When the plane landed at O’Hare Airport, the flight attendants asked the passengers to remain in their seats. Sitting eight rows back, Kyle watched as two men wearing standard-issue government suits—clearly FBI agents—boarded the plane and handed over a document to the pilot.

“Yep, that would be me,” Kyle said, grabbing his backpack from underneath the seat in front of him.

The elderly Hispanic man sitting next to him lowered his voice to a whisper. “Drugs?”

“Twitter,” Kyle whispered back.

He stood up, backpack in hand, and nodded at the FBI agents that had stopped at his row. “Morning, gentlemen.”

The younger agent held out his hand, all business. “Hand over the computer, Rhodes.”

“I guess we’re skipping the pleasantries,” Kyle said, handing over his backpack.

The older agent yanked Kyle’s arms behind his back and slapped handcuffs on him. As they read him his rights, Kyle caught a glimpse of what had to be fifty passengers taking photos of him with their camera phones, photos that would later be blasted all over the Internet.

And from that moment on, he ceased being Kyle Rhodes, the billionaire’s son, and became Kyle Rhodes, the Twitter Terrorist.

Probably not the best way to make a name for himself.

They brought him to the FBI’s offices downtown and left him in an interview room for two hours. He called his lawyers, who arrived posthaste and gravely laid out the charges the FBI planned to bring to the U.S. Attorney’s Office. A half hour after his lawyers left, he was transferred to Metropolitan Correctional Center for booking.

“You’ve got a visitor, Rhodes,” the guard said later that afternoon.

They led him to a holding cell, where he waited at a steel table while trying to get used to the sight of himself in an orange jumpsuit and handcuffs. When the door opened and his sister walked in, he smiled sheepishly.

“Jordo,” he said, his nickname for her since they were kids.

She hurried over and hugged him tightly, a somewhat awkward exercise with the handcuffs. Then she pulled back and thunked him on the forehead with the palm of her hand. “You idiot.”

Kyle rubbed his forehead. “Ouch. That’s right where the cactus got me.”

“What were you thinking?” she demanded.

Over the course of the next couple weeks, that was the question Kyle would be asked hundreds of times by friends, family, his lawyers, the press, and just about anyone who passed him in the street. He could say that it had something to do with pride, or his ego, or the fact that he’d always been somewhat hot-tempered when provoked. But in the end, it really came down to one thing.

“I just…made a mistake,” he told his sister honestly. He wasn’t the first man to overreact when he discovered his girl was cheating on him, nor would he be the last. Unfortunately, he’d simply been in the unique position to screw up on a global level.

“I told the lawyers that I’m going to plead guilty,” he said. No sense wasting the taxpayers’ money for a sham of a trial, or wasting his own money in extra legal fees. Especially since he didn’t have a defense.

“They’re saying on the news that you’ll probably go to prison.” Jordan’s voice cracked on the last word, and her lip trembled.

Hell, no. The last time Kyle had seen his sister cry was nine years ago after their mother’s death, and he’d be damned if he let her do that now. He pointed for emphasis. “You listen to me, Jordo, because this is the only time I’m going to say this. Mock me, make all the jokes you want, call me an idiot, but you will not shed a tear over this. Understood? Whatever happens, I will handle it.”

Jordan nodded and took a deep breath. “Okay.” She looked him over, taking in the orange jumpsuit and handcuffs. Then she cocked her head questioningly. “So how was Mexico?”

Kyle grinned and chucked her under the chin. “That’s better.” He turned to the subject he’d avoided thinking about since his arrest. “How’s Dad taking the news?”

Jordan threw him a familiar you-are-so-busted look. “Remember sophomore year, the night you climbed out the kitchen window to go to Jenny Garrett’s party?”

Kyle winced. Did he ever. He’d left the window open so that he would have easy access back in, and their dad had come downstairs to investigate after hearing a strange noise. He’d found Kyle missing and a raccoon eating Cocoa Puffs in the pantry. “That bad, huh?”

Jordan squeezed his shoulder. “I’d say about twenty times worse.”

Damn.

AFTER FINISHING his review of the evening news, Kyle made the mistake of checking his e-mail. His e-mail address at Rhodes Corporation had been accessible via the website, and though he no longer worked for the company—having turned in his resignation the day he’d been released on bond and thus sparing his father the awkwardness of having to fire him—the messages he received there were forwarded to his personal account.

