With a sigh, I walked into LAX and tried to play it cool. Aviator sunglasses? Check. Jeans? Check. Passport into crazy land? Check. I took my luggage to the Delta kiosk and sent out a text to both Demetri and Alec.

Descending into Hell. Your fault.

“Sir?” a woman asked. “Over here.”

I wheeled my luggage over to the desk, pulled out my passport and gave her my confirmation number.

I waited.

It always took a few seconds for it to click with the commoners. They’d look at me, then back at my passport, then back at me, then back at the passport. This usually went on for about five minutes, all the while with the smile frozen on their faces and the sweat started pouring from their temples.

“Uh, Jamie Jaymeson?” the attendant said.

“Yes?” I answered.

“It looks like…” Click, click, click. Her nails tapped at amazing speed across the keyboard. “You’re in the first class cabin. The flight into Portland will be boarding at 10:55. If there is anything…” Leaning forward, so her br**sts seemed to kiss her keyboard, she sighed. “And I do mean anything you need, let me know. I will personally be sure to take care of it.”

Of course she would — I was a celebrity. I could ask her to clip my toenails and she’d probably save them and sell them on eBay. I tilted my head and examined her.

She was pretty.

You know, if you were into fifty year old cougars with lazy eyes. But I was done with making an ass out of myself. So I thanked her, touched her hand, gave her a solid wink, and made my way toward security.

Airport travel was always a toss up. Either I (A) made it through security without being noticed, or (B) was chased down the corridor and had to hide in the bathroom until someone came and found me.

Maybe I was feeling lucky, but I was hoping for option A.

I stood in line for security and checked my cell.

Demetri and Alec had yet to text me back. Bastards.

Sighing, I went to text them again just as someone bumped into my arm.

“Sorry,” the soft feminine voice said.

I looked up and paused. Her eyes were a golden brown. The type of brown that looked odd against dark skin, it was almost chocolate but not dark enough to blend in with her pupils. I must have been staring because she cleared her throat.

I shook my head and waved her off. “It’s cool.”

“Well, as long as it’s cool,” she murmured.

“Pardon?” I turned.

“Uh…” Her cheeks stained pink. “Nothing. Sorry, just talking to myself, nervous habit.”

Grinning, I leaned in. “You have a reason to be nervous?”

Her eyes left mine as she slowly checked me out, shoes to head, and then very simply said, “Nope.”

What the freaking hell? I glared, slightly irritated that she didn’t pause or at least blush. She was shitting me, right? Did she freaking know who I was? I jerked off my sunglasses and gave her the stare. You know, the one that literally causes a teenage scream to echo throughout the known universe, making parents want to stab me with sharp objects.

And nothing.

Not even crickets.

“Do you know who I am?” I asked… possibly with more than a little arrogance.

“You having trouble remembering your name or something?” She put her stuff on the conveyor belt and laughed. Yup, laughed at me.

“Of course not.” I snorted. “You know what, never mind.” I waved her off again just as I took off my jacket and put it in the bin. I put my new Rolex in one of the smaller trays, took off my Mark Nason boots and stomped through security, only to have the annoying as hell alarm go off.

Groaning, I stepped back out as the man with the giant torture stick examined me. It beeped when it went across the button of my jeans.

“Probably my button,” I said.

The girl who I’d just been talking to sighed and crossed her arms. Right, I knew I was holding up the line, I wasn’t an idiot, but I couldn’t control the stupid security guy with a power trip.

“Sir,” said the TSA dude with a nod toward my waist. “You can either strip here or strip in a private room. Either way, you need to take off the pants.”

“You’re joking, right?” I laughed. “Am I being Punk’d or something? What the hell?”

“No, sir, this is not a joke. Take off the pants.”

I looked back at the man and swore.

Was this legal? I mean, I flew all the time, I’d never had to take off my pants before.

“Sir…” The man groaned. “People are waiting. Just take off your damn pants and you can be on your way.”

My agent’s warnings went off like an alarm in my brain. I had to be the good guy, not the ass. With a smile that felt so cheesy I wanted to shoot myself, I nodded and began taking off my damn pants in the middle of LAX. Ten bucks said I’d make the nightly news.

Once my jeans were at my ankles. The guy nodded. He scanned my shirt and it beeped. What the hell it hadn’t beeped before? I gave him a helpless look as he sighed and crossed his arms. “Shirt too, I’m afraid.”

“What the hell, man?”

He was immobile. Just stared. By now people were going into different lines to avoid my strip tease.

Shit.

I quickly pulled the shirt over my head.

I was officially standing in nothing but black Diesel boxer briefs in the middle of LAX. Really what else could go wrong?

And then I heard laughter.

Male laughter.