He behaved like a man torn from the cover of some steamy romance novel: the charming rogue, the passionate pirate who would, come morning, take his ship to sea for God, Queen, and Country. Of course, usually, sometime before morning, the women would realize that under the smooth, gin-painted exterior was a guy who sniffed his shorts to check their wearability. But for a moment, for them and for him, he had been cool. Sleazy, but cool.

When the sleaze got to him, he needed only to suck a few hits of oxygen from the cabin cylinder to chase the hangover, then pull the pink jet into the sky to convince himself he was a professional, competent and in control. At altitude he turned it all over to the autopilot.

But now he couldn’t seduce anyone or allow himself to be seduced, and he wasn’t sure he could fly. The crash had juiced him of his confidence. It wasn’t the impact or even the injuries. It was that last moment, when the guy, or the angel, or whatever it was appeared in the copilot’s seat.

“You ever think about God?” Tucker asked Jake.

Jake Skye’s face went dead with incomprehension. “You’re going to need to know about this stuff if you get into trouble. Kinda like checking the fuel gauges—if you know what I mean.”

Tucker winced. “Look, I heard every word you said. This seemed important all of a sudden, you know?”

“Well, in that case, Tuck, yes, I do think about God sometimes. When I’m with a really hot babe, and we’re going at it like sweaty monkeys, I think about it then. I think about a big old pissed-off Sistine Chapel finger-pointin’ motherfucker. And you know what? It works. You don’t come when you’re thinking about shit like that. You should try it sometime. Oh, sorry.”

“Never mind,” Tucker said.

“You can’t let that kid with the Bible get to you. He’s too young to have given up on religion…doesn’t have enough sin under his belt. Guys like us, best bet is that it’s all bullshit and we go directly to worm food. Try not to think about it.”