Page 33 of Mexico Can Choke On It
I suck in a breath, the air reeking of smoke, urine, and what I assume is the shattered dreams of everyone who’s ever walked down this block.
There’s a burning trash can on the corner, flames licking at the night sky, surrounded by a bunch of men passing a bottle in a brown paper bag. Barred windows jut out like warning signs, and graffiti scars every building. Streetlights flicker, casting shadows that prowl like predators. Police sirens scream in the distance—and then not-so-distant.
Petra’s neighborhood is so bad, her car actually blends in.
“Almost there, B. Just ten more steps.”
My thighs are shaking. My lungs are staging a protest. I lean more heavily on her than I should, but Pip doesn’t slow down. She manhandles me up another flight of stairs, until finally—finally—she fumbles a key into a dented door and kicks it open.
I stagger inside…Good God.Her apartment is a crime scene.
“You’ve been robbed.”
“Well, well. Look who can form full sentences again. Shame. I was enjoying your billionaire babble.”
The space assaults all my senses at once. A mattress on the floor drowning in a sea of mismatched blankets and pillows. An orange couch that looks like it was rescued from the curb. The “kitchen” is a mere mini-fridge with a two-burner hot plate. Books are stacked in precarious towers, clothes draped over every available surface. Christmas lights zigzag across one wall, providing the only warmth against the harsh overhead lighting.
I’m frozen at the threshold, afraid the floor might collapse if I step too hard. Or that whatever’s living under that pile of laundry on the couch might bite.
I rub my forehead, trying to remind myself why I’m here.Get Petra to say yes to Mexico.That’s it. Convince her, call my driver, and get the hell out of here before I need a tetanus shot.
“Is this your first time seeing how the other ninety-nine percent lives? Should I prepare a guided tour? ‘And to your left, you’ll see the exotic sight of someone living paycheck to paycheck.’”
“Do you even have a restroom?” I blurt out, scanning the chaotic open area.
“I’m notthatpoor,“ Petra snorts. She crosses the limited floor space in three strides and flings open the only interior door with a dramatic flourish. “Ta-da! Indoor plumbing. Ain’t I fancy?”
The bathroom is so small it appears to have been an architectural afterthought, as if the contractor remembered humans have biological functions only after finishing the rest of the apartment.
“It’s efficient,” she says, patting the doorframe. “I can brush my teeth, shower, and pee all at the same time. Real time-saver on busy mornings.”
There’s no tub, just a shower stall so narrow it makes the lavatory on my private jet look like a Roman bath. “I’ve seen bigger showers on sailboats,” I mutter, immediately regretting the observation.
“Sorry the poverty tour isn’t meeting your standards. Next apartment viewing, I’ll request the deluxe model with gold-plated bidets and oyster dispensers.”
She’s living like this. Every day.
And somehow, she still smiles as if she’s daring the world to knock her down again.
A knot forms low in my stomach, tight and ugly and complicated as hell.
Petra flops down onto the mattress and kicks off her boots, her bare toes wiggling in triumph. She carelessly tosses her leather jacket onto a nearby pile of clothes. Her shirt rides up, exposing a delicious sliver of smooth, sinful skin and—is that a tattoo peeking above her waistband?
“Make yourself at home, Moneybags. But be warned—if you see something skitter across the floor, don’t try to fight it. You’ll lose.”
If my mother saw me like this, she’d have an aneurysm.
“And if you hear my front door open, it’s either a robber or a ghost, because I sure as hell don’t have a roommate.”
“I honestly can’t fathom where a roommate would sleep.”
“The couch, obviously.” She props up on her elbows, those full red lips curving into a smirk. “Or if they’re hot enough, they can share my bed.”
She pats the mattress, and the image of some random guy under her sheets sends a strange discomfort sliding through me. I’m not sure why I care. It shouldn’t matter.
Hertypeis probably muscle-bound bartenders from the low-light liquor lounge where she works. Or tattooed bikers with greasy hands and grimy fingernails.
This is ridiculous. Her dating life is not my concern.
