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)
“Attempted murder with a fucking speargun of all things,” growls our bombshell on a third grind.
“What?!”
“You know I come from a family of doctors,” Garcia casually taunts. “My parents are doctors. My grandparents. My sister.”
“You would be a terrible doctor,” I teasingly throw out around the man’s groans.
“I know. And winning that argument certainly aided in me finding my true calling as an attorney.” Garcia casually relinquishes his phone to the table in order to fold his hands in his lap. “You, sir, could use one of them with that open wound; however, she, on the other hand, requires my particular skillset at the moment to keep her feet in the sand instead of a cell, which I will help her do, by informing the cops or court or jury that my client is clearly executing her right to self defense or if someone were to see this footage-”
“Which they wont,” I interject.
“We could argue due to the discovery of the new information that you were involved in the attack on her life – just hours ago – that she suffered from a momentary, trauma induced, psychological break that resulted in her stabbing you.”
“Twice,” is cheekily added by me.
“Why’d you put a hit out on me, Ernie?”
“I didn’t!” The injured male swears, agony thickening his tone. “I-I-I I swear, I didn’t!”
“Then why have you been in steady contact with Varun Wooten aka the man who tried to kill her?” I swiftly interrogate. “Why were you calling him constantly over the last few days?!”
“Kill you?!” Confusion coats his expression, temporarily replacing discomfort. “Varun was only supposed to follow you!”
“Why?” Her question has all three of us eagerly listening. “Why would you want him to follow me, Ernie? You trying to get me to move back into your place?”
“No!”
“Trying to get me back into your pants?”
“No!”
“Trying to get me to scare off your ex again?”
“No!”
“Then why?”
“To figure out where you’ve been diving!”
“Why?”
“Because…” The lack of adaquete wording has her digging the utensil in even further, likely scraping bone. “Ou!!! Fuck! Fuck!”
“An answer,” demands our bikini babe. “Now.”
“Because she paid me an ass load of cash to figure that shit out!”
Begrudgingly – because I would bet my annual donation to Crouching Tiger, Hidden Donation on already knowing the answer – I cautiously ask, “Who?”
“Princess Temperance Weslington.”
Chapter 12
Garcia
Someone’s trying to kill her, so what does she do?
She goes for a fucking swim.
Naked.
Dios no lo quiera…she does any type of rational shit.
I mean, if I asked for the record to be read back to us, it would further prove rational isn’t in her reflected behaviors.
But come on.
Even the most well-adjusted criminals don’t shake off having a hit on them this fucking casually.
One hand is forcefully shoved into my pocket before tossing her a disapproving glare. “Really?”
“Really.”
“This is you helping?”
“Yeah.”
“Who?” More irritation pierces my stare. “Who are you fucking helping right now?”
“Me.” Salay’s figure slinks onto the steps to better face me. “Let’s not forget that I’m the one who was almost filleted like halibut, counselor.”
Fuck, I tend to hate it when she calls me that in that tone.
The label and the tone are almost always paired together.
Like tequila and lime.
When others use that title or a synonym?
It’s complimentary.
They use the title, they use the appropriate tone, and it taste like an aged shot of Patrón.
Something meant to be sipped.
Appreciated.
Praised for its complexity.
Time.
Effort.
Depths.
The legal system is far from simple and the grace as well as viciousness I manage to operate with is laudable.
But when she says it?
When she spews the branding?
It’s an insult.
Barely aged liquor out of its barrel.
Bullshit that some just graduated high school girl is gonna dump into margaritas she managed to make in her dorm room then get kicked out for making, only to have her daddy retain my services to get her reinstated.
Salay acts as if any half-cut, shaggy haired, beach bum could stroll in off the pier and win the shit that I do.
I rarely fucking hate what it is I do for a living – fuck, I’m typically quite proud – yet every time…every…goddamn…time…she adds just the faintest air of judgment or sneer to her voice regarding my career, I feel shame.
Guttural disgust.
And I shouldn’t.
I make a phenomenal living.
I’m incredible in the courtroom – whether for profit or charity.
I have helped – actually helped – more than just myself over the years.
There’s no reason to feel shitty about that.
Then again…maybe that’s not what I think is shitty.
Maybe that’s not what I fucking hate.
Maybe I wish she knew that I can do more than just destroy other people’s lives.
That I can save them too.
That that’s exactly what the fuck I’m trying to do with Zero.
Right here.
Right now.
Keeping an even tone noticeably grows in difficulty, “You shouldn’t be swimming.”
“You shouldn’t be drinking.”
I thoughtlessly tighten the grip on my tequila glass. “It calms me.”