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)
A hum of contemplation noticeably precedes her replying, “I don’t know. Taller than me…but shorter than Ernie.”
“Wide range,” trickles out between my typing, “but the more information the better…”
“And he was packing an underwater speargun.”
“Vary in weight and awkwardness however most norms don’t just carry that shit around like a trophy that needs mounting, meaning if I find those rough dimensions,” the pads of my fingers click open a web browser to begin my search, “and estimated weight,” I continue theorizing out loud, digits moving to do the actions my words are indicating, “the likeliness that they were carrying it in something…” More frantic movement continues post the plugging in of my results. “Combine that info with the dock we unplugged from…and the time we set sail…” my concentration becomes hyper focused, “and the time it took to reach our lo-cal…” the remainder of the world fades, “and the trajectory of the current…and the estimation of the time of attack…” only me, the screen, and flow of my fingers matter, “potential starting coordinates for the assailant in relative comp coming from likely a parallel starting position and…”
I’m not entirely sure if it’s been mere minutes or hours that have passed by when I’m finally pulling up a true possible prospect, but it doesn’t matter.
What matters is that I have something rather than nothing.
That we have more than we did.
“Hello, Varun Wooten, resident of Chicago for the past four years, borrowing his brother’s Disney streaming account as well as his wife for the last two.” Additional clacking is accompanied by more chatting. “Let’s see what else we can find out about you…starting with your call and text log.”
“You can do that?!” Salay squeaks tempting me to pause and shift my stare to her.
“I can do a lot with an internet connection, baby.”
Seeing her grin out of the corner of my eye is almost as amazing as hearing our other table resident chuckle.
“For instance, I could show you something boring like the motion to enforce that Garcia is currently reviewing for another client or something more fun like the last four generational based toks Garcia’s sister sent him,” I announce in spite of having no true intention on pulling it up. “She sends at least two every day. Typically, in the morning before her first patient or at lunch when avoiding going back in.”
He immediately cuts his glare over to me. “How do you know that?”
“You know how, my guy.” This time I do meet his gaze. “You’ve seen firsthand what I can do with an internet connection.”
“Most of that shit is highly illegal.”
“And?”
“Heavily invasive.”
“And?”
“And incredibly sexy.”
Redness tints my cheek; however, I realign my focus to where it needs to be.
Flirt later.
Fixate now.
We need to know who this motherfucker is.
“Texts are mostly to his brother’s wife – and so are his dick pics,” is quietly proclaimed, “with a few to his brother himself – mostly lying to him about his whereabouts – a couple friends – one who is desperate for a strip club buddy.” A few more quick clicks remove information, visually narrowing things down. “Call log itself is pretty scarce, but…if I check out his messaging apps,” the newest round of clacking precedes me nodding, “I can see here that for the past three days he’s had steady contact with a guy named Ernie Hatosy.”
“Yeah?” Our waiter/bartender – who we first met when we came to this exact spot searching for Salay – looks up from where he’s reaching for her empty plate.
There’s practically no hesitation from our real-life mermaid to pick up the nearest fork, and even less when she drives it into the back of his hand.
It looks purely primal.
Instinctive.
Very sexy in a totally violent way.
“Fuckkkk!” barely has the opportunity to leave him thanks to her full force push kick to the balls. Garcia and I wince in tandem while she removes the utensil to relocate it into his now available collarbone territory. “Fu-”
“Just because I fuck you doesn’t mean you get to fuck me,” Salay viciously declares at the same time she twists her wrist. “Why are you trying to have me killed?”
“Whaaaattttt?!” he loudly cries out.
I bet the dude’s wishing the outdoor area we’re occupying was a bit more crowded the way it was earlier.
Not sure it would be to his benefit.
My gut is telling me she still would’ve stabbed him.
“Play stupid games,” she digs the metal object in deeper, summoning blood to collect near the tips, “win painful prizes.”
“Legally,” Garcia casually joins the conversation, “all my client is doing is executing her right to self-defense.”
“I didn’t attack her! She attacked me!”
“Hiring a hitman-”
“What hitman?!”
“-constitutes as an intended attack. Pre-meditated murder to be exact.” A contemplative hum is delivered alongside a raised palm. “Attempted murder could be added as an additional charge to the proceedings depending on jurisdiction. Perhaps even conspiracy to commit murder.”