CHAPTER FOUR #2
“Okay, you’re clearly disoriented, you don’t want a hospital, I don’t know where the hell you live, and your keys are somewhere inside the Bermuda Triangle of the L.A. Sanitation Department.”
She exhales sharply, like this next part physically hurts her.
“I can’t believe I’m saying this… but I’m taking you to my place. Come on, B. Push up on three,” she instructs, gripping my waist. “One… two… THREE!”
Somehow, through sheer brute strength and an unholy amount of grunting, Petra gets me vertical.
Or vertical-ish.
She half-drags, half-shoves me toward her beat-up vehicle. She kicks open the passenger door, and a cascade of papers and crumpled napkins fall out.
“VIP treatment, Moneybags.”
I survey the passenger seat—currently home to what appears to be half of her worldly possessions. Fast food wrappers. Crumpled receipts. A textbook on constitutional law. And at least six empty coffee cups with varying levels of lipstick stains.
She scoops up the debris with one arm, maintaining her death grip on my waist with the other. The contents are unceremoniously dumped into the back seat.
“Bet your fancy car doesn’t come with artisanal garbage.”
Folding my six-foot-two frame into her compact car is an exercise in human origami. My knees hit the dashboard. My shoulders scrape the doorframe. My head finds every hard surface on the way down.
“Bend! You have to bend!” she shouts, pushing on my shoulders. “Your legs go INSIDE the door!”
“Spaghetti legs are jellyfish,” I inform her helpfully.
After an impressive string of creative profanity, she manages to stuff me into the seat.
“Seat belt,” she pants, reaching across my lap. Her face is inches from mine, close enough that I notice tiny flecks of gold in her eyes. A loose strand of hair brushes my cheek. My heart rate doubles instantly.
God, she smells good.
Or at least I think she smells good.
Could be the electrical burn still cooking my brain.
She slides into the driver’s seat and jams the key into the ignition. Nothing happens. Not a single sputter.
“Come on, girl,” she coos to the dashboard, patting it lovingly. “Start for Mama. I just fed you the expensive gasoline yesterday.”
She tries again. And again. On the ninth attempt, the engine coughs to life like a pack-a-day smoker.
I stick my tongue out to celebrate.
It feels… wrong .
“Hairy tongue. Like kitty cat. Meow.” I attempt to demonstrate a cat licking its paw.
“Oh, I’m in so much fucking trouble with my brother,” Petra groans. “I’ve kidnapped a tased billionaire who thinks he’s a cat.”
I wiggle my tongue again, trying to see it in the rearview mirror.
It looks normal. It does not feel normal.
I scratch frantically at my tongue like I can scrape the imaginary fur off it.
Petra watches out of the corner of her eye. “So, your arm works now. Miracle one complete. Time to jumpstart those legs, and you might survive climbing two flights of stairs to my apartment.”
Two flights? That feels… ambitious.
I concentrate hard on my lower extremities. Are they tingling? Something is definitely waking up down there. A very specific throbbing begins to register.
“Legs move,” I announce proudly.
We come to a stop at a red light. Petra turns to check my progress—and her eyes go comically wide.
“I hate to break it to you, B” she says slowly, gaze fixed firmly below my waist, “but that’s your, uh, third leg you’re… flexing.”
I peer down at my crotch and—oh.
OH.
My penis is at full attention, creating a tent in my dress pants. And it’s… twitching. Rhythmically. Like a dog’s tail wagging with hyper enthusiasm.
I should be mortified. I should be apologizing profusely and covering myself with the closest object.
Instead, I find myself grinning like an idiot. Why? Because this isn’t real. It can’t be .
Nothing—absolutely nothing—in my careful, overly planned existence has ever been this unhinged, chaotic, off-the-rails insane.
That’s how I know this is a dream. I’m safely at home, in my king-plus-king-sized bed, experiencing the most vivid dream of my life.
Or I’m dead.
***
This is fucking real. Turns out, not a hallucination.
I suck in a breath, the air reeking of smoke, urine, and what I assume is the shattered dreams of everyone who’s ever walked down this block.
There’s a burning trash can on the corner, flames licking at the night sky, surrounded by a bunch of men passing a bottle in a brown paper bag.
Barred windows jut out like warning signs, and graffiti scars every building.
Streetlights flicker, casting shadows that prowl like predators.
Police sirens scream in the distance—and then not-so-distant.
Petra’s neighborhood is so bad, her car actually blends in.
“Almost there, B. Just ten more steps.”
My thighs are shaking. My lungs are staging a protest. I lean more heavily on her than I should, but Pip doesn’t slow down. She manhandles me up another flight of stairs, until finally— finally —she fumbles a key into a dented door and kicks it open.
I stagger inside… Good God. Her apartment is a crime scene.
“You’ve been robbed. ”
“Well, well. Look who can form full sentences again. Shame. I was enjoying your billionaire babble.”
The space assaults all my senses at once.
A mattress on the floor drowning in a sea of mismatched blankets and pillows.
An orange couch that looks like it was rescued from the curb.
The “kitchen” is a mere mini-fridge with a two-burner hot plate.
Books are stacked in precarious towers, clothes draped over every available surface.
Christmas lights zigzag across one wall, providing the only warmth against the harsh overhead lighting.
I’m frozen at the threshold, afraid the floor might collapse if I step too hard. Or that whatever’s living under that pile of laundry on the couch might bite.
I rub my forehead, trying to remind myself why I’m here. Get Petra to say yes to Mexico. That’s it. Convince her, call my driver, and get the hell out of here before I need a tetanus shot.
“Is this your first time seeing how the other ninety-nine percent lives? Should I prepare a guided tour? ‘And to your left, you’ll see the exotic sight of someone living paycheck to paycheck.’”
“Do you even have a restroom?” I blurt out, scanning the chaotic open area.
“I’m not that poor,“ Petra snorts. She crosses the limited floor space in three strides and flings open the only interior door with a dramatic flourish. “Ta-da! Indoor plumbing. Ain’t I fancy?”
The bathroom is so small it appears to have been an architectural afterthought, as if the contractor remembered humans have biological functions only after finishing the rest of the apartment.
“It’s efficient,” she says, patting the doorframe. “I can brush my teeth, shower, and pee all at the same time. Real time-saver on busy mornings. ”
There’s no tub, just a shower stall so narrow it makes the lavatory on my private jet look like a Roman bath. “I’ve seen bigger showers on sailboats,” I mutter, immediately regretting the observation.
“Sorry the poverty tour isn’t meeting your standards. Next apartment viewing, I’ll request the deluxe model with gold-plated bidets and oyster dispensers.”
She’s living like this. Every day.
And somehow, she still smiles as if she’s daring the world to knock her down again.
A knot forms low in my stomach, tight and ugly and complicated as hell.
Petra flops down onto the mattress and kicks off her boots, her bare toes wiggling in triumph. She carelessly tosses her leather jacket onto a nearby pile of clothes. Her shirt rides up, exposing a delicious sliver of smooth, sinful skin and— is that a tattoo peeking above her waistband?
“Make yourself at home, Moneybags. But be warned—if you see something skitter across the floor, don’t try to fight it. You’ll lose.”
If my mother saw me like this, she’d have an aneurysm.
“And if you hear my front door open, it’s either a robber or a ghost, because I sure as hell don’t have a roommate.”
“I honestly can’t fathom where a roommate would sleep.”
“The couch, obviously.” She props up on her elbows, those full red lips curving into a smirk. “Or if they’re hot enough, they can share my bed.”
She pats the mattress, and the image of some random guy under her sheets sends a strange discomfort sliding through me. I’m not sure why I care. It shouldn’t matter .
Her type is probably muscle-bound bartenders from the low-light liquor lounge where she works. Or tattooed bikers with greasy hands and grimy fingernails.
This is ridiculous. Her dating life is not my concern.
“This was fun, but you should probably call your security detail to come get you. I’d rather not have a SWAT team rappelling through my window at three a.m. I’m already kissing that deposit goodbye—let’s not add broken windows to the bill.”
I pat down my pockets, coming up empty. “My phone’s in the Aston.”
“Fantastic. Okay, Billionaire Boy, you can’t just stand there looking traumatized by my poverty all night.” Petra jumps up from the bed, sweeping a mountain of clothes off her couch with one dramatic arm gesture. “Let me check out the damage I inflicted on you.”
“I’m fine.”
She presses a single finger against my chest—pain explodes like fireworks beneath my skin. I collapse onto the sofa with an embarrassing groan.
“Dear God,” I wheeze. “What did you do?”
“Fifty thousand volts of ‘don’t creep up on women after dark,’” she says. “Now take off your shirt so I can see how bad it is. But don’t get too comfortable, or I’ll charge you rent.”
I shrug out of my ruined tuxedo jacket and start unbuttoning my dress shirt. When I glance up, Petra has gone uncharacteristically quiet.
Her gaze tracks my fingers as I undo each button. The faintest hint of pink spreads across her cheekbones, and for the first time since I’ve known her, she looks almost… shy .
“Damn, Moneybags. I’m surprised the taser even penetrated that wall of muscle.”