Page 21 of Mexico Can Choke On It
Well, what do we have here?
I can’t speak for others, but when the universe offers me a backstage pass to the glittering freak show of the one percent… I take it. No questions asked.
At first, it’s what I expected.
Rows of powerful people in opulent chairs, dripping in jewels and designer clothes. A sea of tuxedos and tulle gowns, champagne flutes balanced on manicured fingers, expressions arranged in polite boredom.
But what they’re all staring at… in the center of the room… is weird. Super weird.
In the middle of this grand, high-society gala—
A man.
Wearing nothing but a pair of tighty-whiteys.
Standing in a circle of white canvases.
His face is obscured by thick blue and green paint that drips down his chiseled torso in psychedelic rivers. And around him?
Models.
Lots of models.
Also in their underwear, their petite bodies gleam under spotlights as they dance and flail like interpretive chickens who took jazz in third grade and quit before the recital.
The paint-faced man lifts a bucket high above his head with the dramatic flair of a Vegas magician.
“I AM LIMITATIONS!” he bellows.
Before I can blink, he dumps the red paint over his hair. It sloshes down his toned body, clinging to the bulge in his underwear and pooling at his feet like a crime scene.
The models surge forward like paint-starved zombies. They run their hands over his slippery body, gathering the crimson on their palms before spinning away to smack their hands against the pristine white canvases.
SMACK! SLAP! WHACK!
Each slap sounds like someone getting spanked in a sex dungeon.
The paint man thrusts his pelvis at a canvas, smearing a rainbow streak across it with alarming enthusiasm.
“I AM BROKEN!” Paint Man screams, dropping to his knees.
The models respond by falling dramatically to the floor and writhing like they’re being simultaneously electrocuted.
“I AM REBORN!” he shrieks, jumping back to his feet and spreading his arms wide. Paint flies off his body, spattering the front row of Chanel and Armani.
“Cool cool cool…” I whisper to myself. “We’ve entered theEyes Wide Shutcult portion of the evening.”
The door beside me swings open. Bryce enters with my brother in tow. I instantly morph into Innocent Petra Who Definitely Wasn’t Spying On The One Percent’s Paint Orgy.
“What the hell?” Gavin’s voice is tight, controlled.
I thrust the velvet box at him. “Ta-da! Your sparkly wrist decorations, as requested. Before you ask, my car was detained by Officer Cockburn, and yes, that’s his real name. You’re welcome, by the way.”
“For what? Doing your job?” He snatches it. “These are late.”
“Oh no. Did the champagne warm by two degrees while you waited?”
He drags a slow, soul-killing gaze over my disheveled appearance. “Hold on. How did you manage to get into this party?”
