Mexico Can Choke On It (Hot Mess Summer #3)
CHAPTER ONE
PETRA
Thank fuck it’s Friday.
This is the kind of day that dry-humps your dignity, kicks you in the emotional shin, and then farts in your face for an extra layer of humiliation.
I’ve got a whopping forty-five minutes to snag some lunch and FaceTime my best friends. It marks the first time all week I don’t want to stab something. And honestly? I’m clinging to it like a life raft made of melted mozzarella and juicy gossip.
I’m in the driver’s seat of my car, twisted into a reverse down dog position.
My butt’s smashed against the steering wheel, and my face is practically kissing the passenger seat floor.
I’m not proud (but also not ashamed) as I dig through God knows what, now touching some kind of sticky goo.
Is that a smooshed fry? Melted gum? All I know is, it’s nasty.
I’ve survived twenty-five years on this flaming hell rock, but hands down…
this week takes the crown for the worst ever.
I knew it’d feel shitty—selling my soul to my perfectionist older brother to work in his corporate empire—but throw in zero sleep, a gas tank thirstier th an I am, and an outfit still soggy from my building’s broken-ass dryer? And yeah…
Today sucks ass. And not in the fun, consensual way.
My jet-black hair falls into my eyes as I shove aside a tower of coffee cups—growing steadily since my last “I’ll clean my car next weekend, I swear” promise. And then—a quarter!
“Score one for Petra Brinkman! This day is looking up.”
I peel off the melted orange Starburst that has fused to the metal then exit my car—a mid-2000s black Lexus LS 400.
Sounds classy, but one look at the mismatched silver panel and…
not so much. The thing is a piece of crap with rust spots, duct tape, and graffiti, more like a rolling middle finger than a car.
My brother Gavin says it’s why people think I sell meth.
Whatever. It’s paid for and it runs… most of the time.
Oh, and the trunk? Um, that’s a massive dick. Some genius from my sketchy neighborhood in Hollywood spray-painted a huge penis with the words: Choke On It.
All right, fine, it was me. I thought it was hilarious.
It started as a joke, but now it’s my anti-theft system and life philosophy. No one’s gonna grand theft auto this busted chariot—they’re too scared it’ll explode or stall. But the joke’s on them. Still a Lexus, baby. Suck it, trust fund kids.
Here in Beverly Hills, my beat-up ride is the equivalent of arriving at the Met Gala in a garbage bag and Crocs.
I’m wedged like an unwelcome thought between luxury vehicles.
To my left? A pearl-white Bentley that probably gets exfoliated and waxed daily.
To my right? A Maserati that runs on the tears of the working class.
Every car parked on this street is a trophy wife on wheels, not a hint of bird poop in sight .
I tap my steering wheel. “Don’t sweat it, girl. You belong here just as much as they do. Sure, your A/C is wheezing its final confession, but that’s our business. No one’s gonna treat us like some hot mess cousin with trust issues and a tattoo obsession.”
I flip down my sun visor, the mirror panel hanging by one stubborn hinge. My reflection stares back, unimpressed.
“Let’s not look like a total disaster,” I mutter, digging into my bag for my lipstick. I swipe it on, pressing my lips together in a practiced move.
Sexpot Red. Wet n’ Wild. $1.99 at any drugstore. I’ve been wearing this color since high school. It’s less fashion statement and more warning label . The kind of red that says, I came here to ruin your day.
My full lips—the only feature I inherited from my father besides his uncanny ability to disappoint—bloom crimson against my pale skin.
Ah, crap. I spot some mascara flakes under my hazel-green eyes and gently rub them away.
My winged eyeliner? Still sharp enough to kill a man.
This midnight hair of mine is caught in that in-between style—half waves, half straight. I tuck a piece behind my ear, revealing the tiny broken heart tattoo hidden there: a quiet reminder of the first and last time I wore my heart on my sleeve.
Time for a wardrobe adjustment.
“Sorry, ladies,” I say, kicking off the heels I found at a consignment shop. When you’re living on mac and cheese, thrifting is essential. They’re not actual Louboutins, but a clever touch of red nail polish on the soles passes them off as “Faux-boutins.”
The scuffs at the toes tell the truth .
Reaching into the back seat (and nearly dislocating my shoulder) , I grab my combat boots. “Come to mama,” I grunt, hauling them onto my lap.
These babies have stomped through protests, bar fights, and a blind date so terrible it deserves its own standup routine. The leather’s all cracked, the strings frayed, but they feel like home. I jam my feet in—laces be damned—wiggle my toes, and breathe easier.
