Total pages in book: 68
Estimated words: 69365 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 347(@200wpm)___ 277(@250wpm)___ 231(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 69365 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 347(@200wpm)___ 277(@250wpm)___ 231(@300wpm)
And I don’t like to do that.
I don’t like to dig deeper into me.
Not the old me.
The now me is pretty amazing.
I ride Ducatis, wear loud prints, and pay outrageous amounts of cash to cuddle giant anteaters.
I am not that same sad, scared kid stuck in foster care.
My factory settings do suck, but I didn’t have to leave them that way.
I worked so fucking hard not to keep that way.
Not to have to ever look at that root source again.
Yet ever since Salay managed to hack that side of me a few days ago, I can’t stop looking at it.
Obsessing over it.
Wanting to erase it.
Permanently.
All opening that file has done is make me doubt what I’m capable of doing.
Am I really that much better than anyone else?
Am I really that good at what I can do?
Is there someone better?
Is that why Garcia doesn’t want me the way I do him?
Because he doesn’t wanna settle?
‘Cause he doesn’t wanna purchase the first gen model when he knows he deserves a third or fourth one with the bugs bred out.
Is that why my birth donors gave me up too?
They knew better versions were inevitable?
When Salay breaks the surface again, she runs her fingers through her damp locks, down her buttery caramel brown skin face, and hits me with a scowl. “You ready to let me fucking talk?”
“You ready to admit I can fucking read?”
“I swear to Neptune,” her back slams itself against the edge, splashing water onto the tile floor, “you and Matlock get off on arguing for no reason.”
“I prefer to get off in your mouth,” Garcia unexpectedly announces upon his entrance into the master bathroom. “Or his.”
The faintest heat hits my cheek, and I drop my face downward, desperate to hide it.
Anxious to zip away some of my dignity.
Look, I know all this shit is being saved in the temp file, but if he moves over anything into a more perma place, I don’t want it to be the way I couldn’t stop from turning shades of flamingo anytime he openly flirted like I’m some clingy virgin that thinks the cam girl he’s been messaging is actually in love with him versus his bank account.
I know he’s not.
I just wish he was.
“Neither are an option at the moment,” she sassily announces, summoning my stare back upward. “I’m pissy-”
“Because it’s raining,” the new arrival nods his understanding, loose, untied tie slightly swaying.
“Because I can’t go to the goddamn beach to swim or board or dive – since someone wants to kill me.”
He lets the corner of his mouth kick towards the ceiling in tandem with stopping at the edge of the tub. “And?”
“Because I can’t go out to the pool which is a poor substitute for the ocean.”
Garcia nods a second time as he slides his hands into his suit pants pockets. “And?”
“Because this bathtub is so fucking small. A terrible consolation prize for the pool being unavailable.”
His head arrogantly cocks to the side. “And…”
“And because it’s fucking raining,” she finally grouses on a glare.
“See,” he haughtily grins wider, “you like to argue for no reason too, Princess.”
“I argue with purpose.”
“The purpose being to piss off as many people as possible during it.”
“Absolutely.”
Her retort gets him chortling along with shaking his head.
“Is that why you said I can’t read?” I inquire, rejoining the conversation to prevent myself from obsessing over how hot Garcia looks in his light gray linen suit.
Or how I can practically outline his package with my eyes.
Or how it’s okay that I openly outline his package with my eyes.
At least while we’re here.
On this mission.
Tucked away from everyone who really knows him.
“For the last fucking time,” Salay seethes, “I did not say nor imply that you. Could. Not. Read. ABCmouse.” There’s no time for my mouth to even twitch in response. “What I said and then inferred-”
“Synonym for implied,” the attorney tauntingly inserts.
“-was that maybe you misread the clues or misinterpreted them.”
“I-”
“Oh, no you don’t, Hooked on Phonics.” A stern finger is swiftly pointed in my direction, water flying across the short distance. “I listened to you have your ‘nobody puts baby on a laptop’ tantrum long enough.”
Additional sniggers out of Garcia have to be hidden behind a balled fist.
“Yes, you have programs and algorithms and Skynet approved assistance; however, it doesn’t mean they don’t make mistakes or can’t make mistakes or are even capable of conveying shit that was not intended to be deciphered like a number rather than an event.”
Pulling my lips to one side helps me remain silent.
“And yes, you speak coding. You speak all the 1s and 0s and alphabet shapes of the computer world, but you don’t speak maritime. And even the best programming out there can’t translate drunken pirate.”
Guilt glides itself up my spine prompting me to curl inward.
“All I was trying to suggest was that maybe we – with our human eyes and brains – re-evaluate some of the clues. Maybe double check some of the ocean pattern changes with actual information and insight from oceanographers. Real life humans who can give us thoughts and opinions and ideas. Who knows. Perhaps we may have even missed some geological events that didn’t make it into the online archives.”