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.”
“You were?!” croaks his adorable floral shirt sporting assistant.
Or nephew?
Not really sure how they know each other or who the delicious, shaggy-haired treat is at all.
“Water births are a real thing, little one,” I sassily inform.
“That 3-Ds have on purpose?!”
“Better than on accident.”
His mouth momentarily remains frozen, but shuts once his internal contemplation agrees with my conclusion.
“From what I recall,” Garcia begins again, summoning my gaze once more, “your mother – may she rest in peace – loved discussing Roman Gods a tad more than the Greeks, but a tad less than the Norse, yet enjoyed teaching about the Egyptians and Africans the most due to the captivated response she received from her students.”
“And from what I recall,” my face cranes itself in a little closer, “she warned me to stay away from men in suits and ties and that drop panties with their smiles.” I let the corners of my unpainted lips flirtatiously curl upward.
“You may be out of the former, but we both know you’ll always have the latter.
” An unmistakable grumble escapes the young dude beside him prompting me to shoot him a lascivious wink. “Same goes for you, little one.”
Despite the red shades creeping into his complexion, he huffs, “I’m not that little.”
“And I bet you’re just itchin’ to prove it,” is attached to the waggling of my dark eyebrows. “All night if I let you.”
This time it’s Garcia that releases a low rumble of disapproval.
Huh.
Why didn’t the mystery man being his boyfriend cross my mind sooner?
And why does them being together make the older, well put together gent that’s always been off-limits, even more fucking scrumptious?
Is it ‘cause I’m suffering from a dry spell?
Not quite polar desert but let’s just say I haven’t seen rain or sleet or a fucking snowflake in personal record timing.
I should probably correct that.
Soon.
Like before it influences my ability to make good life decisions.
Or…at least less bad life choices.
That’s really the best I can do.
“We have a proposition for you,” states the white, linen button-down beast beside me.
“People typically buy me a drink first,” I salaciously announce prior to mischievously peering up at his unnamed boyfriend, “or perhaps two.”
Garcia lightly grunts in amusement and lifts a pair of fingers to summon over the bartender.
The instant Ernie arrives, he cockily leans his six-foot-five frame onto the bar via his elbows.
“Let me guess. Shots for the beached mermaid – because for her it’s always shot o’clock somewhere – a top-shelf tequila, no ice, twist of lime for khaki pants – because that’s classic for an upscale member of society on vacay – and a mojito for khaki shorts – because someone mentioned in a Tik Tok that it was Hemingway’s fav. ”
“Documentary about endangered species which covered the Cuban solenodons in Cuba,” corrects Garcia’s partner.
“Eh,” chuckles one of the few acquaintances I’ve allowed myself to keep over the years, “close enough for a stogie.”
“How the fuck did you guess that?” ponders the baffled attorney while handing over his card to be swiped.
“What can I say?” Ernie’s broad, sun-kissed beige shoulders innocently bounce.
“I’ve got a gift.” Arrogance flutters through his crooked grin as the system accepts the form of payment.
“And it gets a lot of use when it comes to tourists like yourselves.” My tank top sporting pal tosses me a curious glance in tandem with returning the black, rectangular object to Garcia. “Feet or fins?”
“Undecided.”
“Singles it is then,” he warmly declares on a self-dismissal.
“You really think we look like tourists?” nervously questions Garcia’s other half.
“You don’t look like locals.”
“I did my research,” the male whose name I still don’t know defends. “This shirt blends in with the high traffic footage of this establishment not to mention that of the immediate surrounding perimeter.”
“Which tracks since this is a tourist bar.”
“Then why are you here?” He immediately pokes. “You aren’t a tourist in this town anymore. At least not by your standards. You’ve actually bothered to rent a space to call your own rather than bum from beach to boat or boat to beach.”
Bewilderment begs to be seen in my expression; however, I deny it.
No.
It’s gonna take more than Carlos from The Magic School Bus expertly using Google to toss me off my board.
Solid try though.
“Ernie’s the dude I rent from,” I openly answer, fingers lightly toying with my white and purple lacy bikini top, right on top of my tit. “Wanna guess what he charges me?”
Hunger unexpectedly clouds his gaze getting me to viciously giggle.
Oh…the perfect fun.
Both dudes swing both ways.
Now, that’s a wave I can and do appreciate.
“You’re a salvager,” proclaims Garcia at the same time Ernie places his drink down in front of him.
“Much to the dismay of The Police Chief of Spike Village and the collagen cunt reporter he married.”
“You’re one of the best in the business,” adds the younger guy before accepting his completed beverage.
“I would have the counselor here make an argument for me being the best.”
“You’ve worked for private institutions, aiding in the recovery for history preservation, and private backers, aiding in the discovery of lost possessions often to be thought of as nothing more than old captain’s drunk bullshit.”
“Impressive, little one, how you know all about me and I don’t even know your name.”
“Zero,” he eagerly introduces. “You can um…you can call me Zero.”
“Maybe I’ll call you Hero,” I teasingly wink as Ernie puts down my shot glass, “or Hunkucles.” One blank stared blink leads to me sighing. “You don’t get the reference, huh?” His quick headshake has me cautiously asking Garcia, “Just how young is your boyfriend over here?”
“He’s not my-”
“We’re just friends,” bitterly snaps the mojito drinker.
“You seem stoked about that,” leaves me in a tickled murmur.
“We want to enlist your services,” Garcia declares over the sound of tequila filling my glass.
“Pass.”
Stupefaction slams itself onto his face. “Perhaps you should hear the details first?”
“Pass.” Quickly downing the first shot allows for it to immediately be refilled in my hand.
“Maybe the price tag?” Zero enthusiastically interjects.
“Still.” I toss the second shot back. “Pass.” Plopping the empty drinkware upside down back on the bar barely precedes me hopping my jean shorts covered ass out of the seat. “But thanks for the drinks, boys.”
“How about a chance to make history?!” Zero verbally vomits. “Don’t you want that main character shit?”
“Oh, Little One,” my fingers suggestively tug at the end of his brightly colored floral wear, “I’m always on my main character shit.”
An unmistakable whimper escapes on a bite of his bottom lip.
Swaying closer is attached to a whispered, “Wanna join me?”
“How about living up to the goddess name your mother gave you?” Garcia challenges, forcing my narrowed glare over to him. “Proving to your father you’re more than just a beach bunny with an adrenaline fetish?”
“I don’t have to prove shit to that man.”
“But wouldn’t it feel good to?” he tempts in a sultry voice that’s absolutely a siren song for my lower lips. “Wouldn’t it feel so fucking good for him to see your name in the media alongside literal royalty?”
Confusion doesn’t hesitate to cake itself in my glare. “For?”
“Recovering and returning the contents of écume de mer éternité to its rightful kingdom.”
“Are you fucking kidding me?!” Consternation aggressively replaces the previous display at the same time I relinquish my hold on his unclaimed boy toy. “You can’t return something that doesn’t actually exist, Garcia.”
“But it does exist,” Zero quietly rebuts.
“Yeah, in folklore and fairy tales, Fisher-Price.”
“And in the actual water,” informs the older male on a sip of his tequila. “How about you sit that beautiful ass back down, let Ernie pour you another drink on us, and listen to the contract proposal that’s coming straight from The Weslington family itself…”