Chapter 2
Chapter Two
Brody
I cracked an eye open, feeling like I'd been hit by a fucking truck, my mouth full of hair that sure as hell wasn't mine.
Groaning, I tried to piece together the shit show from last night, but my goddamn phone wouldn't stop buzzing like a pissed-off hornet.
“Make it stop,” groaned a sleepy voice next to me.
I turned my head, coming face to face with a smoking hot blonde whose name I couldn't remember for the life of me. Stacy? Sienna? Definitely something starting with S.
“Yeah, yeah,” I grunted, reaching for my phone. The screen was lit up like the Vegas strip, and it didn’t take long to see it was mostly crap from Jerry, my pain-in-the-ass manager.
I squinted at the latest message: “Big news. Call ASAP.”
Fan-fucking-tastic. Just what I needed to fix this hangover from hell.
I untangled myself from the sheets, careful not to disturb… Sandra? Savannah? Fuck it, who cares? Wasn't gonna see her again anyway.
That was the beauty of my life—no strings, no bullshit, just me conquering the world while my followers drooled over my badass adventures.
Stumbling to the kitchen, I searched for coffee as my phone started ringing again. Jerry's ugly mug flashed on the screen. I sighed, deciding if I stopped dodging him, maybe the damn phone would shut the hell up.
“What the fuck do you want, Jer?” I answered, not even trying to sound happy.
“Brody, you magnificent bastard!” Jerry's voice boomed, making my head throb. “How's my favorite crazy son of a bitch this morning?”
I grunted, wrestling with the coffee maker. “Cut the crap, Jerry. What's this new job you're yapping about?”
“Right to business, eh? That's my boy!” Jerry chuckled. “Listen up, 'cause I've got news that'll make your dick hard.”
I raised an eyebrow, intrigued despite myself. “Spit it out already.”
“You're going to be working with Avery Grant,” Jerry announced like I should give a shit who that was. When I didn't respond, he continued, “She's a journalist known for her fancy travel pieces and hating on influencer culture.”
“You want me to work with some prissy bitch who hates what I do? How the fuck is that going to help my brand?” I growled, feeling my blood pressure rise.
Jerry's voice dropped to a sly tone. “Use your head, Brody. The clash of styles, the tension between her stuffy bullshit and your badass ways—it's fucking gold! Your followers will lose their minds, and we'll grab a whole new crowd by the balls.”
I leaned against the counter, my head pounding like a jackhammer. “Sounds like a clusterfuck waiting to happen, Jerry.”
“Trust me on this one,” Jerry pushed. “I've got it all worked out with her editor. It's going to be a series on romantic travel spots, but with your signature 'holy shit' factor. You'll drag her out of her comfort zone, and she'll add some fancy words to your content. It's a win-win.”
I couldn't help but snort. “Romantic destinations? Come on, Jerry. That's not how I roll.”
“Exactly, you dense motherfucker!” Jerry exclaimed. “It's unexpected. It's fresh. It's what you need to keep your audience desperate for more. Plus, think of all the steamy shit you could pull. Your female followers will soak their panties.”
“Steamy shit? What does this woman even look like?”
“That is not going to be a problem,” Jerry said, laying on the enthusiasm so thick it made me decidedly nervous.
But I just sighed, knowing the asshole wouldn't let up. Besides, my motto was “in it for the chaos.” And what was more chaotic than being able to stir up a little pot of prim and proper?
“Whatever. When do we start this shitshow?”
“Yes!” Jerry's excitement was like nails on a chalkboard. “I'll send you the details. For now, just start thinking about how you can rock this Avery chick's world. Show her what a real fucking adventure looks like.”
As I ended the call, I heard movement behind me. The blonde—Sophie? Stella?—came out of the bedroom, fully dressed.
“Hey,” she said, with a shy smile. “Last night was fun.”
“Yeah, it was,” I replied. “You heading out?”
She nodded but looked disappointed. “Yeah, I've got work. But maybe we could grab dinner sometime?”
“Sure,” I lied, knowing it'd never happen. “I'll give you a call.”
As she left, I felt a twinge of… something. Guilt?
Nah, fuck that. Easier this way. No strings, no one to let down.
I shook it off and focused on my coffee, scrolling through my phone.
Another sponsorship, comments from thirsty fans, a reminder about some product placement bullshit. This was my life—carefully planned adventures and brand deals, all packaged to keep the likes rolling in.
But catching my reflection in the window, I noticed the tired look in my eyes.
The Brody Hawkins staring back at me was a far cry from the badass my followers got off to. For a second, I wondered what it'd be like to just… stop. To have a real fucking conversation, a genuine connection, without worrying about how many thumbs up it would get.
But I quickly pushed that pussy shit away. No time for deep thoughts. I had a new gig to prep for and a stuck-up journalist to break in.
Hitting the couch with my laptop, I started digging into Avery Grant. As I scrolled through her stuff, my irritation grew.
Everything about her was the opposite of my brand. Where I was all about spontaneous thrills, she was all about boring-ass planning and “cultural immersion.” Her Instagram was full of artsy-fartsy shots of markets and “hidden gems.”
One post in particular caught my eye—a bitchy takedown of influencer culture.
I felt personally attacked reading her words: “These self-proclaimed adventure seekers reduce rich cultural experiences to mere backdrops for their carefully staged photos, prioritizing likes over genuine engagement with local communities.”
