CHAPTER SEVENTEEN #2
I buckle myself into the seat so fast it squeaks. Petra’s gaping as I slam my harness down shamelessly.
“Uh-oh,” she says as she drops beside me. “I think I’ve created an adrenaline junkie.”
The coaster starts its ominous climb skyward, and I fling my arms up like I’m surrendering.
“You know you’re not supposed to do that until the actual drop, right?” Petra snorts.
“I want to be prepared.”
“You’re so fucking adorable, I might die.”
“Please don’t. I’m saving the best ride for last… You.”
“That was always part of tonight’s agenda, Moneybags. Now quit trying to control my magical evening.”
The machine gears snap into position at the top. Petra flings her arms up, her eyes sparkling with excitement.
Then we drop.
HOLY MOTHER OF —
We plummet like skydivers without parachutes, screaming uncontrollably. My brain submits a formal objection to the rules of physics while my stomach relocates to my esophagus.
As we ascend for the second drop, I reach over and intertwine my fingers with hers. She lifts her eyes to mine, and we plunge once more, her face dissolving into bliss.
She’s positively glowing… My heart is going to burst. This is what I have been missing my whole life.
Not the adrenaline. Not the junk food. Not the thrill of breaking social protocol.
This.
Being completely authentic with another human being. No masks, no performance, no image to maintain. Just someone to be ridiculous with—and loving every second of it.
… and apparently, also motion sick.
Moments later, I’m doubled over a trash can confessing my sins to the garbage gods.
“Okay, champ,” Petra says, her hand making gentle circles on my back. “Let’s pump the brakes.”
She guides me to a bench and presses a water bottle into my trembling hands. “Sip. Don’t chug. We’re not here to waterboard your stomach.”
I obey as we settle into people-watching.
The carnival is a brilliant backdrop of neon lights and swirling music as locals greet each other with warm smiles.
An elderly couple strolls hand in hand, sharing a churro like it’s their first date.
Two young lovers embrace on the Ferris wheel, eyes only for each other.
I look past a group of teenage girls dancing for a TikTok, and that’s when I see her—
My gap-toothed accomplice from the Wheel of Fear. She’s standing near the rollercoaster with tears streaming down her cheeks. A woman who’s clearly her mother crouches beside her, gesturing helplessly.
“What do you think is wrong?” I ask, nodding toward the scene.
Petra follows my gaze, her expression softening. “I have a pretty good guess.”
She’s moving before I can respond, heading for the small family. The mother lifts her eyes, cautious, but Petra’s already handing over a thick stack of tickets—along with what appears to be every dollar in her wallet.
The child’s tears transform into squeals of delight as Petra crouches down for a high-five. The mother says, “ Gracias, gracias “ as she pats Petra’s arm with a gratitude that comes from unexpected kindness.
Petra returns, settling beside me like nothing happened.
“I’ve got a radar for single moms,” she says. “You can always tell. That look—dead tired but still hell-bent on making things magical. My mom wore it too, back when she maxed out credit cards on school supplies or scraped together whatever she could to make my birthday feel special.”
I watch as the young girl shows her ticket to the ride operator like it’s a golden pass to Willy Wonka’s factory.
“I had every financial need met,” I say quietly. “And every emotional need ignored. That’s why I gravitated toward Gavin. He had something I’d never experienced—a family who cared for each other.”
“Your family doesn’t know what they’re missing,” she says gently.
Petra rests her head on my shoulder, and for a brief moment, it feels normal—this parallel world. Watching this innocent child climb into her seat, arms up, grinning like she’s on a personal rollercoaster to heaven.
“Is that why you want to become a lawyer? To help struggling mothers?”
Petra’s eyes snap open like I just accused her of murder. “What makes you think I want that?”
“Well, your passionate speech about justice on the yacht, your tendency to correct those who are out of line, and the extensive collection of law books scattered throughout your apartment suggested as much.”
She’s quiet for a long moment, and I’m not sure if she’s touched or concerned that I noticed all those pieces and put them together.
“Please don’t tell Gavin. I’m not ready to spill that dream to him yet. But yeah, I wanna do pro bono work. Fight for the little guys who don’t have anybody in their corner. And if I’m lucky, maybe take down some evil corporations while I’m at it.”
I nod. “You have my word. And between us, I think you’ll make a remarkable lawyer. I would, however, strongly advise you to leave your taser outside the courtroom.”
“I dunno… Zapping the opposing counsel would be super effective during my opening statement.”
I thought I had Petra Brinkman figured out. Sarcastic bartender with a leather jacket and a death wish for authority figures.