I grab my worn black leather jacket off the seat, slip it on, and step out of the car. Even if life is crap and I’m forced to wear a pencil skirt and blouse for work, in my real life—the one that matters—I can still look badass.
BAM! The door slams shut with a kick (it needs the encouragement) . The loud bang echoes across the hushed promenade. Two women clutch their designer handbags and give me a please-don’t-mug-me expression.
Good.
Let them worry. I’m not here to blend in.
I strut toward the meter, my personal soundtrack blaring in my head—“Bad Reputation” by Joan Jett, obviously—my anthem since before I wore a bra.
Beverly Hills is like the ultimate rich girl’s Instagram feed—flawless, filtered, and fake as hell.
Pretentious designer labels. Botoxed smiles.
Entitled, holier-than-thou attitudes. Royalty in their own minds.
The trees are trimmed to perfection, the trash bins smell of eucalyptus, and even the pigeons may have had a little nip and tuck.
I should know. I grew up here.
I jam my quarter into the parking meter, but it bounces back as if it’s allergic to poor people.
“Come on.” I try again, wiggling it, but the slot is clearly jammed. “Take my money, you greedy little troll!”
I yank out my debit card and tap it against the reader. It blinks. Then nothing.
“Are you fucking kidding me?”
I tap it again.
Again.
Nothing. No mocking beep. No error message. Shit!
“Screw it. The Beverly Hills meter mafia doesn’t scare me.”
I cram my card back into my wallet, where it lounges in sad solidarity with my maxed-out Visa and an expired condom. I mutter a final curse at the meter. I now have forty minutes to inhale my lunch and talk to my besties. Then it’s back to the hellscape that is my brother’s office.
I step into California Pizza Kitchen and inhale. The holy trinity: dough, cheese, and overpriced IPA.
Edison bulbs dangle like they’re trying to look edgy, abstract art vomits color across the walls, and the crowd is peak LA—assistants power-lunching and tourists who wandered in thinking this is where the celebrities eat.
Amateurs. The real power players are three streets over, drinking liquid gold and eating endangered species off the backs of unpaid interns.
The bar’s got a few open seats left, so I slide onto a high-top stool, the leather still warm from someone else’s ass.
The hot bartender’s rocking a man-bun, sleeve tattoos, and a face that says, I may have been an actor in that biker show you didn’t see . He slides me a menu.
“Don’t need it. Whatever IPA is on draft. BBQ chicken pizza. Extra cilantro. No judgment. ”
“Why would I judge a woman who knows what she wants?”
“You say that to all the overworked assistants or just the ones in combat boots?”
He grins. “Only the ones who might bite.”
I like him immediately.
As he walks off to place my order, I tap the green Call button on my contact labeled: CPK Forever.
The name’s a tribute to our college obsession with California Pizza Kitchen. Also, our initials: Cam, Petra, Katie.
Camila Morales and Katie Crawford.
My ride-or-dies since freshman year of college.
The people in my life who accept me exactly as I am. The me who went through a devastating heartbreak and ugly-cried so hard in a bathtub, they both climbed in and hugged me fully clothed.
In my experience, finding friends like that is a fucking miracle, so I cherish the hell out of them.
Katie’s face pops into frame, her blonde hair in perfect waves—despite what looks like a very bumpy bus ride.
“You survived your first week and didn’t burn the place down!”
“The day’s not over yet.” I smirk.
The bartender slides me a beer, and I raise it in a silent toast then take a swig.
“Can we backtrack to the decision where you spontaneously flew to Italy and I wasn’t invited to be your morally corrupt plus-one?”
“Trust me, Spontaneous Katie is having major regrets. This trip is a disaster. My tour guide keeps changing the itinerary for ‘authentic moments’ and ‘true Italian experiences.’”
She flips the camera to the window, and there it is—the Italian countryside in all its dreamy, rolling glory, blurring past.
“I’m on a bus headed to Tuscany today,” she continues, her voice rising over the background noise. “The windows are smudged, it smells like someone died in here, and the guy behind me is eating tuna.”
“Hold up—pan back to the front of the bus.”
“Why?”
“Because I wanna see this menace who dares to disrespect your schedule. And maybe judge how tight his pants are.”
Katie rotates her phone with an exasperated sigh. The Italian Stallion turns toward the camera as if he knows he’s being watched. Holy mother of thirst traps. He’s gesturing passionately about something, his smile flashing white against olive skin, and my God he has perfectly tousled dark hair.
“That’s Matteo. The bane of my itinerary’s existence.”
“You don’t have to like the guy to have sex with him.”