Page 29 of Mexico Can Choke On It
Money Mogul’s Secret Tryst with Tattooed Vixen
Not that Petra would care what they write. Those are the things that keep men with empires to protect awake at night.
Money. Image. Power.
She doesn’t give a damn about any of it. Never has.
In a world where I’ve spent twenty-nine years navigating the intricacies of salad forks and PR crisis classes, Petra Brinkman is a bomb of authenticity. She refuses to put on a show or fake politeness. She enters a room as herself—attitude problem and all—daring anyone to challenge her right to be there.
A feeling dangerously close to envy coils in my chest.
When was the last time I did anything without calculating the optics?
I’m considering texting her—though what I’d say, I have no idea—when the bar door opens again, spilling yellow light onto the dirty sidewalk like a beer puddle.
And there she is.
Petra steps out, a vision in black leather and defiance. She slides in her AirPods, pulls up her hood, and grabs something from her shoulder bag before taking off down the street toward her car. She moves like a girl on a goddamn mission.
I toss my phone onto the passenger seat, open the door, and swiftly exit. My Aston chirps as I click the key fob.
“Hey!” I call after her.
Nothing. Not even a hesitation in her stride. Either those AirPods are blasting death metal at eardrum-rupturing volume, or she’s deliberately ignoring me.
Based on our history, I’m betting on the latter.
I pick up the pace, the sidewalk slick under my dress shoes. “Slow down. We need to talk.”
Still no response. I’m momentarily captivated by her swaying hips.Damn.
“Wait a second—”
I reach out and tap her shoulder.
Mistake.
Huge, catastrophic mistake.
The world explodes into pure, undiluted agony. Pain detonates in my chest, shooting down my arms, locking my knees. My entire nervous system declares mutiny. Every cell in my body launches into a simultaneous riot. My blood is replaced with Pop Rocks and Coca-Cola.
BZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ!!!
My teeth chatter like castanets in a flamenco band. My eyeballs are trying to escape my skull to save themselves.
“GLARB-NURBLE-GNAAAAARGH!”
Is that sound coming from me?
I can’t stop shaking.
Why am I shaking?
I think I’m going to piss myself.
Is this death? Am I ascending?
No, you idiot—the microscopic part of my brain not currently being jelly-fied forms the realization:
