Chapter 6
Salay
Silence isn’t my favorite shit – I prefer noise and buzz and commotion even underwater – but I don’t hate it.
You know unless it’s too silent.
Too quiet.
Too empty.
Too void.
Or, of course, unless it’s awkward.
Or super fucking awkward.
Which this is.
Neither have said a word to each other since they got back to our rental beach house ten minutes ago.
And I mean…
Not.
A.
Word.
I could probably say something.
I can always say something.
Like me doing a rodeo flip on my board, it’s possible, but should be done with an air of caution.
Not that caution is a wave I really care to ride.
Nor is spectator a role I tend to wanna play.
Meaning I should say something.
And as much as I would love to wait for this shit to pop off like my bikini top when it’s time to sunbathe on a yacht that might not be the best call for our current work environment.
Then again…I wasn’t invited to join in whatever Titanic level of misery adventure they escaped to this morning – I wasn’t even told what it was in regard to – so maybe I shouldn’t feel compelled to aid in cataloging the wreckage from it.
Come to think of it.
Maybe I’ll create more.
Afterall, where’s the fun of the surf if there aren’t any big waves to catch?
Crossing one ankle over the other in the bar stool seats I’m occupying in the turquoise and marble kitchen occurs at the same time I poke, “Crabs got your tongues?”
Zero lets the corner of his mouth twitch upward indicating he’s not the one in a shit mood.
Meaning he’s likely the one who put the big, bad, attorney in a shit mood.
Meaning Garcia is the oyster to poke.
I just gotta find the right fork.
Don’t feel like doing it with my finger.
“Hungry?” There’s no ignoring the uncomfortable glance he shoots the other male in the room, an action that prompts me to taunt, “Horny?”
Shades of red burst through each of their complexions in tandem, yet only one appears to be embarrassed.
And I gotta admit.
I’m not surprised.
Wish I was.
Not quite to my fairy goddess shit but still.
It’d be nice to see him behave a bit differently than everyone else my sperm donor goes booze cruising with.
“Ohhhhh,” my bottom lip pokes outward in a fake pouting fashion, “did I miss shrimp on the barbie for brunch?”
“My dick isn’t that small!” Zero immediately proclaims, offense undeniably apparent in his pitch.
“Is his?” I salaciously torment while toying with the end of one springy curl.
“Idontknow,” hastily leaves the younger man’s mouth, “we didn’t get to swit-”
“I’m drinking this,” Garcia gruffly announces as he swipes the unopened bottle of tequila near the stove. “Alone.” Tugging harshly at his lapel begins during his retreat backwards out of the space that has a little too much wicker for my liking. “En otra parte.”
“I don’t speak Spanish,” is sassily stated in his direction, glare equal parts snarky and saucy.
“It means elsewhere,” Zero sullenly translates, shoulders falling to the floor.
Rolling my eyes is thoughtlessly done. “And thank you for the lesson, Diego.”
“Zero.”
“Seriously?” Not sneering isn’t an option. “You don’t get that reference either?” The innocent shaking of his head leads me to grumping, “You’re lucky you’re hung.”
Another round of crimson coats his cheeks at the same time he airily croaks, “Howdoyou-”
“The look on Moby-Prick’s face when I tried to imply otherwise.”
Hope briefly flutters through his gaze convincing me to do something slightly out of my cyclone like nature.
“Come on, Captain Ahab,” I playfully begin prior to hopping out of the seats. “Let’s go get some ice cream.”
“Why ice cream?”
“Because your cum whale-”
“Sperm whale.”
“-took the only bottle of booze in the house, and everyone knows the next best thing to booze is ice cream.”
Once more, a smile threatens to slide into place. “What if they don’t like ice cream?”
“Then I don’t like them.”
“What if they can’t have ice cream?”
“Then froyo.”
“What if they can’t have that?”
“Then gelato.”
“Or that.”
“Then a fucking snow cone, which is just sugar and ice and disappointment.” My hands flop down onto my low-rise jean shorts sporting hips. “Now, do you want a treat or not, Little One?”
“I hate when you call me that,” he declares alongside needless fiddling of his leopard printed shirt.
Snatching a housekey out of the turquoise, storage bowl and tucking it into my black and white polka dot, vintage style bikini top barely precedes me arguing, “No, you don’t.”
“I don’t,” Zero immediately surrenders, entire body sheepishly crumpling, “but one hundred?” His bright gaze bores freely into mine. “I feel I should. Like…it’s cringe, you know?”
“What’s cringe is you saying the word cringe instead of just fucking cringing.” Light chuckles leave us both before I grab my jeep keys. “Hope you don’t mind that pretty hair of yours getting messy. I prefer to keep Neptune topless.”
