Chapter 10
Salay
“Whoooaaa,” Zero adoringly swoons to my left, “you really can drive a boat.”
“I can drive a lot more than that, Little One.”
“?Y por qué me resulta eso tan sexy?” Garcia wolfishly purrs on my right.
“Because everything I do is sexy, Old Man.”
At that he grunts in disapproval.
Loves to be called Master.
Hates to be called old.
Sucks to suck.
I’m gonna do both.
Why?
No.
The question is why not?
Why not make him earn the right for me to call him that in bed?
Why not remind him that that’s where his “I am man, do what man say” shit ends?
Why not make sure he understands the chick he calls princess in the sheets is not the same one who can sail, pilot, or drive a water vehicle?
Don’t get me wrong.
Sex with him – with them – has been stern down the best sex of my entire life, which really says some shit because I’ve had a lot of sex.
In a lot places.
And with a lot of people.
Again.
The question isn’t why.
It’s why not.
Traveling the world…exploring its shores…why not explore its people?
Especially naked.
My point being – and there is one – is that while sex with them is fucking incredible, it hasn’t – and won’t – give me a lobotomy rendering an entire new personality.
“You sure we’re not lost?” Zero nervously questions, tropical flamingo print torso casually leaning over as if he’s able to read the navigation system.
“I’m sure that shirt you’re wearing will act like a beacon if we are,” I teasingly poke back, attention oscillating between the view ahead and the coordinates I’ve been given.
“You don’t like my shirt?!”
“The people who made that shirt don’t even like it.”
“Garcia does!”
“He’d like it more on the floor,” absentmindedly leaves my lips.
“Sí.” He folds his muscular arms across his taut, white, pressed linen bearing chest. “Right next to that bra you’re wearing.”
“Bikini.”
“The people who made that top wouldn’t even call it that.”
This.
This is the man that I’ve always had a thing for.
Too bad for me he’s basically the human form of what happened when the Titanic hit an iceberg.
Destruction.
Calamity.
Death.
I mean people were having a helluva good time before shit started to sink, which really just further tracks with my analogy.
Sex, laughs, and surfs up are where we are.
Thinking we can survive anything more, anything past these treasure hunting weeks is when disaster will strike.
Garcia gets that.
Garcia lives that.
He always has.
Even before…whatever this is.
He’s a man who likes to have a fuck or a fling and be available the next morning to do it all over again with the barista who hands him his café con leche.
Our adorable, little sunshine and stingrays on the other hand?
I honestly don’t think he understands the principle of temporary outside of the computer file for it.
Or maybe he does.
Maybe he just can’t when it comes to the man of his dreams.
And that brings me to the most important point of them all.
Life is easier when you don’t have that type of particular person in your life.
Let alone two.
“You know that’s alotta judgment coming out of someone who’s clearly missing his modeling audition for Ralph Lauren,” turning the yacht slightly starboard is attached to me adding, “the Golden Years collection.”
The amused, displeased grunt escaping him is overshadowed by Zero cheekily stating, “Oh, I thought it was for the Nautical or Nice line.”
Gradually decreasing our speed precedes a slow, enthusiastic nod of approval. “Dad humor out of the child on board.” I effortlessly begin shifting us so that we are drifting instead of actively moving. “Poseidon approves of this message.”
Light laughs leave Little One. “What makes you say that?”
“The waters are calm.” Backing away from the helm is attached to my next retort. “Hence, why we can safely float here while I go diving.”
“You’re not…” Garcia cringes as he realizes he isn’t familiar with the correct terminology, “parked?”
“You mean anchored?”
“We’re not anchored?!” Zero croaks, clearly in distress. “Shouldn’t you be fucking anchored?! Isn’t that like page one of Captain coding or something?!”
“Do you not know how to anchor?” Garcia tips the brim of his oversized hat a little higher to ensure I see his glare. “?Es por eso que no lo somos?”
“First off, I want it known that I find you asking me in English and Spanish to be exceedingly condescending.”
He does his best not to smirk.
“And second, this,” my finger waves itself back and forth between them, “is exactly why I don’t salvage with shoresies.”
“Shoresies?” they question in tandem.
