Chapter 12
Garcia
Someone’s trying to kill her, so what does she do?
She goes for a fucking swim.
Naked.
Dios no lo quiera…she does any type of rational shit.
I mean, if I asked for the record to be read back to us, it would further prove rational isn’t in her reflected behaviors.
But come on.
Even the most well-adjusted criminals don’t shake off having a hit on them this fucking casually.
One hand is forcefully shoved into my pocket before tossing her a disapproving glare. “Really?”
“Really.”
“This is you helping?”
“Yeah.”
“Who?” More irritation pierces my stare. “Who are you fucking helping right now?”
“Me.” Salay’s figure slinks onto the steps to better face me. “Let’s not forget that I’m the one who was almost filleted like halibut, counselor.”
Fuck, I tend to hate it when she calls me that in that tone.
The label and the tone are almost always paired together.
Like tequila and lime.
When others use that title or a synonym?
It’s complimentary.
They use the title, they use the appropriate tone, and it taste like an aged shot of Patrón.
Something meant to be sipped.
Appreciated.
Praised for its complexity.
Time.
Effort.
Depths.
The legal system is far from simple and the grace as well as viciousness I manage to operate with is laudable.
But when she says it?
When she spews the branding?
It’s an insult.
Barely aged liquor out of its barrel.
Bullshit that some just graduated high school girl is gonna dump into margaritas she managed to make in her dorm room then get kicked out for making, only to have her daddy retain my services to get her reinstated.
Salay acts as if any half-cut, shaggy haired, beach bum could stroll in off the pier and win the shit that I do.
I rarely fucking hate what it is I do for a living – fuck, I’m typically quite proud – yet every time…every…goddamn…time…she adds just the faintest air of judgment or sneer to her voice regarding my career, I feel shame.
Guttural disgust.
And I shouldn’t.
I make a phenomenal living.
I’m incredible in the courtroom – whether for profit or charity.
I have helped – actually helped – more than just myself over the years.
There’s no reason to feel shitty about that.
Then again…maybe that’s not what I think is shitty.
Maybe that’s not what I fucking hate.
Maybe I wish she knew that I can do more than just destroy other people’s lives.
That I can save them too.
That that’s exactly what the fuck I’m trying to do with Zero.
Right here.
Right now.
Keeping an even tone noticeably grows in difficulty, “You shouldn’t be swimming.”
“You shouldn’t be drinking.”
I thoughtlessly tighten the grip on my tequila glass. “It calms me.”
“This soothes me.”
“Like a capybara,” interjects Zero from where he’s stretched out on a nearby pool chair.
“This is the only time, I will ever allow myself to be compared to a giant rodent,” she throws a teasing – yet threatening – glance over her bare shoulder. “Understood, Discovery TV?”
He meets her gaze, cautiously nods, and returns to typing.
“We should be sweeping for bugs,” I announce after having a sip of my beverage. “See if there are listening devices, we’re unaware of on the property.”
“I’ve got a scrambler going,” our computer genius swiftly rebuts, summoning my attention to him. “Should fuck up any unauthorized frequencies. And your cells,” he gestures his head to the seat at his right, “are getting scrubbed as we speak.”
“Why didn’t you do that shit fucking sooner?” escapes in a displeased grunt.
“Bubble bath your phones or cock block radio waves?”
“Both.”
He innocently shrugs. “Didn’t think it was necess.”
“How could you think it wasn’t necessary?”
“Idontknow,” Zero meekly murmurs, frame slinking a bit further down in the seat. “Didn’t seem like anything that sus would happen while treasure hunting for royalty, my guy.”
“Is my guy what you say instead of my boyfriend?” Salay inquires prior to paddling over in his direction.
“I am not his boyfriend,” bursts free before I can even consider other, better phrasing.
He briefly presses his lips together and swallows the hunk of hurt I can visually see I caused.
Fuck.
I didn’t…
I shouldn’t…
I probably could’ve…
Fuck. Me.
Not the best way to object.
Lifting my glass to my lips precedes him redirecting his attention to the woman who asked the question, “No. My guy is uh…just a phrase…I use…” One large throat clearing occurs. “The way some people might dude or babe.”
“Or brah,” she warmly states as she folds her arms along the edge of the curvy pool.
“Exactly.”
“I like my guy better.”
Her compliment successfully settles his spirit.
Noticeably softens his shoulders.
His grin.
Makes me feel shittier.
