Page 150 of Hawaii Can Suck It

“Dude.” Blaze appears at my shoulder, his breath smelling like the banana condom he’s currently chewing like bubblegum. “What do we do? Get a car, like an Uber?”

LAX sprawls out like an overgrown concrete monster—parking structures and terminals tangle together in a circular maze of roads choked with gridlocked traffic. Blinking red taillights stretch out in a sea of “you’re screwed” as far as the eye can see.

“We don’t have time to wait for an Uber.”

I stop thinking and do the only thing I can.

I run.

I take off, legs pumping, arms driving, every muscle firing in perfect coordination.

Blaze is shouting at me to slow down, sprinting like hell. As soon as he catches up, I toss him my phone. “Go live!”

“OH, SHIT!” he yells, hauling ass alongside me, phone in hand, and starts the livestream.

“Yo, DareSquad. Check it! My bro, doing the Tom Cruise! That’s sick!”

I barely hear him. My heart is slamming. My pulse is a goddamn drum solo. My feet pound the pavement.

I’ve never run this hard in my life.

I have to get to her.

I have to tell her I’m sorry.

Blaze is behind me, yelling updates from the chat like an auctioneer.

“BRO! Chat says she's heading to baggage claim. WAIT! A fancy driver had her name on a sign.”

Driver? Did she cancel her trip to New York?

I push harder.

Faster.

I round the corner to the main loop of the airport. A massive concrete horseshoe that reeks of jet fuel and car exhaust. Horns blare. Brake lights flare crimson in bumper-to-bumper traffic.

The sidewalks aren’t any better—exhausted travelers wheeling oversized luggage, families herding children like cats, businesspeople barking into phones, and tourists stopping dead in their tracks to read signs.

I dodge a family of four, nearly taking out the dad pushing a stroller the size of a small refrigerator, and jump over a rogue backpack.

Blaze is struggling. Wheezing. “BRO—” He coughs. “WAIT UP, I’M DYING. CARDIO… KILLING ME.”

I turn, grab the phone from his sweaty hands, and keep running.

“GO GET YOUR GIRL, BRO!”

I don’t look back.

“DareSquad,” I pant into the livestream, my breath coming in sharp bursts. “Where is she?”

The chat whizzes past, a blur of words, as my shaking hand struggles to keep the phone steady enough to read:

SOMEONE GIVE THIS MAN A STUNT CONTRACT!

TOM CRUISE IS SWEATING!

WHO ELSE HEARS THE MISSION IMPOSSIBLE SOUNDTRACK PLAYING?

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