“People who belong on the shore and not on my trip.”
Much like the inquiring, the frowning is done together.
Yeah…I hate myself for finding moments like this irresistible.
They did it at bedtime when I considered not cuddling.
They did it again at breakfast when I declined to join them.
And now.
I should know better.
I should be able to do better.
Yet…yet… I find myself becoming slightly – like pearl in a shell small – addicted to something about them.
Not just separately either.
I mean together.
Zero is port, Garcia is starboard, and I’m the bow or stern depending on which way we need to go. They’re opposite sides, sure, but when they’re working together?
Literal.
Smooth.
Sailing.
And shit doesn’t get much sexier than that.
“You don’t anchor this far into the ocean, guppies.
” My body continues backing up towards the area I need to grab my gear from.
“We could use drift socks, but the water and weather don’t warrant it at this time.
Now, if you two could please hold all further questions, so that I may change before that does, it would be greatly appreciated. ”
Two slightly embarrassed expressions are flashed prior to me sassily strutting away towards the rear of the boat where all equipment is stored.
While I absolutely prefer free dive scouting missions – the type that don’t require me to look like a deep blue sea nightmare – I can and do have the equipment for ones like this.
As nice as it would be for treasure to literally be floating near my feet when I get in, the combination of time, currents, and other natural elements moving shit around makes that impossible.
Okay.
Maybe not impossible but highly fucking improbable.
“Look for shipwreck markers first,” Garcia needlessly advises during my drysuit dressing. “There’s no need for heavy searching in the wrong area.”
“It’s not the wrong area,” murmurs Zero at the same time he posts up against the railing.
“The pieces might not be as obvious as you think. The wreckage is quite old, and the materials are severely weathered and-”
“And you are micromanaging me like you didn’t surf a ten-footer to recruit me for this because you know I’m the best.”
“You are.”
“I am what?” I teasingly poke and pull on my footwear. “I wanna hear you say it.”
Seeing Zero smirk out of the corner of my eye doesn’t distract me.
But it comes close.
He just has one of those smiles.
Those sweet, goofy, kiss me I’m a seal grins.
And I mean seal, not sea lions.
Those bitches are not to be fucked with.
Actually, I would be the sea lion in this trio.
“You are the best,” Garcia smoothly announces prior to shoving his hands into his navy shorts pockets, “but-”
“No backhanded compliments welcomed.”
“Time is a factor, Salay.”
Stuffing my head into the covering is accompanied by a twitched glare. “And so is respect.” We all remain utterly silent until I’ve finished tucking everything in. “Which is what I’m not receiving and what we both know I fucking deserve.”
“This is about protecting Zero.”
“I didn’t ask for protection,” he unhappily grouses. “I hit F1 for a little help.”
“Help that he went out of his way to get,” is propelled at him before my focus shifts back to the other person on board, “and help that you are paying me a shit load to provide. Now, how about you let me do the thing I get paid very well to do, the thing my father snubs his nose at me doing because it isn’t for the fucking local PD or feds, and mind your tone about it going forward before you too end up marooned on Isn’t Allowed To Speak to Salay Island? ”
To no surprise, Garcia clamps his mouth closed.
Releases a heavy breath.
Begrudgingly nods and gestures a hand towards my gas tank that’s waiting to be slipped on.
“Unbelievable,” Zero dumbfoundedly whispers. “He just…backs down…to you…”
“Happens when your balls are bigger than this.” I wink.
Post getting my container where it needs to be, my eyewear on, and the piece that goes in my mouth actually there, I mentally give myself a once over to ensure I have everything I need for my first drop down.
There’s heavier gear for a longer search and seizure but that’s fucking pointless if we’re in the wrong spot.
And Mr. Technology swears up and down on the Steve Irwin shirt he has framed in his apartment that we aren’t.
The thing is…when it comes to treasure hunting in real life rather than a cartoon, there isn’t a big x marks the spot for where the shit is.
There’s actually rarely more than particular marine life to let you know you are even on the right course.
I tried to explain that.
He tried not to be distracted by my tits going into my swim top.
