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)
“Wouldn’t mind them for dessert.”
“Entonces sé honesta conmigo.” He tightens his grip, prompting me to needily whimper. “Is there any part of you that’s willing to stick around after we’re finished and see where all this could go?”
I want to say yes.
I want to feel like I can say yes.
But I know him.
Or at least…I used to know him.
And his ways.
And people don’t change.
Not really.
Maybe for a minute.
Maybe for a moment.
But not forever.
Rarely forever.
The twisting in my chest tightens, strangling the words up the back of my throat, only to be cut off by a voice we both openly admit adoring, “There you are!”
Garcia glances over his shoulder while I simply peer around his frame at the panting younger male. “You aren’t actually out of breath, are you?”
“You’re far,” whines the guy we’re both crazy about. “And I…I…I ran the whole way here!”
“Why?” ponders Garcia in tandem with letting me go to face Zero.
“Because we’ve been summoned.”
“Summoned?” My arms fold defensively across my chest. “By?”
“Weslington.”
Chapter 17
Zero
When royalty invites you to a party, it’s rude to decline.
And when said royalty could legit have your ass dragged behind a carriage by the neck for war crimes against their country, it’s rude AF.
Doesn’t matter if you were taking a power nap because juggling the original task they recruited you for, a side project for someone equally as dangerous – because you needed their boat to complete the other project – and steadily fucking your partners like jaguars on a mating deadline is fucking exhausting.
No.
All that matters is you get up.
You show up.
And make sure you’re wearing the right drip so that you’re actually allowed in to said birthday.
Tonight’s shit is swimwear.
At my favorite club.
The Kastle.
The same club he prevented me from getting to when he originally summoned me.
Quick hack of the cameras in the surrounding area let me know we weren’t being pranked or led to our immediate deaths, but still.
Swimwear in the city is sussy.
Real. Sussy.
The security at the door – who barely qualifies to do what he’s doing from the small search I conducted – doesn’t look up from his tablet nor does he ask for the information he needs.
He simply waits.
Impatiently.
I guess for me to speak.
“Um…Fiorenzo,” escapes me at the same time I nervously fidget with the ends of my neon leopard print swim trucks. “For uh…three, my guy.”
Stubby fingers stab the screen sparking my teeth to cringe.
Not how you should treat the poor thing.
No, it’s not my level of sweet and tasty, but she still doesn’t deserve to be slapped around.
Definitely not in front of me.
One grunt precedes a two-finger motion to let us through, something we make sure to quickly do.
The instant we cross the threshold, we’re assaulted by loud music, rave lights, and foam.
So.
Much.
Foam.
“It’s a foam party!!?” excitedly squeals Salay.
“Great,” grouses Garcia, “we’re gonna be fucking sticky.”
“We’re always fucking…sticky…” taunts the woman in barely there jean shorts that theoretically hide her turquoise, string bikini bottoms.
“Eso no es lo que quise decir.”
“What I said is better than what you meant, Grumpy At Law.”
“Same tab,” I grumble prior to leading us towards the roped off VIP section I assume he’s sitting in. “We need to stay on the same tab.” Nervousness darts through my limbs pushing my fingertips to tug at my white tank top covered chest. “Divide and destroy is the Weslingtons insignia.”
“Nice college essay word,” Salay teases over my shoulder. “Was it in your recommended reading section or one you heard your professor use during a lecture, so you had your chat bot define it in real time?”
There’s no stopping me from briefly meeting her gaze. “This total Betty brought it to my attench while we were reading about military sailing vesses.”
“Betty?”
“That’s the term the surf dudes use for hot chicks, yeah?”
“It is…” she leans a little closer, “my guy.”
We share a small laugh, alleviating a bit of the stress in only ways she can.
Which is good.
Because Weslington can simply sense anxiety.
And if he can sense it, he can use it.
I swear, I’ve never been more grateful to not be in a country where he has the possibility to be king than I am now.
Our arrival at the area where he’s expected to be mirrors the one we encountered outside except this menacing individual actually does have credentials.
High ones.
The type you expect from someone assigned to openly protect royalty.
Although, I would bet the classified naval mission he completed that got him this position still haunts him at night.
Haunts everyone else who managed to survive it.
You know.
According to their mental health records.
And what’s a little digging in those when I’m already up for treason in their country.
“We’re here to see Prince Thaddeus,” Garcia professionally announces. “Regarding legal matters.”
“He’s currently inaccessible,” replies the bald, accented individual.
“Yet if you pull your little jump rope of defense slightly to one side, he could become accessible really fucking fast,” Salay points out in her fearlessly snarky fashion.