“Fuck you too, Avery Grant,” I muttered. “Why don't you pull that stick out of your ass?”
But as much as I wanted to tell her to go fuck herself, a tiny part of me couldn't help but see some truth in her words. How many times had I rushed through a place, more worried about getting the perfect shot than actually experiencing the shit around me?
My phone pinged, interrupting my thoughts.
Some sponsor reminding me about an upcoming collab. I sighed, realizing how much of my life revolved around keeping up the online bullshit. Working with someone like Avery suddenly felt like both a challenge and a threat to my image.
But you know what? Bring it on.
I was going to show this uptight bitch what real adventure looked like.
I hauled my ass off the couch and stalked over to the wall plastered with photos of my conquests. My eyes locked onto an old picture of me and my brother Jason, taken just days before the climbing accident that took him out.
We were grinning like idiots, faces caked with dirt, high on the rush of dominating that mountain.
A wave of guilt rolled through me.
“I'm trying, Jason,” I muttered. “Trying to live enough for both of us, you crazy jackass.”
But even as I said it, I knew it was bullshit.
Jason would probably piss himself laughing if he could see me now, more worried about my fucking follower count than the thrill of conquest.
I shoved the thought away, not ready to deal with the shitstorm of emotions tied to my brother's memory. Instead, I dove back into stalking Avery online, finding myself both impressed by her achievements and pissed off by her rigid approach.
I stumbled on a pic of her at some roadside café.
Despite my initial irritation, I couldn't help but admire the view.
Avery had this intense vibe about her, those honey-brown eyes sharp as a fucking knife as she smiled at the camera. Her wavy brown hair was tied back in a messy bun, a few strands escaping to frame her face.
I caught myself staring and slammed the laptop shut.
This gig was strictly business—and a battle of wills. I couldn't afford to get distracted by a pretty face, especially one attached to someone hellbent on tearing down everything I stood for.
My phone buzzed again, this time with the trip's itinerary.
I took a deep breath, steeling myself for what promised to be my biggest fucking challenge yet. Avery Grant probably thought she had me all figured out, but I was going to show her that there was more to Brody Hawkins than perfectly posed Instagram shots.
I skimmed through the schedule, my eyebrows shooting up with each sentence. Romantic excursions? Cultural immersion? This was so far out of my wheelhouse it might as well have been on Mars.
But as I read on, a plan started forming in my twisted mind. If they wanted romance and culture, I'd give it to them—Brody Hawkins style. I could already picture Avery's face as I turned her carefully planned itinerary into a fucking rollercoaster of spontaneous adventures.
Finally, I felt that familiar rush of excitement.
Avery Grant wouldn't know what hit her, and I'd make damn sure she remembered every heart-pounding second of it. Time to claim my territory and show her who was really in charge.
My mind was buzzing with ideas on how to tackle this gig. Should I go balls-to-the-wall chaos from the get-go or ease Ms. Uptight into my world bit by bit? The devil on my shoulder was screaming for chaos, but a tiny voice of reason (sounding annoyingly like Jason) suggested I dial it back a notch.
I couldn't help but wonder what Miss Perfect was up to. Probably color-coding her fucking itinerary or some shit. The thought made me smirk. She was in for one hell of a wake-up call if she thought everything would go according to her precious plan.
Her words about influencers turning rich experiences into shallow backdrops were like a thorn in my side that wouldn’t let go. Was that really all I'd become? Some weak adrenaline junkie more worried about followers than real experiences?
I shook my head, trying to shake off the doubts. I was Brody Hawkins, Adventure God. I had millions of followers hanging on my every post, living vicariously through me.
That had to mean something, right?
But I couldn't shake the nagging feeling that this trip might be about more than just padding my follower count. Maybe it was time to remember why I fell in love with this shit in the first place.
Yanking out my phone, I scrolled through my Instagram.
The posed shots and meticulously crafted captions suddenly tasted like ash in my mouth. When was the last time I'd posted something real, something that wasn't calculated bullshit?
My thumb hovered over ‘New Post.’
On impulse, I switched to the camera and snapped a quick selfie—no filters, no staging, just me with my mess of hair and tired-ass eyes, a hint of “what the fuck am I doing” in my smile.
I stared at the pic for a long time before typing: “Off on a new fucking adventure. Time to remember what really matters. #NoFilter #RealLife.”
My finger hesitated over ‘Share.’ This wasn't my usual polished crap. What would my followers think? What would my sponsors say?
But then I thought of Jason and the pure joy we used to feel just being out in the world.
With a silent “fuck it,” I hit the button.
As the post uploaded, I felt like I'd just dropped a 50-pound weight. It was a small step, but it felt like the start of something big.
I saw flashes of the shit to come—jaw-dropping views, heart-stopping thrills, and at the center of it all, a pair of sharp honey-brown eyes she probably thought would see right through my bullshit.
The poor woman was practically begging to be messed with.
I'd play nice at first, let her think she had me figured out. Then, when she least expected it, I’d flip her whole fucking world upside down with the Brody Hawkins experience.
Suddenly, I was actually itching to meet Avery Grant.
Sure, she was wound tighter than a cheap watch, but there was something about her that had me curious. I’d bet that under all that prissy bullshit was a woman who loved travel as much as I did—even if she was too damn tense to admit it.
The uptight journalist versus the wild-child influencer. The control freak versus the chaos master. This trip was going to be a fucking riot.
Let the games begin, sweetheart. You are not ready for what's coming.