Page 82 of Mexico Can Choke On It
Maybe he’s a vision Echo had after licking too many trees? Or perhaps he’s part of a love triangle with Fiona and some GILF sugar daddy? Could be a metaphor for how repulsed he is by the aging process?
None of it adds up, but then again, welcome to my week.
KNOCK KNOCK!
So much for mysubpar detective skills. I open the door to find three Casa Cashmere staffers standing outside.
“Apologies, Miss Brinkman,” a worker says. “We didn’t realize you were occupying the room. We try to go unnoticed during guest transitions.”
“You’re good,” I say, letting them inside. “And heads up—I’m not one of the trust fund babies. I’m team paycheck-to-paycheck, like you.”
I wave Sebastian’s instruction card as if it’s a white flag. “Need evidence? They literally write step-by-step directions for how I should dress myself. Like they’re afraid I might accidentally wear my underwear as a hat.”
The youngest guy—probably my age—fights down a grin.
I haul my ancient suitcase from behind a decorative chair. “This duct-taped Frankenbag is the real me. Can you get it to the floating mansion?”
“Of course, miss.”
“But don’t let that beauty out of your sight. If this whole thing goes sideways, I’m gonna need it to paddle my broke ass home to reality,” I add with a wink.
The young guy smirks. “We’ll be sure it is accessible for any escape plans.”
Ten minutes and one half-assed sunscreen application later, I’m being chauffeured in a luxury golf cart down the long wooden dock.
And then—there it is.
The superyacht.
That word feels criminally inadequate.
This isn’t a boat. It’s a floating skyscraper that chose to take a swim. The gleaming white hull rises from the water and stretches longer than a city block. Multiple decks stack up toward the sky, crowned with a helipad at the stern.
I head up the gangplank, and the front deck opens into a stunning view of whitewashed wood, striped cushions, and umbrella-shaded seating that’s begging me to spill tequila on it. Staff membersdiscreetly slip across the decks in matching white and navy uniforms with nautical gold accents.
And waiting there is Hana—all sparkle and bubbles, like a pitcher of sangria in heels.
“Petra! Oh wow! You look like Audrey Hepburn, but if she traded her tiara for tattoos. Who knew elegance could be so edgy? I love it.”
I scan her ensemble, wanting to return the compliment. She’s wearing a ruffled rose-colored bikini top with a matching high-waisted skirt. “Pink is definitely your color! Very Barbie heiress on spring break.”
“Oh stop, you’re making me blush! That isexactlywhat I was going for!”
Hana loops her arm through mine. I let her. Mostly because she smells like vanilla bean and joy.
“Yacht excursions are the best! Well, except for charity luncheons and private shopping appointments, but it’s totally in my top three! What’s your favorite part of yacht trips?”
“This is my first one.”
She gasps. Her hand covers her heart. “That is the saddest sentence I’ve ever heard. And I follow Fiona’s foundation newsletters. Last month, they featured this pet psychic who helps animals relive their past lives. You won’t believe it, but Judith Sterling-Holloway’s parrot was Shakespeare. That’s why he was always squawking sonnets at three a.m. but needed a translator. I had my fiancé donate half a million dollars.”
I grab a fruit-flavored water from a server and choose not to acknowledge that bat-shit crazy nonsense.
Why do Fiona’s charities all sound like rejected TLC reality shows?
I try to choke down the usual bitterness about the one percent throwing money at vanity projects instead of causes that actually ease human suffering. It’s hard, because people like my friend Jim, a veteran sleeping on the street, don’t fit Fiona’s aesthetic.
“Her most recent cause offers higher education for socialites’ canines,” Hana continues. “Pets can enroll in courses like Barkonomics, Paw-litical Science, and Canine Culinary Arts—all inspired by Miss Muffy Von Cashmere the Second. Isn’t that neat?”
