CHAPTER FOUR
brYCE
I shouldn’t be here. Full stop.
A grown man in a five-thousand-dollar Armani tux with Sterling blood running through his veins does not loiter outside Hollywood dive bars at one in the morning like he’s waiting to make a drug deal.
And yet—here I sit.
I could’ve called. Texted. Sent a car service. Hell, I could’ve drafted a strongly worded email. But no. Here I am—camped out in my car across from the Broken Bottle, looking less CEO and more two-bad-decisions-away from having my own TMZ headline.
And why?
Because apparently convincing Petra Brinkman to do one decent thing for her brother requires an intervention.
This isn’t about her.
It’s about Gavin.
About cushioning the fallout I know is coming.
I’m here to get Petra on board. Convince her to agree to his Mexico wedding plan.
Stabilize the situation before I upend it with my own bombshell—and walk away from the only real friendship I’ve ever built.
Before I disappear into the empire that’s been waiting to chain me to a gold desk since birth.
First, get Petra to Mexico.
Next, tell Gavin the truth.
Then, pray he won’t hate me for the rest of his life.
A simple, manageable sequence.
Still… I tap my thumb lightly against the steering wheel of my Aston Martin. Tap. Tap. Tap. If I’m being brutally honest—a habit I usually try to avoid—there’s a second reason.
Curiosity.
Dangerous, inconvenient curiosity about the woman who turned another boring gala into a full-contact sport—who came and left like a human tornado in a room of marble statues.
I hold up the picture on my phone sent courtesy of my mother’s private security detail.
It matches the vehicle I see parked on the street.
They weren’t kidding about her rolling death trap.
The driver’s door is held on by duct tape.
The back left window is covered in plastic wrap.
The trunk proudly displays: Choke On It in spray paint with a giant pink penis.
Jesus, Pip.
Why does she insist on driving something so blatantly… subversive? Pride? Stubbornness? The perverse joy of knowing it makes people like me uncomfortable?
I could buy her a new vehicle. Have it delivered anonymously. One that’s sensible. Safe.
But I can already see how that would go. She’d track me down, those hazel-green eyes blazing with fury, and set the car on fire in my driveway to prove she doesn’t need handouts .
Heat rushes through my body at the mental image—Petra silhouetted by flames, defiant and wild and so goddamn gorgeous.
“Get a grip, Sterling.”
The bar door swings open. A group of guys spill out, laughing and shoving each other. One of them vomits into the gutter. Lovely.
Through the grimy windows, I catch occasional glimpses of my best friend’s sister behind the counter, slinging drinks with the same take-no-prisoners efficiency she applied to demolishing my family’s priceless antiques.
The sound of porcelain shattering echoes in my memory. Five hundred years of ancient Chinese artistry, reduced to dust beneath Petra’s combat boots.
And God help me, I’d found myself fighting back a smile.
Should I waltz in? Just march across those sticky floors and drag her out? That would go over well. Nothing says “do your brother a favor” like being dragged away from your workplace by a billionaire on a power trip.
Besides, one photo of me inside that establishment, and the headlines would write themselves.
Billionaire CEO Slumming It at Hollywood Hole in the Wall
Heir to Sterling Fortune Caught in Scandalous Night Out
Money Mogul’s Secret Tryst with Tattooed Vixen
Not that Petra would care what they write. Those are the things that keep men with empires to protect awake at night.
Money. Image. Power.
She doesn’t give a damn about any of it. Never has .
In a world where I’ve spent twenty-nine years navigating the intricacies of salad forks and PR crisis classes, Petra Brinkman is a bomb of authenticity.
She refuses to put on a show or fake politeness.
She enters a room as herself—attitude problem and all—daring anyone to challenge her right to be there.
A feeling dangerously close to envy coils in my chest.
When was the last time I did anything without calculating the optics?
I’m considering texting her—though what I’d say, I have no idea—when the bar door opens again, spilling yellow light onto the dirty sidewalk like a beer puddle.
And there she is.
Petra steps out, a vision in black leather and defiance. She slides in her AirPods, pulls up her hood, and grabs something from her shoulder bag before taking off down the street toward her car. She moves like a girl on a goddamn mission.
I toss my phone onto the passenger seat, open the door, and swiftly exit. My Aston chirps as I click the key fob.
“Hey!” I call after her.
Nothing. Not even a hesitation in her stride. Either those AirPods are blasting death metal at eardrum-rupturing volume, or she’s deliberately ignoring me.
Based on our history, I’m betting on the latter.
I pick up the pace, the sidewalk slick under my dress shoes. “Slow down. We need to talk.”
Still no response. I’m momentarily captivated by her swaying hips. Damn.
“Wait a second—”
I reach out and tap her shoulder.
