Page 14 of Hawaii Can Suck It

SO MUCH FOR PARADISE.

Every single one of my plans has gone to shit in the last few hours.

No boss’s honeymoon workcation. No island hotties to wreck my shores. No sipping piña coladas while eye-fucking a shirtless beefcake bartender. And certainly no asking newly dumped Reece Dare to endorse my dream documentary channel.

Instead, I’m trapped in a limo that smells like desperation and Gordon’s extra musky cologne, circling Los Angeles as if we’re waiting for clearance to land. I’m editing footage of the most viral wedding disaster since Kim Kardashian’s seventy-two-day marriage speedrun. The air conditioning is cranked so high my fingers are numb against my laptop keyboard. And the tension? Thick enough to choke on.

Three hours. That’s how long we’ve been driving aimlessly in this rolling pressure cooker of emotions. Gordon’s been glued to his phone the entire time, shouting into it like he’s auditioning forThe Wolf of Wall Street 2.Reece has said nothing, which is actually scarier than his constant nitpicking. And me? I’m pretending my noise-canceling headphones are a magic cloak of invisibility.

I gaze at my monitor as it glows with snippets of glitter-covered chaos from earlier today. My cold fingers hammer at the keys, combing through the footage on the hunt for something—anything—that hasn’t already been plastered across the internet. Thanks to Astrid’s livestream from the altar, the “marriage ceremony” instantly hit viral status. Every news outlet, influencer, and digital loudmouth with an opinion is piling on. And the star of the spectacle? Reece Dare, YouTube’s favorite daredevil turned punchline.

The headlines are brutal:

Prankster Gets Pranked!

Reece Dare’s Wedding Day Meltdown!

Astrid Montclair’s Savage Goodbye!

Reece Dare is Cancelled.

“Find Astrid!” Gordon had barked at Blaze earlier before we hopped into this moving prison. “Talk some sense into her. And for the love of God, don’t livestream it!”

Talking sense into either one of them? Good luck. Astrid is the equivalent of a human jellyfish(literally no brain and no heart, just vibes). And Blaze? Hand him a set of instructions, and you might as well be reading them to a beach ball with sunglasses.

I turned my phone off an hour ago because, apparently, I’m now LA’s most wanted source of gossip. My sister Aria. Best friends Katie and Petra. Random college classmates I haven’t spoken to in years. Hell, even my landlord texted me for some “tea.” Well, that and to remind me that rent was due last Tuesday.

Reece is hunched in his seat, scrolling through his phone. His jaw is tight, his eyes dark, and if he grinds his teeth any harder, he’s going to need veneers by morning. The guy is one notification away from jumping out of this moving car.

Through my computer screen, I cut together the footage where Reece’s face crumpled when Astrid announced she couldn’t marry him becauseMercury is in Gatorade. That moment—that split second—is now immortalized as a meme. His pained face already has its own Instagram account and its own filter #SadGroomChallenge.

The internet is eating this up. And as much as I want to hate him for being a broody, insufferable boss, I can’t help but feel bad. Nobody should be dragged through the mud like this, not even Reece Dare.

“Why is she still here?”

Reece’s voice is a knife cutting through my thoughts.She?Well, Iwasfeeling sympathetic, but maybe not so much now,pendejo.

“Ignore her,” Gordon hisses. “She’s getting your video up. We need to control the narrative before—”

“Guys, holy shit!” some beauty guru squeals from Reece’s phone. “Reece Dare just lost another 500K followers! This is insane!”

I bite back a groan. Of course Astrid chose to livestream her breakup to get it out ASAP. You can’t edit and upload that quickly unless you shoot it in advance. Trust me, I know. I’m the one who usually has to perform those overnight miracles.

My eyes dart between clips, searching for video proof that he’s not the villain in this wedding debacle. This is normally my favorite part of the job. Hand me hours of raw footage, and I’ll find you a hero’s story that will draw you in. It’s similar to a documentary, if that doc had more product placement and fewer moral takeaways.

I need that clip. That redemptive moment. Something to give Reece’s video that clickbait thumbnail… I’ve got nothing. But what catches my attention isn’t the circus or the crying or even Astrid’s bedazzled coochie crystals.

It’s Reece.

For a mere second, before shock painted his features, his face was filled with… relief. Unmistakable relief.

Interesting.

But that’s not the kind of clickbait that’ll save this sinking ship.

“Fuck! Fuck!Fuck!” Gordon’s voice ricochets around the limo like a pinball of panic. He thrusts his phone at Reece. “She posted again.”

Reece grabs the phone, scowling as he hitsPlay. Astrid’s face fills the screen, framed by her signature soft-focus lighting. Tears slide down her cheeks in dramatic slow motion. “The truth is, Reece neglected me over and over. Like, he bought me a knockoff Gucci handbag and a freakin’ gold wedding ring. He knows white gold goes better with my skin color. And queens? Don’t wedeserveto be loved like the royalty we are?!”

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