Page 138 of Hawaii Can Suck It

Since her, that’s when.

The second I saw it in the gift shop, I had to buy it—it reminded me of Cam spotting that sea turtle, her eyes huge behind her snorkel mask, flippers kicking with childlike excitement, her hand squeezing mine in the warm tropical water.

“Congratulations, Dare. You’ve officially hit rock bottom,” I tell my reflection. “You’re wearing turtle porn to a business meeting.”

I splash cold water on my face, hoping it’ll shock some sense into me. It doesn’t. Cool liquid drips down my chin as I grip the edges of the marble sink. I glance at the scrunchie—neon pink and way too bright—still wrapped around my wrist like I’m a lovesick teenager.

It’s the same one she used last night when I fucked her tits.Jesus. Was that really just hours ago?When I thought that maybe, just maybe, we had something real?

Christ, I’m pathetic.

With a growl of frustration, I yank it off, the elastic snapping against my skin. For a moment, I hold it between my fingers, remembering how she gathered her hair up right before…

“Fuck this and fuck her.” I toss it into the trash can with enough force to rattle the metal bin.

It lands on a pile of crumpled resort stationery and tissues, a bright spot of color in the garbage. It’s a magnet, pulling my gaze. Three seconds pass. Four. Five.

“Shit. I guess it’s fuck me.” I bend down, fishing it out. “What is wrong with me?”

I slide it back onto my wrist, hating myself a little more.

“Get your shit together. You’re the boss. Act like it.”

But the mirror reveals who I truly am: a man who, just this morning, had his heart yanked out through his asshole.

I should be plotting my comeback video, my “why Camila Morales is dead to me” speech. She lied. She played me. She did exactly what every other person in my life has done—used me.

Fame is a fancy word for “everyone wants a piece of you.” My followers crave entertainment. My sponsors expect profit. My manager demands his cut. My ex-fiancée chased clout. And Cam? She wanted my platform. My influence. My ability to catapult her little documentary channel into the stratosphere.

I just wanted…her.

Straightening my shoulders, I push through the door into the adjoining conference room, instantly hit by the artificial chill of resort air conditioning. It’s a corporate war zone now—an oversized black table dominating the center, leather chairs lined up like soldiers awaiting orders, tropical paintings on the walls trying hard to remind us we’re in paradise.

Another scandal. Another viral disaster. Another day in the life of Reece Dare.

I’m so fucking exhausted.

I collapse into the chair at the head of the table, slumping so low my ass nearly slides off the edge. At the other end, a massive screen waits to be filled with the people who will determine how to salvage my career from the smoking crater Cam and Astrid left behind.

Gordon paces in tight circles, his designer shoes clicking a staccato rhythm on the gleaming floor. Those absurd Italian leather lifts add a good three inches to his height, giving him the perpetual look of a guy about to face-plant.

“Listen here,” he snaps at the resort employee trying to set up our video call. Gordon’s eyes narrow at the guy’s name tag. “‘Kai’s Best Friend’—is that yourrealname? Never mind. I need this up and running in the next ten minutes. I don’t know how they do things in whatever protein-shake-fueled fantasy you stepped out of, but at G-Thorne Enterprises, we execute. We succeed. We do not let the screen display a goddamn error message. Fix it.”

“I’m very sorry, sir,” he stammers. “Our tech team is—”

“Fix it. I don’t care if you have to sacrifice a virgin to the Wi-Fi gods. Make. It. Work.”

The guy scurries away as Gordon continues his phone tirade.

“This is code red. Everyone on that list needs to be in front of their computers in ten minutes, or I start collecting LinkedIn profiles. Clear?”

He glances over at me, covering the phone briefly. “Sorry about this clusterfuck, kid. When I flew in this morning, they promised state-of-the-art facilities.”

I offer a halfhearted thumbs-up, but it’s wasted effort. Gordon’s already on to his next call.

Shouldn’t I feel… something?

Adrenaline, anger, or at least a flicker of indignation that—once again—I’m about to be roasted like a marshmallow over the bonfire of internet outrage.

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