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)
“Aw,” Salay sweetly coos, “that kinda talk deserves a roadie on the way home.” She props her elbow on the table and flops her face into her open palm. “Don’t worry, I’ll drive.”
“You just want the keys to my new Bentley.”
Her giggles are barely spoken over, “What about Salay?”
“What about me?” she swiftly jabs back.
“Do you want her to have your last name too?”
“Pass,” is playfully injected into the convo.
“Do you want her to have you every way too?” Hope crawls onto his expression leaving it no choice except to be mirrored on mine. “Do you want us all to be together…forever?”
There’s no hesitation, vacillation, or doubt in my voice, “Sí.”
Epilogue (2)
Two Months After That…
Salay
Regattas are not my favorite boat activity.
But I do kind of, sort of, really fucking love this one is for me.
So to speak.
It’s really in honor of the treasure we discovered for Prince Fuckface – may he buried underneath Davy Jones Locker – whose “tragic death” along with his twin and his father’s are still trending more than I care to see.
To my surprise, no one suspects what actually happened happening.
Why?
Because Ravencroft’s very good at being crazy it seems.
Plus, capsizing is a real thing that kills people all the time.
The story wasn’t that hard to fabricate for the masses.
Especially once their so-called grieving younger sibling took ensuring that it did.
“Isn’t the ‘Under The Sea’ theme a bit too…” Garcia’s head mirthfully bounces back and forth, “…un poco obvio?”
“Miles past, my guy,” Zero cheekily chortles on a bite of cocktail shrimp.
“I know you’re dressed in theme,” our boyfriend teasingly points out at the same time he winds an arm around my lower back, “however, it is necessary to act in theme as well? Cómete unos cuantos más de esos y te convertirás en un flamenco.”
“Did you know that flamingos are actually born white or grey?!” he joyfully spews, damn near flinging cocktail sauce onto my short, red and orange tropical cowl neck maxi dress.
“Did you know that flamingos were thought of as a sign of ‘new world’ and ‘uncharted’ adventures to sailors?” I cutely retort.
“Is that why we’re dressed in this color?” Garcia slides his other arm around so that his hand can lovingly rest of Zero’s hip. “You trying to flamingo to the other guests?”
“That’s peacocking, grandpa,” escapes alongside a teasing grin.
“Te pondré sobre mi rodilla,” he salaciously threatens.
Being over his knee is a great place to be.
Especially when it’s right at cock level for Zero.
Like when we’re on the couch.
Relaxing after a long day.
Listening to whatever animal world nonsense we couldn’t get him to stop binging.
You know, I always thought being this docked in life would be the worst thing to happen to me.
That I’d be bored and stir crazy.
Go mad like the old sailors used to on voyages that lasted much longer than they could’ve ever fathomed.
And yet…I love it.
It’s not quite as comforting as putting my toes in the wet sand after hard day, but it’s similar.
The way that feels like home is the way they feel like home.
I like falling asleep sandwiched between them.
I like Garcia making us dinner and Zero hang drying my bikinis and being the one to guarantee everyone’s getting enough daily dose of vitamin whatever to ward off colds and ancient spirits that may have followed me back from the dive.
I like that I have a shore to call home.
I…actually…love it.
Them.
Which I’ve said.
I just don’t say that shit often.
That’s not my shit.
That’s Zero’s shit.
He says it all the time, every day, and it’s adorable.
He’s adorable.
And the little fucker knows it.
It’s how he gets his way so often.
“Can I have more crabcakes?” questions my shaggy haired boyfriend, completely unaware of the sauce on the corner of his mouth. “Or is there a limit?”
“Do you have a limit?” Garcia chortles on a shake of the head. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you put back this much seafood.”
“It’s free.”
“And we’re not exactly starving,” he effortlessly argues in return.
“Yeah, but we don’t have to do the dishes here.”
Once more, Garcia lightly laughs and shakes his head.
“It’s a fair point, Counselor,” I tauntingly support. “No one has to do the oarfish worth of dishes your cooking creates.”
“You love my cooking.”
“I don’t love the fucking dishes we have to do,” is thrown back on anther sassy beam.
Zero begins licking his fingers clean. “You know they call oarfish doomsday fish?”
“Did you know oarfish are also called messengers from the sea god’s palace?” an unexpected voice interjects during their approach from behind.
Denial over the voice hits immediately; however, it becomes impossible to continue the second the man comes into view.
“Mitch,” Garcia immediately croaks out.
“Dad,” escapes me at a volume just above a whisper.
Rather than say a word, Zero starts choking on the last of his cocktail shrimp, prompting me to pound on the back of his chest while Garcia extends his hand in the milk chocolate complexion man’s direction. “We weren’t expecting to see you here.”