. Her head swings around wildly, black-rimmed glasses comically crooked, before she pulls out the purse tucked under her seat to grab a handful of tissues. “I am so sorry! Oh, this is the worst. I mean, I thought it was bad enough before, but I could die of embarrassment now. Why didn’t you shove me off you?”

“It doesn’t matter.” If a little drool has her ready to jump out of her skin, imagine how she would react if she knew that she snores. When she swabs at my shoulder, I shake my head and swat her away. “Really. You’re fine.”

“I’m so embarrassed.” Something tells me she’s used to it. I doubt today is her first foray into humiliating herself. Some people just have a knack for it.

I have a knack for sniffing out trouble, and I can’t shake the feeling of there being something very wrong as the plane taxis and comes to a stop at our gate. I’m sure the girl who used me as a pillow for most of the flight is glad to be ignored as we get our things and slowly make our way off the plane. I’m hyperaware of everyone and everything around me, my senses sharpening along with my focus. A pair of eyes is boring holes through the back of my head. I am not imagining this.

He’s watching. Stalking. Waiting to get me alone.

Rather than stopping at the bathroom the way my bladder wishes I would, I continue with my suit jacket slung over my arm and my bag hanging from my other hand. I walk swiftly, with purpose but without any sense of urgency. When I notice a series of signs directing travelers away from one of the main terminal’s offshoots—sheets of plastic conceal the construction work going on behind them—I know what I have to do.

First, I stop, taking out my phone and pretending to check it while scanning the area around me out the corner of my eye. I don’t see him—but then, he wouldn’t make contact with so many others around us. Slowly, I inch closer to the plastic sheeting, a man without a care in the world, before I’m able to slip behind it and fall farther back, out of sight behind a piece of machinery.