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 would have the counselor here make an argument for me being the best.”
“You’ve worked for private institutions, aiding in the recovery for history preservation, and private backers, aiding in the discovery of lost possessions often to be thought of as nothing more than old captain’s drunk bullshit.”
“Impressive, little one, how you know all about me and I don’t even know your name.”
“Zero,” he eagerly introduces. “You can um…you can call me Zero.”
“Maybe I’ll call you Hero,” I teasingly wink as Ernie puts down my shot glass, “or Hunkucles.” One blank stared blink leads to me sighing. “You don’t get the reference, huh?” His quick headshake has me cautiously asking Garcia, “Just how young is your boyfriend over here?”
“He’s not my-”
“We’re just friends,” bitterly snaps the mojito drinker.
“You seem stoked about that,” leaves me in a tickled murmur.
“We want to enlist your services,” Garcia declares over the sound of tequila filling my glass.
“Pass.”
Stupefaction slams itself onto his face. “Perhaps you should hear the details first?”
“Pass.” Quickly downing the first shot allows for it to immediately be refilled in my hand.
“Maybe the price tag?” Zero enthusiastically interjects.
“Still.” I toss the second shot back. “Pass.” Plopping the empty drinkware upside down back on the bar barely precedes me hopping my jean shorts covered ass out of the seat. “But thanks for the drinks, boys.”
“How about a chance to make history?!” Zero verbally vomits. “Don’t you want that main character shit?”
“Oh, Little One,” my fingers suggestively tug at the end of his brightly colored floral wear, “I’m always on my main character shit.”
An unmistakable whimper escapes on a bite of his bottom lip.
Swaying closer is attached to a whispered, “Wanna join me?”
“How about living up to the goddess name your mother gave you?” Garcia challenges, forcing my narrowed glare over to him. “Proving to your father you’re more than just a beach bunny with an adrenaline fetish?”
“I don’t have to prove shit to that man.”
“But wouldn’t it feel good to?” he tempts in a sultry voice that’s absolutely a siren song for my lower lips. “Wouldn’t it feel so fucking good for him to see your name in the media alongside literal royalty?”
Confusion doesn’t hesitate to cake itself in my glare. “For?”
“Recovering and returning the contents of Écume de mer Éternité to its rightful kingdom.”
“Are you fucking kidding me?!” Consternation aggressively replaces the previous display at the same time I relinquish my hold on his unclaimed boy toy. “You can’t return something that doesn’t actually exist, Garcia.”
“But it does exist,” Zero quietly rebuts.
“Yeah, in folklore and fairy tales, Fisher-Price.”
“And in the actual water,” informs the older male on a sip of his tequila. “How about you sit that beautiful ass back down, let Ernie pour you another drink on us, and listen to the contract proposal that’s coming straight from The Weslington family itself…”
Chapter 4
Zero
We need a boat.
Ship?
Whatever label makes it more comfortable.
I spent two days searching for other options, other sources – with a bit of help from Salay – and to no avail, I couldn’t secure us one.
Um.
The right type.
More importantly – much more importantly – we need permission to be in the waters.
Her waters.
She’s turned people into deck décor for less.
The woman’s basically a human equivalent of the black mamba.
Not because she’s Black – although she is – but because one bite from her can be fatal.
And I do mean that literally along with figuratively.
“Mr. Fiorenzo,” Gyles, Ravencroft’s salt and pepper haired head butler, states in my direction prior to shifting his attention to Garcia, “Guest,” he once more finds my gaze, “The Lady will see you now.”
Another word from him isn’t spoken as he swiftly turns on his shiny shoes to lead the way.
“Guest?” unhappily hisses the well-dressed – and needlessly well smelling – man beside me.
Under non-today circumstances that woodsy scent would be welcomed.
It’d be something to pump one out to while waiting for my migas to finish cooking or my orange soda supply to be delivered, but considering the life-or-death circumstances we’re currently enduring, it’s not.
I need him to reek of fear.
Submission.
Subservience.
Pretty much anything except the “please fuck me” scent he’s giving off.
And I don’t want her to want to fuck him.
It’s bad enough that everyone else wants to.
It would be the worst thing on this big, beautiful, WIFI filled marble for her to do it.
Which she will if that’s what she wants.
Because only her wants matter.
Particularly because she’s so high on the fucking food chain that it’s basically her food chain.
Where she’s going to put you in it is the only question mark about the whole thing.
“Guest?!” Garcia echoes himself in the same displeased tone and low volume. “My name’s not even worth fucking knowing?!”
“Her not knowing your name isn’t a bad thing, my guy.” Our conversation momentarily breaks for me to deliver a polite nod in passing to the terrifyingly, delicious male enforcer known as Gorilla. “Trust me.”