“You named your jeep after the planet?”
“The Roman God.”
“Ohhhh! To match your name!”
“Godddd, I hope you’re better at finding treasure than you are at connecting dots,” leaves me in an exasperated mutter as we head for my vehicle.
Our drive from the house down to the business side of the beach is short but nonetheless filled with my loud, over the top, carefree singing to one of my favorite songs. The fact that Zero joins in on the karaoke style crooning, oddly makes me love the jam even more.
And like him even more.
It’s already kind of hard not to.
He’s basically a dumbo octopus.
Adorable and non-threatening.
Which I need.
My regular life has plenty of danger constantly coming and going.
Danger that I may or may not bring upon myself.
Like nine times out of nine point five.
But again.
Where’s the fun in dipping a toe in the water when your ass can cannonball in?!
“Can’t believe you like Weezer,” he gushes, on a slam on the jeep door closed.
“Can’t believe you know who Weezer is,” I mirthfully jeer in return after motioning my head the direction of the shop we’re gonna hit up.
“My music tastes are the total opposite of streaming ones.”
“Meaning?”
“All over the place.”
“How all over the place?”
“I like Dolly Parton.”
“Everyone likes Queen Dolly Parton.”
“Hozier.”
“He’s hard not to like.”
“Noah Kahan.”
“Now you’re giving me one vibe.”
“Prince.”
“And we’re back to Dolly Parton territory.”
“Kendrick Lamar.”
“He’s like the modern rap version of Prince.”
All of a sudden, he barks, “Cross Canadian Ragweed!”
“Okay,” I unexpectedly concede, “that one is definitely not like the others.”
A round of small snickers is exchanged on our way into Sand Sational, the best ice cream shop on this stretch of the Texas coast. While we both get single scoop cones, our particular flavors are miles apart, further showcasing – in a strange way – the type of individuals we are.
I’ve learned so much shit traveling the world.
How people talk.
How people lie.
How people will confess the truth without realizing.
And one way they do that?
Through frozen dessert.
“Fun fact,” I begin at the same time we park ourselves on the nearest outdoor bench, “ice cream can tell me a lot about a person.”
He casually extends one arm along the backside of the furniture and enjoys his first lick. “Like?”
“Your willingness to be face first in a hot pink treat while sporting a very loud leopard print shirt says to me that you give zero fucks about what the general population thinks of you.”
“I don’t.”
“But,” one leg crosses the other, allowing me to completely angle myself towards him, “the uncertainty you suffered while debating whether to get bubble gum flavor with or without actual bubble gum indicates there’s still a minor concern you harbor regarding how those you care about view you.”
At that, our gazes lock.
“Flattered I make that cut.”
“We’re living together for at least the next couple of weeks. OFC, I care what you think of me.”
“One, the whole talk your type speak, not my fav.”
“Noted.”
“Second-”
“You don’t like bubble gum?”
“Not in my ice cream, Bubblicious.”
“Is that why we’re not sharing?”
“We’re not sharing because contrary to how close you are to having just graduated high school-”
“I graduated early.”
“-we are legally both adults who can afford the cash as well as the calories to enjoy our respective treats.”
Zero lightly chuckles.
Has another lick.
Chuckles again and kicks his chin in my direction. “Okay, dudette. What’s second?”
“Second,” is emphasized on the crooked grin that’s thoughtlessly covering my face, “I have literally lived with people for months and not given a shit about them or what they think.”
Shock sends his jaw straight to his lap. “No cap?”
“Proximity does not equal fucks to give in my navigation manual.” Post a single lick of my pistachio ice cream, I nonchalantly segue, “And since we’re talking about navigation now, did you secure us a vessel?”
Zero proudly beams and resumes consuming his treat.
“What type?”
“Um…the type that goes in the water?”
“Like a cabin boat? Or a cruiser? Center console? Trawler?” The clueless cringe I’m presented instantly causes me to mirthfully glare. “See.” Another taste is taken. “You can make the face. You don’t have to say the word.”
Light laughs push his body slightly closer to mine, and I let them.
Why not?
He’s cute.
Sweet.
Hung – accordingly to my Sherwhorian deductions.
There’s nothing wrong with a little boat rocking.
Especially when you know the sand in the hourglass is already falling.
“Boats are your thing?” Zero warmly investigates, sandal bearing foot gingerly brushing against mine.
“Fuck yeah,” enthusiastically escapes. “I actually met Garcia for the first time at a regatta with my dad.”
“No shit.”
“No shit.” The smile on my face fades at the same speed that it arrived. “Back when Dad still sailed and we still talked and the wicked step cunt wasn’t in the picture and Garcia wasn’t trying to avoid whatever awkward shit happened in my absence.”