Page 168 of Mexico Can Choke On It
“NO!” she shouts, tears streaming harder. “You don’t get to apologize! You don’t get to fix this with your fancy words and your—”
“Please, just listen. You can’t sleep on the beach.”
“You don’t get to tell me what to do!” she shouts, voice cracking. “Or take care of me! Nothing! Goodbye!”
“Wait, Pip! I called about Echo’s sketchpad. Remember the drawings—”
“I don’t care about any of you assholes!”
Panic claws up my throat. “Please, go to a hotel. I’ll pay for it. Or I’ll get you a car back to Casa Cashmere. Just share your location—”
“Ha! Good luck finding me, Moneybags!”
SPLASH.
The screen goes black.
She threw her phone into the ocean.
Goddammit.
CHAPTER TWENTY
PETRA
Ow.Myskullpounds.Where am I?
There’s a tiny construction crew jackhammering into my eyeballs. Everything hurts, and my mouth tastes like I licked the floor of a cantina.
Wait. Did I FaceTime Bryce?Oh hell. It’s all flooding back.
Me, drunk off my ass on bottom-shelf tequila. Me tearing into him about his sleazy betrayal. And then…Crap! My phone.
Why didn’t I simply end the call? Why did I have to go full drama queen and launch my phone into the ocean?
I try to sit up and immediately want to die. Everything is so goddamn bright. My eyelids hurt.How is that a thing?The bed, the walls, and carpeting are blinding. Even the stupid bathrobe I’m wearing is practically glowing.
Again it hits me—I have no idea where I am. More importantly, where are my clothes?I’m dressed in white, surrounded by beaming white walls, and there are mysterious voices calling from beyond.
The loud chatter from the other room grows to a fever pitch. Multiple conversations layer over each other like chaotic TikTok videos all playing at the same time. My hungover brain starts clawing at the walls, begging for a mute button.
Everything’s too loud. Too white. Like heaven turned up to eleven.
Am I dead? Did I drink my way to the eternal happy hour in the sky?
My legs are limp noodles as I stagger out of the bedroom, leaning on the wall for support. Gravity is not my friend. I enter the main room.
Fuck. Me. Sideways. Not only am I dead…I’m in hell.
Because this is Sebastian Bellini’s Glam Squad Headquarters.
Sunlight spills through the massive ocean-view windows.Think, Petra, think.I'm in a hotel. On the same beach as the carnival.Okay, so I know where I am, but why in God's name is Sebastian here?
The legendary stylist stands in the center of the hotel suite, the eye of a fashion storm. His model-minions flutter around him, resembling fashion-forward bats. Racks upon racks of designer outfits are being delicately zipped into garment bags as if they’re newborn babies. Accessories disappear into protective cases.
Sebastian holds his ever-faithful iPad in one hand and a bottle of sparkling Perrier in the other. His piercing gaze locks onto me; his expression shifts into theatrical disapproval.
“Look what the tequila fairy dragged in,” Sebastian announces.“I see you’ve added ‘decaying zombie’ to your list of fashion faux pas.”
