I glance down at my outfit—living proof that desperation makes you do stupid things. After fleeing the meditation class, I raided the resort gift shop rather than return to our room. My shirt reads,Save the Rhinos… One Ride at a Time,in eye-searing neon, featuring two extremely enthusiastic rhinos mid-coitus. And, as if my humiliation wasn’t enough, the matching Hawaiian-print shorts boast another literary masterpiece:Welcome to the Lu-WOW!
With hibiscus flowers arranged in the shape of an arrow and pointing to my dick.
Three hundred dollars of panic-induced shame. But hey, that included a much-needed phone charger.
All day, I’ve been strategizing how to survive this night: shoot the livestream, then GTFO before my dignity waves the white flag. Because no way—NO. WAY.—am I making eye contact with Cam and admitting that I’m obsessed with watching her fuck that vibrator.
RING! RING!
My phone shakes against my thigh. Gordon. Again. There are only two reasons why my manager FaceTimes me.
He’s about to deliver bad news disguised as “great news.”
He got a new skincare procedure and wants validation.
I answer quickly before he can send a string of threatening emojis. His face pops on screen. Whatever emotion he’s having is hidden by that disturbingly smooth, chemically frozen forehead, stretched so tight I could ice skate on it. Then he flashes his overly whitened, blinding veneer smile that’s too big for his face.
It’s as if every cosmetic procedure is fighting for dominance.
I brace myself. “Gordon.”
“There’s my comeback kid! Views are through the roof—they’re insane! We’re talking record-breaking engagement. The algorithm is sucking you off like a Dyson vacuum.”
“That’s… great.”
“Great? Kid, it’s astronomical! The sponsors are crawling back, begging to work with you. And guess what? G-Thorne is charging them triple what they were paying pre-Astrid. Who, by the way, is yesterday’s news. Dead content walking. You and camera girl? Hottest thing since Bennifer 2.0!”
His manic energy ratchets up another notch. “DareGirl merch? Sold out. Backordered through next quarter. I’ve got designers creating new couples’ lines as we speak. And don’t even get me started on the DareFuel flavors we’re rushing to production. Yeah, overtime’s gonna cost us, but trust me—it’ll be worth every penny.”
“So the shoe line? Everyone’s jobs? We’re good?”
“Better than good, superstar! We’re golden.”
The stress ulcer that’s been my constant companion since Astrid went full runaway bride finally unclenches—
“Which is why I’m working with your publicist on a launch tour. You and Cam, ten cities minimum. Every major outlet wants you two. People can’t get enough of America’s new favorite couple.”
—and instantly reclenches. “Gordon, we only planned this fake relationship for Hawaii.”
“That was before your waterfall makeout session became Gen Z’sThe Notebook! That smooch has over a billion replays. People are recreating your kiss everywhere—pools, fountains, kitchen sinks. I saw one couple try it in their fish tank! The DareDuo is dead. Long live DareLove!”
“Fake girlfriend reporting for duty,boss!”
Every cell in my body freezes, then ignites.
Cam stands there, the embodiment of all my wet dreams combined. Her white tennis skirt is so short it barely qualifies as a napkin, and I want to wipe my mouth with it. Paired with a hot-pink tube top that might as well be airbrushed onto her skin.Goddamn!
And right across her perfect, braless tits?
DareGirl.
