But Valentina was a child, an innocent. She didn’t deserve any of this. The whole thing reeked of unfairness, and it left him wondering if the black cloud hanging over his family would ever move on.
The Luna Curse—it was the name he’d given to the unfathomable situations they continued to find themselves in. With the death of his father shortly after Valentina’s birth, followed by the loss of his older brother Carlos a few years later, Mateo was sure he’d seen the worst of what life had to offer. The night they’d received the call informing them that Carlos had overdosed outside a Hollywood nightclub hadn’t been entirely unexpected. Carlos had suffered from addiction for a while, had even gone a few rounds with a local rehab center. Still, the devastating news had thrown the Lunas into a spiral of grief they were only just beginning to recover from when Valentina fell ill.
Clearly the Luna Curse hadn’t gone anywhere. It had merely taken a hiatus, a much-needed rest in which to gather enough strength to come roaring back—rearing its ugly head and descending on them with a vengeance they could never imagine.
He watched her lids flutter closed once again. She tired so easily, and yet she was imbued with an inner strength that surpassed everyone else’s, somehow managing to remain happy and cheerful and never once complaining, no matter how bad things got. Mateo wished he could do the same.
While their mom fought hard to keep a brave face, inside she was broken. And most of the time Mateo felt broken too. In the last week alone his mom had lost her job, and Mateo had lost Layla. Both of which, while bad, weren’t entirely out of the ordinary. But this—this thing with Valentina—was all the proof he needed that it was time for him to step up and do whatever it took to look after his family.
He reached for his sister’s hand. It looked so small and pale folded in his. Up until now, he’d had the luxury of not wanting for much. He’d easily gotten by on the pay (plus tips) he made working as a surf butler at some of the fancier resorts. The usual trappings of success—a big house and showy car—held no interest for him. And though he recognized his lack of ambition as a growing source of irritation for Layla, he’d never thought it a problem until now.
After listening to the pediatric oncologist explain the course of treatment and all the exorbitant costs that accompanied it—the sort of costs that could easily break them, possibly even leave them all homeless—there was no denying it was time for him to grow up and shoulder the burden his mom could no longer carry alone.
Maybe Layla was right.
Maybe his lack of ambition was a much bigger issue than he’d initially realized.
Maybe it was immature, childish, a refusal to start acting more responsibly and taking the first steps toward adulthood.
Or maybe it wasn’t that at all.
Maybe it was just who he was—mellow, content, interested in pursuing the kind of things money couldn’t buy.
All he knew for sure was that the one time he had compromised hadn’t gotten him anywhere. Hoping to bridge the growing rift between them, he’d planned to surprise Layla with the news that he’d accepted a sponsorship with a surf brand that had been after him for a while. Only before he could tell her, he’d received an anonymous text with a picture of Layla kissing Tommy, and they hadn’t spoken since.
Not like it mattered. As it turned out, a sponsorship mostly consisted of a pile of logo T-shirts and swim trunks and a handful of stickers to put on his boards. It wasn’t the payday it used to be. The exotic surf trips (which he didn’t really care about) and the monthly paychecks (which he did) were reserved for the top few on the professional circuit—an elite tribe to which Mateo didn’t belong.
Still, he wasn’t without options. And though he’d once sworn against the idea of relying on his good looks to make a living, confronted by the sight of his baby sister, her life dependent on the tubes that slow-dripped various liquids into her veins, he no longer had the luxury of thinking that way. Turned out, there were some things that only money could buy—like the best hospitals, doctors, and lifesaving treatments for Valentina. And it was up to Mateo to find a way to provide those things for her.
“How are we doing?” The door swung open behind him, and he turned to find the nurse briskly entering the room. “Anything I can get you?”
Mateo started to shush her, warn that his sister was sleeping, when Valentina’s eyes popped open and she nodded toward the chair by her bed.
“Can you hand me that magazine, please?” She shot a glance at Mateo and grinned triumphantly when the nurse promptly retrieved the tabloid and placed it onto her lap. “My brother thinks it’s too trashy for me—what do you think?” Valentina held it before her, the cover displaying a picture of Madison looking angelic beside Aster’s haggard mug shot—her hair tangled, face pale, as her fearful gaze stared into the camera.
The nurse took a moment to consider. “I think he’s probably right.” She nodded gravely as she set about checking Valentina’s blood pressure. Then, brightening, she said, “But that’s last week’s news. Have you heard the latest?”
Valentina’s eyes widened as she sat up a little straighter, and Mateo groaned in frustration. His little sister was ten going on sixteen, and like most girls her age, she idolized Madison—wanted to be just like her. Also, like most ten-year-olds, she hated being treated like a child. And while Mateo wanted to stop it—stop her illness, stop her preteen obsession with celebrities—he was powerless against both of those things.
Though there was something he could do—something he could no longer afford to avoid.
As Valentina and the nurse discussed the merits of their favorite Madison movies, Mateo pressed a kiss to his sister’s cheek and stepped outside the room. Hurrying down the hall, he pulled his phone from his pocket, scrolled through his long list of contacts, and sighed in relief when he saw he’d at least had the foresight not to delete the one number that just might change his run of bad luck.
“Hello,” he said, the moment the phone connected. “You told me to call if I ever changed my mind about your offer. Pretty sure I just did.”
LA Times reporter Trena Moretti stifled a yawn and amped up the stereo on the Lexus she’d driven off the lot just a few weeks before. Having grown up in New York City only to spend the last several years in DC, she had no need for a car and considered it an unnecessary, climate-destroying convenience she would not indulge in. But LA was a car-conscious place that held fast to its motto: You are what you drive. If she wanted to fit in, she needed to at least make an attempt to do as the natives did.
Initially she had her heart set on a used Porsche, but when the salesperson guided her across the lot to the dark red Lexus coupe, it was love at first sight. And it wasn’t long before she’d become addicted to the thrill of driving the racy convertible.
She glanced in the rearview mirror, assessing her clear blue-green eyes, dark caramel complexion, and headful of wild bronze-tinged curls she’d long ago given up trying to tame. Maybe she still looked the same, but falling in love with a car proved she was dangerously close to becoming a full-blown Angeleno.
She pulled alongside the curb and drummed her thumbs on the steering wheel as she watched the girl juggle dueling Starbucks cups as she struggled to open the passenger door.
Trena leaned across the seat and propped the door open, flinching against the rush of heat she’d let in. “Priya?” She was surprised to find that the girl with her long black hair, smooth brown skin, and flashing dark eyes was even prettier in person than she was in her picture—a rarity in a Facetune-addicted town like LA.
“My research tells me you’re a chai latte fan.” Priya handed over the cup, and Trena grinned in return. Sure the move was ingratiating, but Trena