Page 95 of Mexico Can Choke On It
For a beat, we’re just here. No distance, no flirting. I don’t know how she does it—those piercing eyes see through the crafted Sterling image and straight to the man underneath who doesn’t know what the hell he wants.
Except, Idoknow. I want to grab her midnight hair and suck the smart remarks off her tongue, savoring every syllable. I want to own that mouth.
Iwantto press her against this railing and show her how far she’s pushed me—how little of my self-control she’s left intact.
I’m burning for her. The intensity scares the hell out of me.
Her words from dance class rattle in my brain:“Do you fuck the way you kiss?”
The blunt honesty, the sexual challenge, the complete lack of coy games—women like her don’t exist in my world. She doesn’t want to acquire me—she wants to tear me apart.
I slide my hands into my pockets to resist her pull. “But seriously, what do you really want? Out of life, I mean.”
Her expression transforms, igniting with an awakened fierceness.
“I want to fight for people steamrolled by systems rigged against them. People who can’t afford good lawyers and deserve better. The little guy who gets buried in red tape and legal jargon while corporations float away on golden parachutes. I want to be the voice for everyone who’s been told to sit down and shut up because they don’t have the right connections, the right bank account, or the right anything.”
She lets out a breath, shaking her head with a wry little laugh. “Wow. Okay. TED Talk over. This conversation has gone way too deep for a yacht at sunset. We should be talking about vacation-y things, like, I don’t know… how rich people act super weird on vacation. Don’t you guys ever get shitfaced and just stare at tropical fish through a snorkel mask?”
“I don’t believe I’ve ever observed marine life while under the influence of alcohol.”
“See?” She throws her hands up. “That’s tragic! You billionaires have no clue how to have normal human fun. It’s all privately curated tours and seven-course meals with unpronounceable names.Where’s the adventure? The spontaneity? The regrettable sunburn you bitch about for weeks afterward?”
Something reckless stirs in my chest. “You want adventure? Follow me.”
Five minutes later, we emerge from the glass elevator onto the bottom deck of the boat.
Spotting the camouflaged wall panel, I place my hand on the smooth, cool surface. With a silent whoosh, a section slides back, revealing a narrow spiral staircase that fades into darkness.
“Troublemakers first.”
She doesn’t hesitate.
The staircase curves downward, our footsteps echoing softly against metal treads. At the bottom, we step into a small circular room that resembles a high-end meditation pod. A single couch wraps around the entire space, one continuous curve of white cushions.
“Oh wow. A circle couch,” she deadpans.
“You still think I can’t impress you, huh? I find that oddly motivating. You wanted a fish adventure? How about one only billionaires get?”
Before she can fire off another smart-ass retort, I flip the master switch. The lights cut out, plunging us into inky blackness. Petra’s breath catches. Then—CLICK—the darkness outside is swallowed up by spotlights, flicking on, one by one.
The walls… aren’t walls at all.
They’re windows.
The entire circular room is encased in glass, a pod submerged beneath the ocean’s surface that offers panoramic views of the illuminated sea floor.
“Oh shit! Are we underwater?”
“It’s essentially a submarine merged with a glass-bottom boat,” I explain, watching her face cycle through shock, wonder, and pure delight. “Billionaires prefer to observe nature’s beauty without risking a wedgie from a wetsuit.”
“Did Bryce Sterling just crack a joke?”
She scrambles onto the curved seating, pressing both palms against the window, nose touching the glass. Her enthusiasm is infectious.
“I can see the ocean floor. And holy shit! Is that a dolphin over there?! Fuck me! That’s a shark! That’s an actual shark!”
A massive hammerhead glides past our window. She squeals.
