Page 134 of Hawaii Can Suck It

“Okay, who’s fucking fault is this? I want blood,” she demands as she sits up abruptly, the covers sliding off her tattooed, bare chest—Petra Brinkman doesn’t believe in pajamas, or modesty.

I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the tiny FaceTime box and—¡Ay, Dios mío!

I look rough—like if a hangover had a hangover.

My hair is doing so many things, none of them good. My face is red, blotchy, and beyond shiny with mascara smeared down my cheeks. There are actual snot bubbles forming.Snot bubbles!

I. Am. A. Hideous. Mess.

“S-Sorry,” I stammer through a hiccup. “I w-would’ve called Katie, but sh-she’s in Italy, and I don’t know what time it is there, and—” Another sob erupts, snuffing out the rest of my sentence.

“Hold on,” she says, snatching a crumpled tee from the floor and tugging it over her head. “I got you, Cam. Whatever it is, we’ll handle it together.”

Petra enters an insanely fancy sitting area, which can only be described as a ‘casual billionaire’s jungle sanctuary.’ She plops down onto a pristine white leather couch that looks like it’s never met a human butt.

The room behind her oozes wealth—the quiet, terrifying kind. Like, you won’t find gold faucets here because that’s toonewmoney.Floor-to-ceiling windows frame a panoramic view of lush jungle meeting the vast ocean. There’s a super yacht in the distance and I’m pretty sure that the abstract painting on the wall behind her is a real Picasso just casually hanging there like it’s a $20 Target print.

“Start over,” she says, running a hand through her chaotic bedhead. “Tell me exactly what happened.”

A deep male voice interrupts from somewhere offscreen. “Is this a cappuccino situation or espresso?”

She turns slightly, tilting the phone. “Espresso. A double.”

My sobs come to a screeching halt as I spot the man in fancy silk pajamas talking on his phone. Tall, gorgeous, with blonde hair more perfect than any Ken doll.

But he’s not just any blue-eyed hottie—it’s Bryce Freaking Sterling. Billionaire heir to the Sterling empire, with buildings named after his family in every major city. The same guy Petra’s been hopelessly in love with since high school and who happens to be her brother’s best friend.

“Okay, spill it,” Petra says, unfazed. As if I’m not witnessing her most closely guarded fantasy come to life.

“Is that… Wait, are you…?”

“It’s not what you think. It’s… complicated. I’m in Mexico for my brother’s wedding. We can talk about it later. Focus, Cam. What’s wrong? How can I help?”

The memory of Gordon’s face…of Reece’s broken expression…of Astrid’s manipulated video…comes crashing back. The tears return with reinforcements.

“I fucked up. It’s all gone to shit.” My voice cracks. “I want to come home.”

“Should I send the jet?” Bryce asks offscreen. “Wait, sorry, my jet’s in New York with my mother. I can charter one though, be there in four, maybe five hours.”

“Slow down, Mr. Moneybags.” Petra rolls her eyes. “Normal people just buy a plane ticket.”

She turns back to me. “Cam, I’ll book you on the next flight out. And when you get home, I’ll arrange Reece’s takedown,” Petra says, voice cool, dangerous, like a woman who absolutely knows where to hide a body. “Something public and humiliating. Maybe involving a scandal.”

Bryce appears in frame, offering Petra her espresso on a fancy room service tray. “I forget how legitimately terrifying you can be.”

“Money can’t buy your safety,” Petra replies, accepting the tiny cup with a smile that’s equal parts threat and promise.

They share a look that’s so X-rated, I’m secondhand blushing—might be time to hang up.

She knocks back her espresso as if it’s a shot of tequila. “I’m gonna hang up to get your ticket sorted. Text me when you’re at the airport, okay? And Bryce will have a car pick you up when you land.”

“I will?” Bryce asks.

“Oh, so now you’re shy about flaunting your fortune?”

“Love you,” I interject, hoping to dodge the crossfire of their bickering, which sounds suspiciously like foreplay.

“Love you too bestie.”

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