Page 10 of Mexico Can Choke On It
Officer Cockburn—yes, still his real name—is standing beside it, looking like he’s climaxing over the sight of my misery.
I bolt toward him, a total crazy person, waving my arms. “WAIT! That’s my car! I’m literally right here!”
CRACK!
My fake-ass heel—the one I lovingly Frankensteined with nail polish to pass for Louboutins—snaps.
One minute I’m upright. The next?
SPLAT.
Face-first into the sidewalk.
Hard.
“OW! MOTHERFUCKING COCKSUCKER!”
Today started at rock bottom. And now? We’ve tunneled into a level of hell so fresh, Lucifer hasn’t even unpacked. And I still have to go pick up the cufflinks. Lucky freaking me.
CHAPTER TWO
BRYCE
Imadeitout.Barely. And yet, it feels like I’ve returned from a war I never stood a chance of winning.
I swing open the grand double doors of my residence. My Italian leather shoes echo against the marble floor, announcing my arrival. The foyer stretches out before me: pristine white walls, soaring ceilings, and modern art. Each piece—a testament to wealth—provides the only color in this otherwise stark mausoleum posing as a home.
It’s a glass and steel palace, perched on the edge of the Hollywood Hills as if it owns the horizon. The wall of windows offers an expansive view of Los Angeles: the glinting downtown skyline, the hazy coastline in the distance, and the sun setting in a blaze of orange and pink over the ocean. It’s a city I once thought was mine for the taking.
“Amanda?” I call out, my voice swallowed by the vastness.
No answer. Not surprising.
I hadn’t planned to come back from New York today, but Mother insisted I attend tonight’s charity gala—something about yachts for youth or champagne for chickens or whatever cause is fashionable this quarter. The Sterling name must be represented properly, ofcourse. Heaven forbid we miss a photo opportunity with our checkbooks.
My girlfriend is likely upstairs getting ready. I choose not to call out again, instead savoring the rare gift of silence before the next storm of social obligations.
I drop my briefcase by the circular monstrosity Amanda calls a couch—a ninety-thousand-dollar designer piece that looks stunning but feels like a concrete slab. The entire house is like this. Trophy furnishings selected for appearance rather than function.
Two people do not need nine bedrooms, fourteen bathrooms, and twenty thousand square feet. Unless, of course, those two people want to easily avoid each other.Guilty as charged.
The glass doors to the patio slide open with a whisper. I step into the night, warm air brushing against my skin, and lower myself into a teak lounge chair facing the infinity pool and twenty-five-person jacuzzi that I’ve used exactly twice in the past year.
I loosen my tie and breathe.
Just for a second.
Just long enough to pretend this is the life I chose. That I’m not some obedient legacy soldier.
“Better enjoy the view while I can.”
In one week, I’ll be calling New York home as the new CEO of Sterling Industries, my family’s empire. Trading California sunshine for Manhattan streetlights. Swapping a career I built for one I inherited when I drew my first breath. Another Sterling man taking his predestined place in the corner office with his name already on the door.
The Sterling name is synonymous with wealth. Every major city in the world has at least one building withour name emblazoned across it in gleaming letters. Over a billion people carry Sterling Bank cards in their wallets. And not one of them could tell you who I am.
I learned early that wealth isn’t freedom.
Not when it owns you.
