On his iPhone was the trail of women he'd screwed and left behind in the dark thickness of rumpled two a.m. sheets.

He looked at the phone numbers, turned them into names, bodies without faces. The latest one he'd stood up, some not-so-young bank teller who'd fallen under the weight of his voice.

And all because of an elevator presence; a woman who'd startled him, straddled him, left him weak as a newborn.