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)
Our attention instantly snaps to it in tandem, spotting a sight that instills relief and horror alike.
“Shit,” Garcia mutters at the same time he carelessly abandons his drinking glass on the floor. “She might not be breathing.”
“What?!” leaps past my lips during my dart over to where she’s sprawled out. “What do you mean she might not be breathing?!”
“She could’ve run out of air,” he less than calmly explains upon dropping to his knees to aid in removing her mask. “She could’ve fucked up her accession.” The tugging is meant to be gentle but is littered with panic. “She could’ve-”
“Just…needed…a…moment…” sasses our lady the instant her face is free. “Forfucksssake…” Her head flops towards him. “You try finding buried treasure on a hope and a prayer.”
We both chuckle; however, it’s Garcia that snarks, “Bon Jovi estaría muy orgulloso.”
“I will take their praise and my pay,” she lightly pants prior to pulling out an object from thin air like a magic trick I don’t understand, “and our lives back.” Skipping the idea of sitting up precedes her shoving the tiny piece of jewelry into my line of sight. “Make the call to Prince Fuckface.”
“That’s…that’s…” disbelief has my head shaking against my own volition, “that’s really…” I extend my unsteady hand towards it. “You…”
“Am really that good,” Salay boasts when she finally sits up. “But don’t lose this shit. That’s the only piece I managed to grab.”
“Why don’t I hold onto that for safe keeping,” Garcia’s suggestion is attached to his physical intervention, “while you get acclimated,” he kicks his chin at our princess, “and you get on the sat phone to let Weslington know we’re ready to meet when we get back to shore.”
Post the tiny piece of metal being slipped away into Garcia’s pocket, we help our girl back onto her feet, out of her gear, and give her space to truly breathe non-tank air.
Additional astonishment pops up into my brain like an ad that’s managed to get around my internal blocker.
I can’t believe she found that shit…
I can’t believe we were…right.
Holy shit.
That I was right!
That my program got us what we needed to help solve one of the biggest treasure legends out there!
Holy shit…
This means my debt will be paid.
Fully.
Fucking.
Paid.
And I’ll be…free.
Free from the royal pain in my ass…which also means…Salay is free.
Free to leave us whenever because there’s no salvage to keep her hanging around.
No Scooby Doo mystery that needs help solving.
And if she’s free…Garcia is free.
Free to go back to our city.
Back to his life.
His expensive suits.
His clients.
His women.
So…many…women.
So many females that aren’t me.
Aren’t us.
I know he only gave into this…into us…due to believing that I was gonna die or get dragged to another country to…also…die…but like…now that I’m not…now that forever could be a possibility, is it even a possibility?
Or was this whole supposed to be a fling situation one arrangement that he will eventually have him hitting the delete key in his mind?
“Call, Little One,” Salay insists as she strolls by towards where she needs to steer. “I’d like to celebrate this shit over mojitos and mole verde enchiladas.”
The realization that I’m still clutching the phone but haven’t hit dial yet occurs around the time Garcia warmly grunts, “¿Es eso una petición?”
“Not a request,” she announces and starts up our water vessel, “but an order Chef Oldardee.”
He grunts in continued amusement before tossing a question at me, “Y tú?” The smile I’m flashed is the type of shit I’ve spent what feels like most of my life dreaming about. “Does my favorite little toy have any requests for our victory dinner tonight?”
Once more relief defrags my system, convincing me to move closer.
Join them.
Accept the relationship update that really seems to be happening.
“No,” I casually answer on a crooked grin, “just a few for dessert.”
The hungry ass grab and growl I’m given gets my fingers moving across the keys to call the one number – that isn’t the Coast Guard – we carry around with us on the ship.
Weslington not answering – meaning I have to leave a voicemail – isn’t a major surprise but a welcomed one.
Knowing we have what he wants, knowing he’s going to get what he wants, is enough.
Hell, knowing neither of them are planning to bail the minute we get back to shore is enough.
Docking – while a trickier task than parallel parking – thankfully isn’t difficult for a pro like the one who has a piece of my heart; however, not distracting her apparently is.
“Go away,” she playfully fusses at the same time she begins to deal with the dock lines. “You two are not good at this part.” Grabbing a hunk of rope precedes a sassy smirk. “You can barely tie your shoes let alone a boat.”
“I don’t wear shoes I have to tie for that reason,” I juvenilely joke and unload onto the dock. “Flops for the win, right, my guy?”