Page 81 of Mexico Can Choke On It
I’d give anything to have them here—Katie and Cam, laughing beside me(and probablyatme in this getup). But no, they’re off on their own summer adventures, and I’m stewing in my latest judgment fail.
The kiss.
It wasn’t a maybe-kiss. Not an oops-our-faces-brushed moment.
Our mouths moved as if they understood the choreography by heart. His lips were strong but gentle—ravenous and eager, like he’d been imagining how I would taste. And when he rocked up into me, his thick erection pressing against my clit, well… my body responded without permission.
For those few seconds, I forgot everything. We were all that existed. Only the sensation of him. The feel of his hands on my skin. The way he was moving against me.God, it was hot.But thenmy brain kicked in and reminded me that I’m nobody’s side piece.
I give myself another look, the bow now slumped at an angle like a disapproving head tilt.
How could I have been so stupid?Bryce is with Amanda—his almost-fiancée.
I’ve spent years telling myself he was different. That under all that money and privilege, he was a good man. Not the type of guy whoscrews around in secret, then marries the pretty princess with the family seal of approval.
What a fucking joke.
How many times did I tell myself?Rich men don’t fall in love with my type. They use us.
Flirt. Fuck. Discard.
We’re a cheap thrill, something fun to play with. They get bored and move on. The same way dear old dadleft my mother.
Bryce crossed a line by kissing me. I should be devastated. But honestly, he deserves a thank-you card. It’ll be so much easier to get over him now that I know he’s a fraud.
Time for a distraction.I grab Echo’s sketchpad from my bag. Might as well review the contents of that lunatic’s mind before I climb onto a ship filled with people who think dogs deserve inheritances. Maybe there’s something in here that proves my suspicions about him conspiring with Fiona. I need a mystery to solve that doesn’t involve my talent for falling for unavailable, out-of-my-league men.
I flip it open. The first few pages? Food. Sketches of tiny sandwiches. So many sandwiches. Cracker stacks. Crostini. An entire page of what seems to be a club sandwich dissected and labeled as if it were an anatomy diagram.
“So Mr. Tree-Humper has opinions about fancy snacks. Disturbing—but nowhere near scandal material.”
Then it gets weirder.
Marvin.
Scribbled.
Everywhere.
Manic handwriting, resembling a ransom note made by someone who’s been left on read too long—big letters, small letters, cursive, print.
“What in the true crime podcast is this?”
More pages. Same name. Over and over.Marvin Marvin Marvin—scribbled like a spell, a plea, a breakdown in ink. Scrawled across every inch of white space until the paper is practically bleeding.
Then portraits of an older gentleman.
Balding. Slouching. Always drawn from weird angles. Close-ups of liver spots. Nose hair. Ear hair. Wrinkles.
And scattered around each sketch, two words are drawn in angry capital letters:GrossandMan.
I study the images, trying to decode this bizarre obsession.
Gross. Man. Marvin.
Who the hell is Marvin?
No idea.
