Page 120 of Mexico Can Choke On It
She laughs so hard she snorts. “No butt stuff. Got it!”
And like that, the pressure in my chest releases a little.
Until—
“What on earth is this?” Gavin yells from across the room.
I turn to see him standing next to Echo, hands on his hips, glaring at the painting.
“Fi, there isno way in hellthis is getting hung in our house.”
I raise my hand. “I’ll take it! For my bathroom. It’ll really class up the whole dropping-a-deuce experience.”
Gavin turns and levels me with a glare so sharp it could carve a ham.
I shrug. “Kidding. Mostly.”
Something inside me shifts as I soak in the glorious absurdity of this moment—my mortified brother, Hana’s contagious joy, Echo’s insane artistic passion, and even Fiona’s fake-ass pout.
I’m in literal paradise, surrounded by wealth so obscene it feels ripped from a cartoon, and the people in it are somehow more outlandish. Bryce can take his emotional walls and his careful distance and shove them up his obscenely tight ass.
I’ve got three more days in this overpriced wonderland. Three more days of ridiculous luxury and watching rich people lose their collective minds.
And I’m going to enjoy every fucking minute of it. Starting now.
***
Memotofutureme:A Brazilian wax after a night of earth-shattering orgasms is a death wish.
There should be a flashing neon sign outside the spa that reads:Warning: If you’ve had a billionaire bang-a-thon and are sore in places on, around, over, under, and in your downstairs, then skip the waxing today, honey.
My aesthetician is about to apply another steaming eucalyptus devil cloth on my lady bits. Sure, the pain is a welcome distraction from Mr. Emotionally Stunted, but at this rate, I’ll be rolling out of here in a wheelchair.
The spa at Casa Cashmere is not your average spa day destination—it’s a freaking compound of luxury pampering. Tucked away from the main estate, this place is a quick, serene walk through impeccable gardens with bamboo groves and koi ponds. Inside are arched doorways, the soothing melody of waterfalls, and staff in all white floating to and fro like Botoxed angels.
Every surface shines as if it’s been blessed by the patron saint of OCD(Saint Lysol, perhaps?).I wouldn’t be surprised if my next treatment involved soaking in a tub of hundred-dollar bills while receiving a foot scrub with actual diamonds.
Inside our private suite, the temperature is cranked up to somewhere between a hot yoga class and Death Valley. I’m sprawled out, covered from head to toe in what feels like congealed coffee grounds—otherwise known as volcanic mud—wrapped up tighter than a Chipotle burrito.
I’m slowcooking in my own juices, when one of those ridiculous cucumber slices makes a break for it, sliding off my left nipple and making a slow, dramatic descent down my boob.
Hana lies on the table next to mine. She’s a mud-slicked cocoon lounging on a cloud, smiling and humming—humming!—as if she’s already achieved Zen-master-level enlightenment.
“Oh my gosh, I can literally sense the stress melting out of my cellular structure,” she sighs.
“Really? All I feel is clogged hair follicles and a mild case of claustrophobia.”
Hana lets out a string of soft giggles. “Oh, Petra, please stop! You’re making me crack my mud wrap.”
“Girl, I’m one exhale away from splitting open like a dollar-store piñata.”
She snorts. “You’re hilarious.”
“No. I’m suffering.”
“Can you believe this place exists? I’ve wanted to come here since I was twelve. It’s so heavenly, exactly how I imagined it would be!”
“If having your lady parts brutalized by a woman who looks like she could arm wrestle a bear, then yeah, heavenly. Pass the painkillers.”