But I’ve been seeing the tip of the iceberg.
Petra’s not wild for the sake of chaos—she’s a storm with purpose. She doesn’t start fights for fun; she stands up when someone’s getting steamrolled. She refuses to let the world stay broken .
She’s been underestimated her whole life. Dismissed as too loud, too messy, too tattooed, and yet she’s making it her mission to fight for people who get the same treatment. All while I’m going to be trapped three thousand miles away, feeding into the very things she’s fighting against.
The irony is so brutal it hurts.
“Well, if Sterling Industries ever finds itself in a lawsuit where you’re representing the other side,” I say, trying to keep my tone light, “I’ll tell our legal team to settle immediately. We’re guaranteed to lose.”
“Smart man. I like a guy who knows when he’s outmatched.” Petra places a gentle kiss on my cheek. “Should we call it a night?” she asks, glancing toward the carnival exit, where families trickle out with exhausted kids dragging oversized plushies.
“Actually, Pip, how about a walk on the beach?”
“Yeah,” she says quietly, her fingers sliding between mine. “That sounds… nice.”
I have to have more time with her.
I don’t just want Petra in my bed—I need her in my life. How the hell am I supposed to walk away from her after tomorrow?
***
“All right, B. Your turn, what’s the most rebellious thing you’ve ever done?”
She’s tucked between my legs, back snug against my chest. The salty ocean breeze nips at my skin as the two of us cuddle under a thin carnival blanket that smells like kettle corn and sea salt.
My jacket’s beneath us, doing its best to keep the damp beach from creeping in.
Her bare toes wiggle adorably in the sand.
Off in the distance, the carnival is shutting down, with rides going dark one by one.
“I once demanded a peanut butter and jelly sandwich after seeing one on a television commercial.”
“That’s your rebellion origin story? A PBJ?”
“I was six. Nanny Wetherby permitted me to watch the Disney Channel after I completed my economics tutorial early, and there was this advertisement—a regular boy unwrapping a slice of happiness in his lunch.” The memory feels both silly and poignant.
“What happened after you asked?”
“Mother referred to it as ‘culinary backsliding’ and promptly scheduled an emergency consultation with our family nutritionist. She was certain that processed foods would ruin my developing palate and turn me into—her words—‘a McDonald’s enthusiast.’”
Petra releases a full-body laugh that rattles my ribs. “Please tell me you’ve had a PBJ. If not, we’re on a mission to find a 24-hour market this instant.”
“Our chef smuggled me a sandwich the following week. White bread, creamy Jif, grape jelly—I ate it in the wine cellar like I was consuming contraband.”
“You radical little anarchist.”
“Okay, I have one. Are you planning to call a truce on this whole vendetta against Fiona after she becomes Mrs. Brinkman?”
“I have considered it.” Petra sighs. “Gavin seems happy, so maybe I can stand her. But if she hurts him—so help me God—I’ll shave her head in her sleep and donate the hair to one of her pet charities. You know, toupees for bald eagles or birds too broke for designer nests.”
“Vengeful and oddly specific.”
“Conspiracy theory time,” she announces. “I’m almost certain Nigel has a secret tattoo of Miss Muffy Von Cashmere the Second.”
I pretend to ponder. “Hmmm. I see. Go on.”
“I’ve given this a lot of thought… He’s a gold-digging butler.”
“He’s trying to marry the dog?”
“Why not? People do weird shit all the time for money.”
I can’t help the chuckle that escapes. “We should definitely investigate. He could be slowly poisoning her kibble to inherit her billion-dollar trust fund.”
“Laugh it up, B, but I think you just cracked the crime of the century. Surprise, surprise—the butler did it.”
We sit quietly, comfortably, and watch the tide come in.
“Might be smart to head back before we get wet.”
She tips her head and shoots me a look. “I thought you knew I like living dangerously? Makes me feel alive. You could use more of that.”
“Noted. But I’d rather test your limits.” I say, letting my tongue trace the sensitive spot behind her ear, teasing the hidden ink I know is there.
“My turn for a question,” I say softly. “What does the broken heart tattoo stand for?”
She stiffens. “Ugh. It’s dumb. Some guy broke my heart.”
I already hate him.
“Who?”
“Pass. Next question.”
The rejection stings, but I don’t push.
“Okay, different question. Why did you drop out of college to go to Europe?”
She sighs. “If I answer that, you’ll think less of me.”
“I doubt that.”
“I chose to be a walking cliché. I fled to another continent thinking maybe if I put an ocean between us, I could get over a guy who hurt me.”