Page 31 of Mexico Can Choke On It
“Annnnd we’re back to gibberish. Seriously, what were you thinking? You can’t sneak up on a woman after dark! Do you have any idea how the real world works?”
I lift my right hand triumphantly. “Key!”
“There’s nothing in your hand, B. You must have dropped them.”
I stare at her as she crawls around the sidewalk, voice muffled as she peers under a parked car.
“I’m a menace. I tased a billionaire. Don’t need a law degree to know I’m definitely going to jail for this.”
Even half-electrocuted, I’m powerless against the pull of those tempting lips. Still painted that defiant red—like the warning signs my brain should have registered before I climbed out of my vehicle to pursue her. Red like the embarrassment that’ll eventually replace the numbness in my extremities… if feeling ever returns.
“Aha!” Petra bolts upright, pointing triumphantly toward the center of the road. “Found your fob! Stay here. Don’t move a muscle.”
I would laugh at the absurdity of her instruction if my facial muscles were cooperating. Instead, I manage what I suspect is a horrifying grimace.
She gets to her feet, brushing dirt off her jeans as—
A giant street sweeper with spinning brushes and industrial-strength vacuum power rounds the corner. Its headlights are blinding.
“No, no, NO!” Shebreaks into a run, arms windmilling.
Too late.
WHIRRRRRR-SLUUUUURP-CLUNK!
My fifteen-thousand-dollar Aston Martin key fob is slurped up by the city’s cleaning behemoth.
“Are you freaking kidding me?!” she shouts at the retreating machine. “These streets are never cleaned. Ever! What, did you sense the billionaire and send out the emergency sparkle team? Trying to make the gutters nice and shiny for Mr. Moneybags here?! UGH. Great job! You missed the used condom!”
Petra stomps back to me, each footfall an exclamation point of rage. I’m still sprawled on the concrete feeling like a gooey puddle.
“Okay, you’re clearly disoriented, you don’t want a hospital, I don’t know where the hell you live, and your keys are somewhere inside the Bermuda Triangle of the L.A. Sanitation Department.”
She exhales sharply, like this next part physically hurts her.
“I can’t believe I’m saying this… but I’m taking you tomyplace. Come on, B. Push up on three,” she instructs, gripping my waist. “One… two… THREE!”
Somehow, through sheer brute strength and an unholy amount of grunting, Petra gets me vertical.
Or vertical-ish.
She half-drags, half-shoves me toward her beat-up vehicle. She kicks open the passenger door, and a cascade of papers and crumpled napkins fall out.
“VIP treatment, Moneybags.”
I survey the passenger seat—currently home to what appears to be half of her worldly possessions. Fast food wrappers. Crumpledreceipts. A textbook on constitutional law. And at least six empty coffee cups with varying levels of lipstick stains.
She scoops up the debris with one arm, maintaining her death grip on my waist with the other. The contents are unceremoniously dumped into the back seat.
“Bet your fancy car doesn’t come with artisanal garbage.”
Folding my six-foot-two frame into her compact car is an exercise in human origami. My knees hit the dashboard. My shoulders scrape the doorframe. My head finds every hard surface on the way down.
“Bend! You have to bend!” she shouts, pushing on my shoulders. “Your legs go INSIDE the door!”
“Spaghetti legs are jellyfish,” I inform her helpfully.
After an impressive string of creative profanity, she manages to stuff me into the seat.
