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Why didn’t I make a backup plan? What was I thinking? I kick the woman’s sandals sitting near my foot. One rolls under the bed.

“I can call Amber.” Casey stands behind an open front door, like it will shield her from mentioning my ex-fiancée, who happens to be a local real estate broker.

“Don’t even say her name,” I say in warning.

Casey frowns. “But she knows everyone. Maybe she can get you a private home with a view of the canyon, something better than the bungalow.”

“I’d rather put my dick in a blender than ask her for help,” I growl.

“Yum, blended dick. Sounds like a viral post to me.” She laughs and shuts the door, leaving me to my misery.

I let myself wallow for exactly five seconds. Then I push some furniture around and set up a desk facing the bungalow. If I can’t be inside it, maybe I can continue to use it for inspiration.

Fingertips tap my laptop as I dig into the mess. I’ll have to think out of the box. Maybe visit some local restaurants, call in favors from old friends. From everyone but Amber, of course. Though, once the first call is made, everyone on the island will know I’m back.

Hell, they probably already know.

Kauai is a small island, and everyone in the business knows everyone. Because of what I do, and how I do it, I bring drama in spades. Even after my influencer successes, I’m considered a joke in the culinary world.

After hours of brainstorming, I lean back in my chair, raise my arms, and stretch. With the time change, I’m tired. Seven p.m. here feels like midnight on the East Coast.

I rake my fingers through my hair and yawn. Needing a brainless diversion, I sink into my chair and open my phone to check social media. Inside, my DMs are out of control and unread.

“Typical.” Matt’s been slacking.

He’s the opposite of Casey. The little shithead’s probably sipping Mai Tais in a hot tub with half my fan club right now. Though, I suppose it’s better than me. Outside the fame, I keep my circle small.

I’m proud of what I do; it got me where I needed to be. My fans are amazing and so loyal, but they’re not the serious foodies and aspiring chefs I originally hoped for. And that’s fine. When I moved to New York, it just wasn’t how I thought my life would play out. In that way, the screaming fans and women flashing me T&A have been an adjustment. I plaster on a smile and play along the best I can.

On my phone, I bypass my own account likes, shares, and comments, then scroll. After a few business-related posts, I run across a viral post that has me holding my phone inches from my face. My thumb taps the volume button, making it as loud as possible.

The post was made by a little freak-of-nature teen I follow for a good laugh, Freddie someone-or-other. This post is not his normal subject matter. Usually, the little dirtbag is making PG-13 knockoffs of my videos in his family’s bakery in Chicago.

Onscreen is a woman running down the aisle during a wedding ceremony. She’s objecting to a forthcoming union. Behind her, stunned guests gasp and whisper.

When the stocky dark-haired groom has nothing to say, and it’s clear to everyone he’s been cheating, the bride does the only thing reasonable. She retracts her arm and punches him in the face. There’s an audible crunch when her knuckles meet his skin. The groom’s head flings back, and he grabs his eye. Then another woman dressed casually in jean shorts muscles her way past and delivers a deadly knee jab to his nads.

The groom falls to the ground with a thunk, his hand cupping his busted cojones. His reddening face squeezes so tight, it might pop off like a rocket.

“Yowww!” I instinctively press my thighs together at the thought of my nuts getting crushed and flipped inside out. But all second-hand pain is forgotten when the furious bride turns toward the camera and reveals her face.

“Jesus!” I release my phone like it’s caught fire, and it tumbles to the floor. My feet dance away to save my toes.

Needing to watch the post again, and fast, I shove my chair away and drop on all fours. Under the desk, I scramble for the phone. When it’s back in my grasp, I discover I’ve lost my place in the platform’s stream.

“Fuckity fuck.” I panic but relax when I find it again. It’s pinned on Freddie’s home page with a million views and counting.

“Holy fuck.” I view it again and again, the last time noting it was posted just over a week ago.

Then I scour the comments to see if someone tagged the bride, because the glamorous, rage-y, hellion in white satin is my feral little kitten, Miss Sparkles.

And in this fucking video, she outshines everyone, blinding me.

5/

sophia

Crawl To Me