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 just did.” Before she can even consider a comeback, I announce, “I’m gonna go get gear out of my car and make myself useful. Verify that neither one of The Shining twins had someone sneak in at some point and set up recording equipment all around this place.”
Salay’s head tilts in intrigue. “You just keep that shit around like a spare tire?”
“Comes in handier than any of the spares I’ve ever had.”
Zero’s face momentarily meets mine revealing the faintest hint of a smirk.
He was the one who got me the tech.
Who lit up like a parent at Christmas thinking they had just delivered the best gift of all time.
I couldn’t let him know otherwise.
His happiness is what mattered most.
He is what has always mattered most.
Even if sometimes it appears otherwise.
“Shut the jammer off so I can sweep,” is commanded alongside my slow retreating. “Theoretically,” my gaze cuts to the female watching me, “you can be silent that long, si?”
“I’ll stick a cock in my mouth if I need assistance.”
A mindless, heated groan causes them both to snigger and me to spin on my heels for a swift exit.
What is it about them together that makes them so much more difficult to handle?
That pushes me to be more at odds with myself?
Constantly get my loafer caught in my mouth?
Need more tequila than my liver can fucking handle anymore?
Why does everything feel like a struggle but fucking seamless?
How can anything with anyone have an equal amount of work and effortlessness?
How can two opposing truths constantly be simultaneously true?
How am I supposed to navigate this system when I’ve never experienced anything like it?
Like them?
Plus, how the hell am I supposed to find any time to deal with that shit – the fucking thought of that shit – when it has been revealed to us that royalty has now literally taken on the roles of judge, jury, and executioner?
Chapter 13
Salay
Silence?
Yeah, I don’t hate it.
But only when it’s my choice.
Not when I’ve been told to be quiet.
Not when I need noise.
Not when I’m craving sound.
And I am.
Sound I can’t actually fucking get to at the moment, might I add.
See, the ocean is always talking.
And I live to listen.
To it.
The birds above.
The creatures below.
Even the boards carving through the waves make an incredible symphony.
Now, listening to surfers, divers, and even oceanographers – including the chemical ones – is less fun but still entertaining.
Much like pressing my ear to a conch shell to hear the waves.
Or listening to the adorable, underappreciated animal lover across from me ramble about computer shit I understand less about than paleoceanography.
At least that comes with easy-to-follow visual aids.
I’m not currently craving silence, so disregarding esquire’s orders for muteness is even easier than learning to paddle board was.
“How long have you been into computer shit?” I inquire prior to plopping my chin on the edge of the pool, allowing the remainder of my body to enjoy the cool water.
“Uh…” a couple rounds of clacking are wedged into his response, “since…I can remember.”
“So…you were just born with a computer in your hand?”
“Like you were born with fins instead of feet.”
“Perfect 10 comparison.” The corners of my lips helplessly kick upward at seeing him do the same. “Who taught you how to do the typey, clicker, spyware thing?”
Small chuckles precede him glancing upwards. “Hacking?”
Proudly nodding over my lack of terminology gets him laughing more.
And a bit louder.
The combination is even more irresistible than spending the day on a party wave with three hot Hawaiian surfers that can’t wait to bang you in the middle of the ocean.
Rather than answer, Zero takes his turn to prod around, “Who taught you how to swim?”
“Mother nature.”
Amusement remains during his mirthful headshaking.
“And my mom.” I briefly drop below the surface to cool down the portion of me that was beginning to dry. “I was three. No floaties. No donut. No goggles. Just me, the ocean, and my mom.” Memories of her wade to the front of my mind where they’re welcomed, which is a rarity. “Dad lost his shit on the shore. Swore his head was gonna explode or little birds were gonna fly around it like in the cartoons, but he never came into the water. He never took that moment from us. He trusted her, and I honestly think his not interfering – despite the mouthful of water he watched me chug down – did more for me than if he had gone rogue and tried to ‘save’ me.”
Huh.
I don’t think I’ve ever told that story to anyone.
Fuck, I rarely talk about my past with anyone.
It’s more important to stay present.
Especially considering what I do for a living.
How I live my life.
Keeping memories – especially Mom’s – have always been my own version of buried treasure.
Never to be found.
Damn sure never to be salvaged.
How did he get me answer so easily?