Chapter 15
Garcia
I am not a golf fan.
I never have been.
I never will be.
I just understand that it’s where business is done.
Particularly out of the courtroom.
At least I don’t have to be out on the actual course this time.
The driving range is more than enough for me.
Archibold Marshall-Green, the arrogant, overly tanned, pencil pusher clearly assigned to the contract but not the one in charge of physically executing it, plants his club in the space between his feet to lean on it for a theatrical effect. “You want me to cancel the assignment?”
Positioning myself behind the tee is attached to my one-word response. “Correct.”
“However, you are not the signatory.”
My shoulders are given a small wiggle to aid in loosening up. “Correct.”
“Is this…some sort of joke?”
“No.”
“Prank?”
“No,” escapes in tandem with me lining up the shot.
“Test?”
“No.”
His scoff is riddled with bewilderment and annoyance alike, “Then what the hell is it?”
“A counter.”
“I am not in the business of reneging on one contract for another.”
Expelling a long, deep breath precedes me taking a harsh swing at the tiny blue ball.
Thankfully, that hasn’t been an issue for me during this expedition.
Hell, I don’t think I’ve ever had my balls this empty, this often, nor is my dick typically just ready to go another round within the hour.
That’s college me shit.
Law school life.
Which I’m far from.
I’m not old – despite the steady stream of jokes from the pair that I love licking my sack and calling me Master.
But I’m not young.
Damn sure, not as fucking young as either of them.
I get random back pains from pounding Salay too hard on the kitchen table at breakfast and sore knees from sucking Zero’s cock on the stairs and aches from trying to share a shower with both at once because they want me in there with them as much as I wanna be.
And I want to be there.
With them both.
Between them both.
Defending one, prosecuting the other, judging when an objective third party is necessary.
I like being on the couch, listening to him ramble about turtles while he types on his laptop and she cleans sand from underneath her nails, both with their feet propped up in my lap, like I’m a fucking footstool.
A footstool who gives the best foot rubs, for the record.
The type that somehow always manage to lead to someone sucking my dick or riding it.
Like I said.
Blue balls haven’t been an issue for me lately.
I’m frankly more concerned about what happens post our time in paradise.
When Salay jumps ship because that’s what she does.
Has always done.
Agreed to do.
When Zero wants more and I have to overrule him because that’s what I do.
Have always done.
Should always do.
Is it possible we could…come to an arrangement…an agreement of some sort in which all this lasts a little longer?
Or…a lot longer?
Perhaps indefinitely?
Can we have what my best friend has?
He thinks it’s inevitable.
Smug asshole all but villainously cackled when I might’ve mentioned finally understanding how hard it is to keep up with two people instead of one.
Karma came to my side when my godchild started wailing, forcing him to cut the call short; therefore putting a quick end to his impish taunting.
Marshall-Green waits until I lower my club and face him to declare, “What you’re asking is unprecedented, Mr. Garcia.”
“It’s not,” is insisted alongside my sliding out of the way for him to have his turn.
“It-”
“Occurred with Penn in Bucharest.”
Marshall-Green clears his throat during his approaching of the fake grass area.
“Denisof in Helsinki.”
He wordlessly plunks a yellow ball out of his bucket.
“Luchkov in Budapest.”
“You know quite a lot of non-public information in regard to the company and its operations,” murmurs the white polo sporting male as he gingerly balances the object on the tee. “Source?”
“Unimportant,” I casually shrug off while retreating in the direction of the small glass table where our personal server is waiting for requests. “However, what is important, is knowing that going after a member of law enforcement’s only daughter will not bode well for you nor Fyght or Flyght.”
“We’ve dealt with messier.”
“I’m aware.” Waiting until post swing to proceed is easy. “Governors. Senators. CEOS. CFOS.”
He turns towards me to display an arrogant grin.
“New money. Old money.”
“You did your homework.”
“That’s the only way I enter negotiations, Mr. Marshall-Green.”
An impressed hum is followed by him waving an open palm to imply it’s my turn.
“And had you done yours,” my frame remains unmoving, “you would have it in your files that your assignment happens to be one involving the daughter of an acquaintance, the daughter who I am quite close to, meaning anything he might want or fathom needing I will personally provide. Yes, dealing with those in law enforcement may be theoretically neater than that of a politician, but dealing with a grief-stricken father assisted by a vengeance led counselor will be far, far from clean.”
