Page 49 of Mexico Can Choke On It
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Threehourslater,weland at the private airfield in Puerto Vallarta, Mexico. The second the aircraft doors open, the next wave of logistical choreography kicks in. A matte black helicopter waitson the tarmac, rotors already slicing through the air. Behind it, two cargo trucks idle—ready to haul our luggage to the estate.
I confirm the transfer protocol with the ground crew chief—a former Marine who runs travel like a military operation. One pilot. Two drivers. Three handlers. ETA: forty-two minutes post-arrival.
Things are in order, just as I like it.
“Ever consider carrying your own underwear?” Petra’s eyebrow arches. “Might give you a cheap thrill.”
“You’re mocking me.”
“Only a little, Moneybags.”
“At Casa Cashmere, self-service is considered a system failure. They have staff whose entire job is anticipating needs you’re unaware of.”
“They should get hazard pay for dealing with especially difficult guests… Ya know, like Fiona.”
“She’s not that bad.”
“Fiona Whitfield is a high-maintenance red flag disguised as a person.”
“That must be why your brother needs your assistance. You speak fluent chaos.”
She smiles as I place my hand on the small of her back, steering her to the helicopter. Petra doesn’t flinch. She walks toward it like she’s heading into a rock concert, not a flying metal blender. No death-grip on the door handle. No hesitation. Just hops in like it’s an Uber.
Amanda treated helicopter rides like dental surgery—necessary but traumatic. She once cried the entire flight to Napa because it ruined her blowout.
Petra? She’s buzzing as she settles onto the passenger bench, fastening her seat belt.
As soon as we’re airborne, wind whips through the cabin. Her dark hair transforms into a wild storm cloud, strands attacking her face.
“This is amazing!” she shouts over the engine noise, holding her hair back.
I catch a rogue strand between my fingers and tuck it behind her ear. My thumb lingers against her cheek, tracing the firm bone beneath her soft skin. Her pupils dilate, transforming her hazel-green eyes into pools of molten gold.
“Headphones!” I shout, jerking away to grab the aviation headsets. “Here.”
She slides them over her ears while I adjust my own, willing my pulse to stop sprinting.
“Can you hear me?”
“Loud, commanding, and vibrating in all the right places. Keep going.”
“Petra.” My voice hardens(in solidarity with my cock).
“What? I’m talking about the helicopter ride. Obviously.”
I point to the sweeping landscape. “That’s the Puerto Vallarta coastline.”
“Looks like L.A.’s prettier cousin. Mountains, beaches, but the water isn’t sewage gray—it’s actually blue. And the mountains are green. What kind of high-society witchcraft is this?”
“The picturesque views come free of charge, Pip. You can thank Mother Nature. See up there, beyond the resorts? We’re heading into that jungle. The estate sits on a hill right in the thick of it.”
“Hold up.Inthe actual jungle? With the snakes and spiders and things that want to eat my face? If something bites me without my consent, I’m suing.”
“I would be fascinated to see that lawsuit. What grounds would you have?”
“Endangerment. Emotional distress. Forcing a civilian into wilderness conditions wearing couture, and hot billionaire negligence.”
