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)
“That’s not a thing,” I quietly rebut. “People don’t not upload ancient shit.”
“I don’t know which part of that sentence to take more offense to,” Garcia good naturedly grumps.
Bewilderment has me furrowing my brow.
“Not everything is online, Little One,” Salay sweetly insists. “And one day, I hope in my Schooner appreciating heart you truly learn that.”
“The pirate?”
“The ship…”
“That’s a ship?”
“It’s a type of ship.”
“Huh.” Befuddlement deepens. “Not the last name of a blind pirate?”
Her eyes widen in what can only be labeled as horror. “What?!”
“One of the clues…it…mentioned something about Schooner and then the program found this pirate and-”
“You are just handing the defense her case now on a platinum platter,” Garcia interrupts on an amused headshake. “As my client-”
“Objection,” Salay mirthfully states.
“-I suggest you stop talking before you’re held in contempt of court.”
My lips press firmly together.
“It’s under my advisement that you settle.” He slowly begins taking steps towards me. “Apologize to the opposition, agree to revisit the material, and then kiss me as payment for my pro bono services.”
“If he has to kiss you for your services, then by definition, it’s not pro bono, counselor.”
“No eres abogado,” he scolds in a playful tone at the same time I sink to my feet.
“And this isn’t actually a courtroom,” our girl sasses without missing a beat.
Our.
It’s one of the few labels I’ve come to love.
And I know…I know…it’s running on the dark web with no protection bad that I’m already this deep into…whatever this is.
“Giving the riddles Prince Dickhead provided another look with a Pirates of the Caribbean enthusiast is probably a good use of our rainy day,” I say to her yet keep my attention pinned on him. “Especially with our residential Jack Sparrow-”
“Inaccurate correlation,” she chimes in.
“-out negotiating with Fyght or Flyght – a private military company that moonlights in smaller, high dollar rescues, extractions, or at times exterminations for extremely wealthy clients.”
“Exterminations?” scoffs Salay as Garcia’s hands find their way to my boxer covered hips. “Like I’m a pest.”
His attention briefly cuts over to her. “Comparación comparable.” Rather than retort with words, she flings a fingerful of water in our direction. “Hey! You’re gonna make me wet!”
“Can’t say the same for you,” she saucily bites prior to sticking her tongue out.
“You sure you wanna deal with them alone?” I cautiously ask, anxiously rocking on the tips of my toes. “I don’t mind coming for backup.”
“I would rather you here to help protect our princess in case they manage to discover where we’re located. I recall their policy that states they have thirty-six hours from mission launch to accomplish their objective – primarily to keep their soldiers along with their transport vehicles available and accessible for more pressing operations – or they have to completely forfeit the contract funds.”
“Yeah, but I hid her contract to buy us more time. They probably don’t even know their window is technically up, if the client hasn’t reached them by now, which I may have been making a bit impossible by keeping her team in a ‘how may I redirect your call’ loop.”
“Why didn’t you just delete the contract on me altogether?” questions the target they’re after.
“It’s not that simple,” I reply, eyes drifting over to her despite how much they wish to drift close over Garcia’s gentle thumb touches.
“I don’t think it’s that complicated.”
“That’s because you don’t know shit about contingency plans,” comments the male threatening to turn me into a puddle of human html.
“And you don’t know shit about beach attire.” Her wet, pointed finger makes an up, down motion at his wardrobe. “You’re overdressed for lunch at Shady Beach.”
“It’s a high-end golf resort and spa,” Garcia immediately argues. “I’m dressed accordingly.”
“You’re dressed like you’re going on an interview or are there to inspect them for a Michelin key rating.”
“Board shorts and floral button downs don’t exactly scream ‘I’m here to do business’.”
“And grandpa’s linen suit doesn’t exactly say ‘I’m blending in’.”
“Este no es un traje de abuelo.”
“Yes.” She rapidly nods. “Yes, it is.”
His focus shifts back to me. “Toy…”
Not whimpering is impossible.
“How do you think Master looks?”
“Objection!” calls out Salay from the tub. “Influencing the witness.”
“Overruled,” Garcia impishly murmurs prior to leaning his face closer to mine. “Tell me what Master’s favorite little fuck toy thinks of what he’s wearing…”
The words come out in choked fashion, “That I wanna see what’s underneath…”
He arrogantly grins and tips his chin down. “Unbuckle.”
My hands get to work before my brain even has a moment to truly process the request.
Which is a common coding issue when it comes to all things Victor Garcia.
Once I’ve finished the simple task, he instructs, “Unzip.”
I do.
I immediately lower the metal towards the floor and watch the gray fabric material lifelessly fall to his socks covered ankles, as a result leaving his black boxer briefs exposed for us to admire.