Mistake.
Huge, catastrophic mistake .
The world explodes into pure, undiluted agony. Pain detonates in my chest, shooting down my arms, locking my knees. My entire nervous system declares mutiny. Every cell in my body launches into a simultaneous riot. My blood is replaced with Pop Rocks and Coca-Cola.
BZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ!!!
My teeth chatter like castanets in a flamenco band. My eyeballs are trying to escape my skull to save themselves.
“GLARB-NURBLE-GNAAAAARGH!”
Is that sound coming from me?
I can’t stop shaking.
Why am I shaking?
I think I’m going to piss myself.
Is this death? Am I ascending?
No, you idiot —the microscopic part of my brain not currently being jelly-fied forms the realization:
I’M. BEING. TASED.
Through the static frying my neurons, I hear Petra shriek: “OH FUCK! brYCE?!”
Yes. Hello.
I’m the human marshmallow you’re currently roasting.
I try to answer, but the only thing that comes out is a mangled, “Blarghh—
My legs give out.
I hit the ground hard, the key fob flying from my hand and bouncing into the street. The asphalt is cold and gritty under my palms. I blink up at the sky, my vision swimming with neon halos.
“Shit, shit— okay—don’t move,” she pants, patting me down as though she’s checking for smuggled weapons. “You’re fine. You’re… fine-ish.”
“FNNNNGGG-WIZZLE-GUBB!”
What the hell just came out of my mouth?
She places her hand firmly on my chest, feeling my heart race, and leans in close. From this position, I have a clear view down her shirt.
I’ve closed million-dollar deals while half-asleep. I’ve given keynote speeches in front of Fortune 500 CEOs. I’ve led high-stakes negotiations without breaking a sweat.
But right now? All my brain can manage is:
Boobs.
Boobs.
Holy shit, Petra’s braless. Naked. Boobs.
I make an embarrassing whimper noise in the back of my throat.
She frowns, leaning closer. “Stay with me, okay? Focus. How many fingers am I holding up?”
“Plurple-fish boobs,” I answer with absolute confidence.
Her eyebrows shoot up into her hairline. “Oh my God, I liquified your brain. Gavin is going to murder me. Moneybags, if you can hear me, tell me your name.”
“Blue. Blue hamblurgers.”
“I need to take you to a hospital!”
“No stabular. No hob bub. No snorck-slickle.”
“Are you trying to say no hospital?”
“YEEP-DE-DOOP!” I confirm solemnly.
I make an effort to lift my arm, wanting to brush her hand. Assure her I’m not brain-dead. Maybe… touch those perky—
“If you don’ t want the ER, then let’s get you home to Amanda. Where’s your driver? Wait. Did you drive here?”
“Car Vrooooom-zoom-Vrrrr-SKRRRT!”
“Now we’re getting somewhere. Where are your keys?”
“House lake… Amanda? Poof . Teenagers. Vampire blood?”
“Annnnd we’re back to gibberish. Seriously, what were you thinking? You can’t sneak up on a woman after dark! Do you have any idea how the real world works?”
I lift my right hand triumphantly. “Key!”
“There’s nothing in your hand, B. You must have dropped them.”
I stare at her as she crawls around the sidewalk, voice muffled as she peers under a parked car.
“I’m a menace. I tased a billionaire. Don’t need a law degree to know I’m definitely going to jail for this.”
Even half-electrocuted, I’m powerless against the pull of those tempting lips.
Still painted that defiant red—like the warning signs my brain should have registered before I climbed out of my vehicle to pursue her.
Red like the embarrassment that’ll eventually replace the numbness in my extremities… if feeling ever returns.
“Aha!” Petra bolts upright, pointing triumphantly toward the center of the road. “Found your fob! Stay here. Don’t move a muscle.”
I would laugh at the absurdity of her instruction if my facial muscles were cooperating. Instead, I manage what I suspect is a horrifying grimace.
She gets to her feet, brushing dirt off her jeans as—
A giant street sweeper with spinning brushes and industrial-strength vacuum power rounds the corner. Its headlights are blinding.
“No, no, NO!” She breaks into a run, arms windmilling.
Too late.
WHIRRRRRR-SLUUUUURP-CLUNK!
My fifteen-thousand-dollar Aston Martin key fob is slurped up by the city’s cleaning behemoth.
“Are you freaking kidding me?!” she shouts at the retreating machine. “These streets are never cleaned. Ever! What, did you sense the billionaire and send out the emergency sparkle team? Trying to make the gutters nice and shiny for Mr. Moneybags here?! UGH. Great job! You missed the used condom!”
Petra stomps back to me, each footfall an exclamation point of rage. I’m still sprawled on the concrete feeling like a gooey puddle.