At that Marshall-Green twitches a glare. “What exactly are you proposing?”
“Cancel the contract you currently have and accept one from us.”
“The current contractor holder isn’t the type you simply…” his finger rolls around, clearly searching for the correct phrasing, “forgo.”
“Yes, royalty does have a tendency to pout when they don’t get their way.”
“How did you-”
“But switching from one royal member to another – particularly when they’re siblings – is merely just another Tuesday for them.”
He locks his grey glare onto my brown. “Terms?”
“My client is asking that you cancel hers-”
“Obviously.”
“-and switch to actively keeping the target alive.”
“Your client wants to hire the team for a security detail?”
“No.” Casually leaning on the nearby pillar is done in between statements.
“My client wants you to run interference to prevent any new, outside contractors who become assigned the order by their agencies – which will naturally occur once you refuse to fulfill the assignment – from successfully executing the mission.”
Marshall-Green releases another hum, though this one is in obvious contemplation.
“You switch to working for her brother, and he will ultimately pay you more money, for less work.”
“Her brother is your client?”
“No, I work for a mutual party who has convinced the prince to extend this offer, so for the sake of this discussion we can refer to him as a client by extension.”
Huh.
I’m not sure that I’ve ever referred to Zero that way before.
Nonetheless, the statement still remains true.
He is a client.
One I’m on permeant retainer for, although it’s always pro-bono.
And someone I will do whatever is necessary to protect in or out of a courtroom.
The man across from me curiously cocks his head to the side. “What type of law do you practice exactly, Mr. Garcia?”
“Whatever type the person employing my service’s needs, Mr. Marshall-Green.”
He flashes a respectful smirk and tips his chin in acknowledgement.
“Do we have an agreement?” It’s my turn to maneuver my club for a theatrical affect. “Verbal first. Paperwork can be reviewed and signed after we’ve finished our buckets of balls.”
“I need to make a call.”
“Then make it.” The wink he’s shot precedes him walking towards the glass doors to enter the resort building. Post his disappearance, I shift my stare to the tiny mouthed, brunette that’s been assigned to our table. “Would you like to take a swing, Vanessa?”
She flirtatiously snickers, pulls her thin wavy hair to the side of her sandy shaded face, and coos, “Mr. Garcia-”
“Just Garcia is fine.”
“Garcia,” the correction is purred to no surprise, “I don’t think I’m supposed to play with the patrons.”
“Isn’t your job to tend to the patron?”
Her teeth steal a small bite of her filler injected lip. “It is.”
“Then tend to me,” escapes in an intendedly provocative nature.
“Yes, sir,” she coos prior to standing up for me to drink in.
So, I do.
Average height.
Petite.
Almost mousy.
No visible tats.
No distinguishing marks.
Very obedient.
Quiet.
All the things I “should” want according to the men I often spend too much time drinking mojitos or Moscow mules with.
She’d be easy to mold.
Eager to fit whatever bill was presented.
Shake whoever’s hand.
Suck whoever’s cock.
Let me suck whoever’s cock.
I hate it.
Well, I hate it for more than one night.
One go in the sack where I’m told everything I wanna hear and she does everything I want her to do and then we part our ways is what I’m quite accustomed to.
Helps me fulfill that duty without actually having to commit to it.
I just…never thought I would want something…more in my life.
Or different than the status quo.
Or a life with two people as opposed to the more traditional one.
I know from societal soap boxes people think it’s wrong, but is it?
Is it wrong when it’s three consenting adults making three consenting adult decisions?
What’s the case number to back the findings that say that it is?
The reference examples to be presented for support?
Are there any?
Vanessa reaches the space in front of me and dangles herself extremely close.
Close enough I can smell her coconut sunscreen and the cherry lip gloss sticking to her lips. “Want me to use your club?”
The innuendo receives a crooked grin and a polite extension of my tool.
“Thanks,” she whispers, body lingering around a moment more than needed. Afterward, she grabs one of my balls, places it on the tee, and intentionally wiggles her shorts bearing ass, desperate to draw my gaze to it. “You don’t play here often.”
My eyes cut away once a polite viewing has been given. “I do not.”
“Visiting?”
