Page 153 of Hawaii Can Suck It

I push off the truck.

The suitcase wobbles beneath me as I shift my weight, navigating toward the sedan like an absolute psycho.

I reach out—

My fingers graze the bumper—

SCREECH!The car slams the brakes.

I fly forward, crash onto the trunk with a brutal thud, roll once, twice—

SLAM!I hit the asphalt hard, like a bag of bricks.

For a moment, I lie there, the world tilting and spinning around me. Every part of my body registers a different complaint, from my scraped palms to my burning thighs to what’s gotta be three broken ribs.

Then the car door flies open. Cam bolts out of the back seat.

“¡Ay, Dios mío! Reece!” Panic surges in her gaze as she scans my road-rashed body, sprawled across the asphalt. “Are you okay? Did you just…? A suitcase…? What the hell?!”

Words are hard right now. Breathing is harder. Moving? Off the table. She drops to her knees beside me, her hands hovering over my body as if she’s afraid to touch me in case something’s broken.

“I—” A groan escapes as I struggle to sit up. “Lahaina… Tom Cruise… run… got you.”

“Oh my God, he’s brain damaged,” she mutters, sliding a warm arm under my shoulders. “How many fingers am I holding up? What year is it? Who’s the president? Can you feel your extremities? All of them? Even Little Reece?”

Despite the severe pain, her touch has my dick trying to raise its hand.

Around us, traffic has ground to a halt. Horns blare an angry symphony. Drivers shout colorful suggestions about where we can relocate ourselves. Pedestrians stop to film the spectacle.

“Phone,” I manage to wheeze, pointing weakly at my device, which skidded about ten feet away during my spectacular dismount.

Cam grabs it then freezes when her eyes land on the screen. “You’re livestreaming this? Seriously? What, the seventy million views of me being publicly humiliated weren’t enough? Going for an even hundred?”

I shake my head, wincing at the movement. “Not why I’m here,” I rasp, reaching for the phone. “DareSquad,” I croak, “execution: six out of ten. Landing: negative twelve. But I found her. Mission accomplished. Wish me luck. Signing off.” I hitEnd, cutting the stream.

“You’re bleeding,” she says, her voice gentle as she brushes a thumb near a gash on my forehead. “And I’m pretty sure that’s not where your elbow is supposed to bend. You need a hospital.”

“Not until you hear me out.”

“If it’s ‘I’ve always wanted to die in traffic,’ you can save it.”

I take a breath so painful I might as well be inhaling broken glass. “I’m sorry, Cam. I’m so fucking sorry I didn’t trust you.”

“Reece—”

“Let me finish. Please.” I reach out, catching her fingers between mine. The contact is a defibrillator to my heart, sending a jolt through my system. “I pulled the same bullshit I always do—shut down, assume the worst, run for the hills. Because that’s my go-to move when shit gets real.”

She doesn’t pull away, which I interpret as promising(or a lack of blood flow).

“You’re nothing like them—Astrid, Gordon, all the users and takers. You see me. Not the brand or the bank account, but… me. The real me. The one who’s terrified of letting anyone close enough to know all my broken parts.”

For once, she doesn’t shoot back some sarcastic remark.

“Cam, I saw the video.”

“And?”

“And it was fucking incredible,” I say, voice rough. “You took my channel—my shallow, look-at-me-jump-off-shit channel—and did somethingreal. Somethinggood. And I don’t just mean the money raised. I mean, you made peoplecare. You mademecare.”

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