Drink again.
“Me too,” escapes in a flirty tone.
“You can totally call me ‘my guy’ if you want.” Her tongue steals a seductive swipe. “You can call me pretty much whatever you like when I’m riding your cock.”
“You looking for an invitation, baby?”
“You offering, Little One?”
“Focus,” is bitterly barked. “Forfuckssake.”
“We were trying to fuck for fuckssake,” snaps Salay when she meets my glare again. “You’re the only one here fucking determined for everyone to be as miserable as you.”
“I’m not miserable.”
“No?” She slaps an open palm across her wet chest. “I’m convinced.” Her frame dramatically leans overs. “Tell the judge to bang the gavel. Court dismissed!”
“Why is everything a fucking joke to you?”
“Why is everything a fucking federal life sentence to you?”
This.
This is why nothing more than fucking could ever work between us.
All of us.
Any of us.
They treat life like it’s just all misdemeanors and community service bullshit.
As though nothing should be taken too seriously.
As if there aren’t real fucking consequences to their fucking actions.
I refuse to be the only adult in our relationship.
Not that we exactly have a relationship so much as a flingship.
Not that we ever will have more.
Or could.
That shit may work for some.
Be accepted by others – including my own parents.
However, that doesn’t mean it would work for us.
Me.
What I do.
Who I’m around on a daily.
Those that affect my career.
Secrets are meant to be kept in closets and under the bed and filed away with NDAs.
I don’t write the arbitrary “appearances are everything” laws.
I just follow them.
“I didn’t read the terms and conditions of this sitch nearly as well as I clearly should’ve.
That’s on me,” Zero firmly proclaims. “However, I’ve got this vibe that’s tellin’ me if I can trace what company the merc was hired from then I can get into their shit, get into the deets of his contract, and find a way to invalidate it, and then foot the bill – or have Prince Dickbag foot the bill – to move them from malware attacking to a virus we can use in our favor. ”
Pride allows itself to be seen on my face.
“See now I’m convinced misery has abandoned needing company,” Salay sasses upon admiring the shift in my expression.
“And how many more laps is it gonna take to convince you that you’re needed in sweeping the property for more bugs?”
“There is no convincing me that being an exterminator is better than being a mermaid.”
“A naked mermaid,” Zero needlessly reminds.
“He seems to be the only one here immune to it.”
“I’m not immune to it,” I grumble my response prior to indulging in another sip. “I can just think with more than my dick.”
“You sayin’ I can’t?”
My best friend’s retort receives a small glare. “Were those the words that I said?”
“Those were what your words inferred to the jury, Prosecutor,” Salay informs with a snarky grin.
“And now I’m flat out saying for the entire kangaroo court to hear that this shit is adjourned.”
Spinning around to rest her back against the edge is attached to her stating, “I don’t think you get to make that decision.”
“I just did.” Before she can even consider a comeback, I announce, “I’m gonna go get gear out of my car and make myself useful. Verify that neither one of The Shining twins had someone sneak in at some point and set up recording equipment all around this place.”
Salay’s head tilts in intrigue. “You just keep that shit around like a spare tire?”
“Comes in handier than any of the spares I’ve ever had.”
Zero’s face momentarily meets mine revealing the faintest hint of a smirk.
He was the one who got me the tech.
Who lit up like a parent at Christmas thinking they had just delivered the best gift of all time.
I couldn’t let him know otherwise.
His happiness is what mattered most.
He is what has always mattered most.
Even if sometimes it appears otherwise.
“Shut the jammer off so I can sweep,” is commanded alongside my slow retreating. “Theoretically,” my gaze cuts to the female watching me, “you can be silent that long, si?”
“I’ll stick a cock in my mouth if I need assistance.”
A mindless, heated groan causes them both to snigger and me to spin on my heels for a swift exit.
What is it about them together that makes them so much more difficult to handle?
That pushes me to be more at odds with myself?
Constantly get my loafer caught in my mouth?
Need more tequila than my liver can fucking handle anymore?
Why does everything feel like a struggle but fucking seamless?
How can anything with anyone have an equal amount of work and effortlessness?
How can two opposing truths constantly be simultaneously true?
How am I supposed to navigate this system when I’ve never experienced anything like it?
Like them?
Plus, how the hell am I supposed to find any time to deal with that shit – the fucking thought of that shit – when it has been revealed to us that royalty has now literally taken on the roles of judge, jury, and executioner?