Using the yacht’s ladder, I gradually ease into the water, allowing beautiful colors to begin their assault almost immediately.
Every time I slip into the ocean’s grasp like this – whether its warm or cold – one word always comes to mind.
Home.
Which isn’t something I ever feel on land.
But here?
Swimming beside fish or towards coral or past manatees is basically my version of going into the office.
Although…unlike most people who work in offices, I actually look forward to coming here.
Honestly, who doesn’t wanna be greeted by a cute little school of fish?
Once I’ve reached the appropriate range for searching, I casually start.
Maintaining an even level is rather effortless; however, minding the appropriate space of my surroundings requires a bit more.
Not pissing off or metaphorically pissing on certain creatures’ territory truly requires focus.
A lot particularly when scouring the territory for wooden remains.
Rusty ship pieces.
Really fucking old chests clearly filled with lost pirate treasure or whatever people have convinced themselves will be found in the wreckage.
Personally?
Aiming for a pen or pendant or a coin.
They’re small.
Easy to carry.
No need to worry about damaging my gear.
Plus, they provide distinguishing markings that are easy to verify as real or forged.
My first check of the area is fruitless – like I expected – but I check a second time.
I mean I’m not fucking perfect.
Pretty, but not infallible.
Things can be missed.
Mistakes made.
And just to be clear, missing a ruby necklace or creepily stacked dishware are the only types of mistakes that I’m okay with making here.
Others could cost me my life.
After a reasonable amount of time and distance have passed, I prepare to head back empty handed when unexpected movement occurs to my left.
Certain it’s a dark color marine creature yet unable to ignore the niggling in the pit of my stomach that it’s something else is what pushes me to swim towards the unknown.
To brace myself for a whale or a shark, sharks who like me often get a bad rep.
Unfortunately, the next time I manage to catch sight of the creature in hopes of discovering what it is, it’s too late.
An underwater speargun is instantly fired, damn near tearing through my drysuit.
Gratitude that my tank – the literal gas I need not to die the watery death I know I’m inevitably going to one day – hasn’t been hit is short lived due the swift retraction of the device, indicating whoever fired is planning for a second round.
Panic does its best to pierce my entire system only to be met by composure.
Because composure will aid in keeping me alive.
Freaking out all but guarantees I end up dead at these depths.
Swiftly swimming away, keeping natural barriers between us, works in my favor.
The individual who is undoubtedly in pursuit of me – which I’m now wondering what the fuck for – does their best to keep up and take another shot.
Their relentless nature – despite their lack of success – pushes me to continue weaving and working the water rather than executing a straight shot back to our boat.
Diving deeper manages to slow down their efforts and present a struggle in visual range, a factor that plays to my benefit when I decide to slip into a narrow opening, one that results in them becoming stuck when they try to follow me through.
Torn between fighting to free themselves and taking another shot in my direction allows adequate time for me to swiftly cut through the water, stroke after stroke, putting more and more distance between me and the unknown assailant.
Who the fuck were they?
Were they targeting me?
They had to be, right?!
You don’t just follow a stranger to unalive them for sport.
Okay.
Typically, that’s not something people do.
Yeah, I’ve read the horror stories and see the want ads on the dark web, but in general that’s not super common.
Or as common as fear mongering online makes it out to be.
Maybe they think I saw them doing something?
Dumping a body?
No.
You just throw that shit overboard and chum the water.
Illegal fishing?
No.
Didn’t see any lines.
Didn’t spot any bait.
Oh shit.
Oh shit!
What if they found something?!
What if they found what it is we’re looking for?!
What if they’re looking for it too?!
My hasty movements don’t cease until my hands are wrapping around the edges of the ladder to aid in foisting me back onto the boat.
“Shit!” screeches Zero, nearly falling out of the deck chair he was catching sun in. “Don’t just jump on the boat like a baby orca!”
I rip the piece out of my mouth, focused on the actual announcement I need to make as opposed to a witty rebuttal, “We have a problem.”
“What?” Garcia inquires at the same time he creeps away from the helm towards where we are. “What do you mean we have a problem?” His tequila glass free hand slides into his pocket. “With like the boat?”
“With like someone trying to kill me.”