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)
“I’d trade my life for theirs no matter the situation.”
I slowly nod in spite of the fact they can’t see it.
When too much silence has passed between us for his liking, Nolan cautiously investigates, “Everything good down there, Zero?” My lips press tightly together to prevent from answering. “Garcia alright?”
No.
Because of me he’s not.
And neither is Salay.
I’m the only one to blame here, just like I’m the only one who can make it right.
“I gotta go,” leaves me in a shakier voice than intended, “but I’ll tell him to call you as soon as he can.”
“Wh-” is all that manages to reach my ears courtesy of me ending the call.
Dropping my head forward on a heavy sigh occurs in tandem with tears rimming my eyelids.
I only have one move to make.
I guess it’s time to make it.
Chapter 22
Garcia
I know drinking in the sun can be dangerous, but I didn’t think I had that much tequila.
Slow smacking movements begin in tandem with me battling to open my eyes.
They shouldn’t hurt this bad.
They shouldn’t fucking hurt at all.
I don’t wear cheap sunglasses.
I don’t own cheap sunglasses.
I don’t even look at ones that don’t require the checkout girl to have a key to the display.
Why do they feel so goddamn dry?
Like they could crumble quicker than a stepped on Cheeze-It if I were to let a bit of light in?
Dio Mio…Zero and his damn crackers.
I swear if I step on another one on my way to the bathroom tonight, I’m gonna throw his whole stash out and find some rule of law to make it justifiable for getting crumbs between my toes.
Another round of aches begins thumping at my temple igniting a deep, guttural grumble.
Shit.
It might be time to stop drinking.
Or at least switch to blanco.
I’m too old for this hangover shit.
Groans that are not my own prompt me to finally lift my lids, exposing my blurry vision to a wiggling figure beside me.
Wait.
Why the hell is my vision blurry?
Why the hell can’t I see shit?
And where the hell am I?
Concern swiftly conquers my system, commanding that my stare focuses.
That my limbs wake up.
Get to moving.
Transition me into an upright position.
Unfortunately, the only thing that successfully happens is my gaze locking onto the person, that’s lying on their side, facing me, making the sounds of discomfort. Despite the immediate pain, my eyebrows dart down in confusion, outrage over seeing the woman I’m in love with – something I don’t think she’d believe even if I said – pushes me to fight past the sandpaper feeling in my mouth to croak, “You okay?”
Salay stops rubbing the side of her face against the mattress just long enough to narrow her gaze at me and bite, “Do I look okay?” Her shoulders resume their wiggling movement. “Is it my hands being duct taped that gives you that impression?”
The snark – which should have me rolling my eyes – leads to me examining her somewhat immobile frame instead.
Shit.
She is duct taped!
Seeing her in such a position has me checking myself, revealing my own restraints as well.
Sonofabitch…so am I!
“Really?” she sassily snips upon managing to gracefully sit upward. “You thought only one of us was duct taped?”
“No sé qué pensar!” I huff back, body bucking around in a failed attempted to match hers. “And why would I know what to think?!” Wildly flopping my torso back and forth steals the air out of my lungs. “Or what’s happening?!” Frustration slams into desperation as I hump the mattress for momentum. “Or-”
“How to sit up while being bound?” arrogantly escapes alongside a mocking head tilt. “You look like a horny mudskipper.”
“Eso suena racista.”
“That wasn’t racist, it was descriptive,” Salay insists prior to swinging her legs over the edge of the mattress and standing up. “You’re not even that brown.”
“That was definitely racist.”
Snickers slip loose alleviating a healthy dose of the dread that was overwhelming my system.
She’s okay.
If she can talk shit…give me shit…then she’s fine.
And if she’s fine…I’m fine.
I can take a breath.
A beat.
A fraction of a recess.
Post a long, small exhale, I lower my mouth to inquire about Zero, our surroundings, how we got here yet am forced to switch gears courtesy of the sight of her suddenly ass humping the edge of a desk.
Hm.
That’s not shit I see every day.
Or come to think of it…ever.
Bewilderment bursts across my face as I ask, “What the hell are you doing?”
“Freeing myself,” she retorts without missing a beat. “What the fuck does it look like?”
“Like you’re trying to bring back an old dance move.”
Her legs continue to bend, adding momentum to her arms that seem to be ceaselessly working. “This would embarrass the Juvenile elders.”
“Juvenile is an elder at this point,” I tease in tandem with attempting to sit upward again.
“You get hang ten for knowing who Juvenile is; however, I’mma let you continue to struggle to get up for calling our Patreon Saint of Southern Rap an elder.”