“On business.”
“Not pleasure?”
“Pleasure has certainly been had,” mindlessly leaves my lips, shocking me more than her.
What the hell is going on?!
Head in the bathroom while someone else finger fucks themselves should not have me just out here saying shit like this.
I know how to be better composed.
I should be.
Honestly, part of me doesn’t want to be.
And it’s that part that has the other half of me pushing to ask this young woman out.
Take her for drinks.
Expose her to a few of the finer things in life.
Rent a lux room, screw, and stay connected to what’s as familiar to me as the tequila my liver is pissy I’ve been drinking in excess.
Which I am not sold is because I’m on “out of the office mode” as opposed to feeling a bit ashamed by my societally salacious actions.
“Yachting? Surfing?” She pushes her shoulders back before tossing her face over one. “Skinny dipping?”
Memories of being in the pool, dick to dick, tearing Salay in two, while they both gave me all of them, everything they had, everything they could ever have, lead to me sliding a hand into my pants pocket to slyly adjust myself. “Two of the three.”
“Tell me skinny dipping is definitely one of them,” Vanessa suggestively insists on a brow waggle. “And that you wanna do it again.”
I do.
Just not with her.
Rather than lead the attendant on or towards a false impression I know I’m not actually interested in, I politely state, “You should take your shot.”
“What do you think I’m doing, Garcia?”
“Aiming at the wrong hole.”
Vanessa’s eyebrow quirks in intrigue. “Am I?”
Uncertainty prompts hesitation in my response.
Is she?
I mean…isn’t she?
I am the wrong person for her.
I know it.
I want to say it.
I want to be capable of saying it.
What’s the worst that could happen if I give it a trial run?
Experiment with the idea on people I’m unlikely to ever see again?
Consult with the notion as if it had true merit.
Investigate if I can actually stand the way it feels leaving my mouth.
How people’s view of me will change.
The disgust they may conjure or distance they may find the need to create.
Much like they do when they discover that I’m an attorney.
It’s just one of those careers people love or despise you for.
I have met very few who are in the middle ground ruling where its concerned.
Testing the idea, the possibility of people’s reactions, is no different than what we do with mock juries.
Except of course, this woman doesn’t know she’s being used in that nature.
I swallow the apprehension in my throat and do my best to nonchalantly retort, “This hole – figuratively speaking – already has a flag.” My mouth struggles to add, “Two to be exact.”
“Two?”
Afraid my vocal cords will betray me if I make an attempt to speak again is what pushes me into simply nodding.
“Lucky ladies,” Vanessa snickers prior to finally swinging at the object.
“She’s far from a lady,” I good naturedly inform, grabbing her full attention. “And while he may have a love affair with animal print like a middle-aged woman on a cruise going through her second divorce, he probably wouldn’t appreciate being called a lady, either.”
Another light laugh is expelled during her cross back over.
“Truth is…” the melting of my frame occurs without my consent, “I’m the lucky one.”
“Maybe you should let them know that every once in a while, Mr. Garcia.”
“Just Garcia.”
“If you weren’t a happily taken man, it would be.”
The indication that she not only respects the boundaries of our relationship – one we haven’t even officially established as anything more than a fling – but isn’t repulsed by it, has whatever weight I’ve been carrying on my shoulders effortlessly falling off.
Shit.
Was Salay right?
Do I give too much of a fuck what others think?
Would life really be so fucking awful if I cared about it less?
My own happiness more?
Because they definitely make me happy.
Even when they’re driving me to drink the whole bottle of tequila insane, they provide me with content no one else ever has.
That I get the inkling no one else ever will.
Maybe I should make them dinner tonight.
Tell them that.
Tell them…something.
Something that lets them know it’s not just about saving Zero’s life and convenient sex anymore.
It’s…deeper now.
That somewhere between the off-colored age jokes, the post dinner strip poker rounds, and dream vacation pillow talks, things got…out of temporary and are now seeking a longer possibility.
Movement out of the corner of my eye causes me to cut my focus back to the door Marshall-Green is re-entering through. Upon his complete return outside, I cautiously investigate, “Do we have a deal, Mr. Marshall-Green?”
“Verbal now,” he professionally announces before letting the faintest hint of mirth be seen. “Paperwork when we’re out of balls.”