Every day since he’d been released, he had received hundreds of messages: interview requests from the press, hate mail from some very angry people who seriously needed to take a break from Twitter (Hey @KyleRhodes—you SUCK, dickwad!!!!!), and oddly flirtatious overtures from random women who sounded a tad too interested in meeting an ex-con.

After checking to make sure there was nothing of actual importance he needed to respond to, Kyle deleted the entire lot of e-mails. He didn’t do interviews, the hate mail wasn’t worth answering, and although he may have been in prison for four months and thus in the midst of the longest period of celibacy of his adult life, he found it generally prudent to avoid having sex with crazy people.

His home phone rang, interrupting his thoughts. It was a double ring, indicating that the call came from the security desk in the lobby downstairs.

“Dex is here to see you,” Miles the doorman said when Kyle answered the phone, referring to Kyle’s best friend, Gavin Dexter. Dex was a frequent visitor to Casa Rhodes, and Miles had consequently dropped the “Mr. Dexter” routine ages ago.

“And he has several friends with him,” Miles continued with a note of amusement.

“Thanks, Miles. Send them up.”

Two minutes later, Kyle opened the door and found his best friend and a group of at least twenty people standing on his doorstep. The crowd let out a loud cheer when they saw him.

Dex grinned. “If Kyle Rhodes can’t come to the party, then the party will come to Kyle Rhodes.” He slapped Kyle on the shoulder, hearty man-style. “Welcome home, buddy.”

SOMEWHERE AROUND MIDNIGHT, Kyle finally got a chance to slip away from the crowd. His twenty-one guests had nearly tripled, and the penthouse was now packed.

Needing a few moments alone, Kyle stole away to his office, where he kept a small bar, and poured himself a glass of bourbon. He took a sip and closed his eyes, savoring the time before he needed to return to the party. To his so-called friends.

Not a single one of whom, except Dex, had once bothered to visit him in prison.

Metropolitan Correctional Center—or MCC, as the inmates referred to it—was conveniently located in the middle of downtown Chicago, and Kyle had been there for four months. Yet the entire time, only three people had come to visit him: his father, his sister, and Dex. For everyone else, he’d been out of sight, out of mind.

Apparently, Kyle Rhodes wasn’t the proverbial man of the hour when he lived in the Big House instead of a penthouse.

Those four months he’d been locked up had been a real eye-opener. At first he’d been angry, then later he’d decided it wasn’t worth the effort. He understood now the type of friends they were—people he had fun with and partied with, but it didn’t get any deeper than that. Going forward, he would never again make the mistake of thinking anything else.

So much had changed since the day Kyle had been arrested, and frankly, he wasn’t sure he’d processed all of it yet. Five months ago, he’d had a successful career at Rhodes Corporation, been dating a Victoria’s Secret model, and thought he had a circle of friends he could count on. Now he had no job, no prospects—since no one in his field would ever consider hiring a convicted hacker—and a prison record.

And it didn’t take a tech genius to see where he’d taken his first misstep.

Clearly, he and relationships did not mix well. His first—and only—real attempt at a serious commitment and he’d been cheated on, been publicly dumped, and ended up in prison. But as much as he was tempted to blame Daniela for everything, he couldn’t blame her for his own stupidity. He had been the idiot who’d hacked into Twitter; no one had made him do that. Nor could he entirely fault her for the demise of their relationship. Yes, she was a coldhearted bitch for the way she’d chosen to end things. But he’d realized, as he’d lie awake on those long, cold prison nights, that he’d only had one foot in the relationship from the very start. He’d convinced himself that he was ready for a commitment, but he—and half the free world—had seen just how wrong he’d been about that.

It was a mistake he would not be repeating. At least, not for a long, long time.

But there was an upside: he was awesome at noncommitment. Casual flings? He rocked that scene. Sex? He sure as hell had never had any complaints. So from now on, he was going to stay in his lane. Do what he did best. Trysts, flirtations, seductions, no-holds-barred monkey sex, it was all on the table. But any feelings deeper than a contented afterglow were out.

Just then, Dex popped his head into the office. “Thought you might be in here,” he said, stepping into the room.