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)
“What?!” booms throughout the night sky.
“Or may or may not be threatening to get me extradited to his country where they will try me for foreign espionage.”
“Espionage?!”
“They can tie me to the front of a fucking ship, sail me out to international waters, and leave me there to get eaten by Jaws.”
There’s no stopping my head from sardonically tilting to the side.
“I shit you not, my guy. I actually looked it up.”
“How is that possible?! We have worldwide laws against inhumane actions such as that.”
“Take it up with The Hague on your own time. There isn’t room on mine.”
Worry immediately resumes its place in my expression.
“I’m pretty sure I’m royally fucked unless…I…help him find something.”
“Because you can find just about anyone or anything.”
Pride pulls the corners of his lips upwards. “Exactly.”
Godhelpme.
That grin alone is gonna get me thrown in a jail cell one of these days.
Or at the very least scheduled for a full-scale psych eval.
“What exactly is it he wants you to find?” I slip my hands into the front pockets of my light suit pants. “Don’t be ambiguous. Be blunt. This conversation is privileged.”
“He wants me to find Écume de mer Éternité,” Zero announces in impeccable French.
Huh.
When did he learn French?
And why’s his accent so damn immaculate?
Is that what he’s been doing in his spare time when he should’ve been at poker with me?
“Écume de mer Éternité…” It takes a moment for the title to fully register. “Wait. The old shipwreck?”
“Yeah.”
“The old, legendary shipwreck?”
“Yeah.”
“The old, legendary, impossible to find shipwreck?”
“Copy & Paste.”
“You can’t find something that doesn’t exist, Zero.”
“He claims to have new deets indicating that it does.”
“Have those claims been substantiated by an outside party?”
“IDK, my guy. I just know what he told me.”
“That’s insufficient information.”
“He wants me to use the new deets to not only locate it-”
“Assuming the information is actually valid.”
“-but to also retrieve it.”
“Why?” Additional irritation finds its way into my tone. “Is he changing careers from royal pain in the ass to cultural museum coordinator?”
“Docent.”
“Why do you know that word?”
“Why is it weird that I do?”
“Weird is not the word choice I would use nor is this a case I feel has any true legal standing.” Rather than let him speak again, I move back to interrogating the only other male I would ever bother calling my best friend. “Why does this prince – whichever prince it is since we haven’t covered that – want this shipwreck? Beyond the obvious reasons of fame, fortune, and infamy.”
“Because the current king’s dying declaration-”
“There’s always an old dying man involved with a totally admissible declaration.”
“-is that the throne is to be left to the offspring that recovers the wreckage, which is the only chance Weslington has at really becoming king because he’s technically second born; therefore not in direct line unless something were to happen to his sibling.”
“Prince Thaddeus Weslington of Hoalkey?” Furrowing of my brow thoughtlessly occurs. “Isn’t he a twin?”
“The second twin meaning his sister will become queen if he doesn’t find that ship and fast.”
“The ship that most historians would argue – in open court, under oath – that they don’t believe actually fucking exists?”
“That’d be the one.”
I slowly shake my head in continuous disbelief. “And you need me to find you a legal loophole out of this shit?”
“If you can.”
“And if I can’t?”
“Then I’m gonna need you to help me find that fucking ship.”
Chapter 3
Salay
There are two things I hate coming to find me in my beach-based sanctuary.
Debt collectors and daddy douche’s pals.
Except for this one.
This one I’d let give me mouth to mouth.
No actual drowning required.
Hell, I’d take mouth to tail.
Something tells me he’s into that.
Victor Garcia, the older, light honey-pecan skinned man who’s trying much too hard to look shore side relaxed – something he clearly is not – casually slides onto the wicker barstool beside me and purrs, “Salay.”
I don’t bother pulling my attention away from the flat screen that’s playing Weekend at Bernie’s. “Garcia.”
“I didn’t think it was humanly possible for you to get anymore beautiful,” compliments the attorney I swear could talk himself or his client out of any crime. “Then again…I’ve always had my suspicions that you weren’t actually human.” He waits for my buttery caramel brown colored face to angle itself in his direction. “Afterall, you do bear the same name as the goddess of the sea.”
“Poseidon was married?” awkwardly questions the much younger male lingering beside him. “When did that happen?”
“When he finally stopped fucking around on her,” I effortlessly answer, attention shifting over to him. “And Poseidon was the Greek God of the Sea. His Goddess was Amphitrite. Neptune was the Roman God of the Sea. And his Goddess was-”
“Salacia,” finishes Garcia, smooth voice successfully redirecting my dark brown stare back to his. “Which was fitting for you since you were literally born in the water.”