Chapter 17
Zero
When royalty invites you to a party, it’s rude to decline.
And when said royalty could legit have your ass dragged behind a carriage by the neck for war crimes against their country, it’s rude AF.
Doesn’t matter if you were taking a power nap because juggling the original task they recruited you for, a side project for someone equally as dangerous – because you needed their boat to complete the other project – and steadily fucking your partners like jaguars on a mating deadline is fucking exhausting.
No.
All that matters is you get up.
You show up.
And make sure you’re wearing the right drip so that you’re actually allowed in to said birthday.
Tonight’s shit is swimwear.
At my favorite club.
The Kastle.
The same club he prevented me from getting to when he originally summoned me.
Quick hack of the cameras in the surrounding area let me know we weren’t being pranked or led to our immediate deaths, but still.
Swimwear in the city is sussy.
Real. Sussy.
The security at the door – who barely qualifies to do what he’s doing from the small search I conducted – doesn’t look up from his tablet nor does he ask for the information he needs.
He simply waits.
Impatiently.
I guess for me to speak.
“Um…Fiorenzo,” escapes me at the same time I nervously fidget with the ends of my neon leopard print swim trucks. “For uh…three, my guy.”
Stubby fingers stab the screen sparking my teeth to cringe.
Not how you should treat the poor thing.
No, it’s not my level of sweet and tasty, but she still doesn’t deserve to be slapped around.
Definitely not in front of me.
One grunt precedes a two-finger motion to let us through, something we make sure to quickly do.
The instant we cross the threshold, we’re assaulted by loud music, rave lights, and foam.
So.
Much.
Foam.
“It’s a foam party!!?” excitedly squeals Salay.
“Great,” grouses Garcia, “we’re gonna be fucking sticky.”
“We’re always fucking…sticky…” taunts the woman in barely there jean shorts that theoretically hide her turquoise, string bikini bottoms.
“Eso no es lo que quise decir.”
“What I said is better than what you meant, Grumpy At Law.”
“Same tab,” I grumble prior to leading us towards the roped off VIP section I assume he’s sitting in. “We need to stay on the same tab.” Nervousness darts through my limbs pushing my fingertips to tug at my white tank top covered chest. “Divide and destroy is the Weslingtons insignia.”
“Nice college essay word,” Salay teases over my shoulder. “Was it in your recommended reading section or one you heard your professor use during a lecture, so you had your chat bot define it in real time?”
There’s no stopping me from briefly meeting her gaze. “This total Betty brought it to my attench while we were reading about military sailing vesses.”
“Betty?”
“That’s the term the surf dudes use for hot chicks, yeah?”
“It is…” she leans a little closer, “my guy.”
We share a small laugh, alleviating a bit of the stress in only ways she can.
Which is good.
Because Weslington can simply sense anxiety.
And if he can sense it, he can use it.
I swear, I’ve never been more grateful to not be in a country where he has the possibility to be king than I am now.
Our arrival at the area where he’s expected to be mirrors the one we encountered outside except this menacing individual actually does have credentials.
High ones.
The type you expect from someone assigned to openly protect royalty.
Although, I would bet the classified naval mission he completed that got him this position still haunts him at night.
Haunts everyone else who managed to survive it.
You know.
According to their mental health records.
And what’s a little digging in those when I’m already up for treason in their country.
“We’re here to see Prince Thaddeus,” Garcia professionally announces. “Regarding legal matters.”
“He’s currently inaccessible,” replies the bald, accented individual.
“Yet if you pull your little jump rope of defense slightly to one side, he could become accessible really fucking fast,” Salay points out in her fearlessly snarky fashion.
His stoic nature doesn’t deter as he repeats himself, “He is currently inaccessible.”
She prepares to lunge forward to continue her instinctive verbal poking, prompting me to stick an arm out and ask, “Do you know when he’s expected to return from the other activities he’s attending?”
At that, the male – whose name I didn’t bother to mark to memory – meets my stare. “Within the hour. The open bar and kitchen will suffice to occupy you in his absence.”
“We’ll be back then,” I insist and motion my head for the three of us to dismiss ourselves from the section.
Once we’re out of earshot, I huddle us together near one of the pillars and inform the others, “He’s most likely downstairs where they host prohibited physical events for large sums of currency. ”
“Did you just legal jargon underground fighting?” Garcia scoffs.
“That was weird,” Salay sneers.
“How do you know about it?”
“Legal’s his thing,” she interjects on another gag.
“Have you done it?”
“Computers are yours,” leaves her alongside a gentle tap to my chest.
“Have you bet on it?”
“Do,” a second touch is delivered, “you.”
“Is this going to be another legal shitshow I’m gonna have to rescue you from?”
Irritation instantly fries the circuits of amusement Salay’s sweet scolding is trying to provide leading me to point a stern finger near Garcia’s face.
“Stop acting like I’m some endangered species of leopard that can’t fend for himself, that has never fended for himself or doesn’t know how to fend for himself.
” There isn’t even time for his mouth to open before I’m biting his head off again.
“And stop acting like you don’t get off on being wanted – or needed in other cases – to play the fucking hero because it gives you purpose in your otherwise bleak, tequila fused existence.
” His mouth barely opens courtesy of me continuing, “I choose to let you in. I choose to let you help. I choose to let you give a fuck, so stop mislabeling my choice to let you into my OS as a necessity due to my own incompetence on how to navigate such a complex system.” Rather than let him rebut, I shift my stare to Salay. “How’s that for doing me?”
She kisses her pinched together fingers and lets them go in a “chef’s kiss” fashion.
Keeping it 100?
That feels good to hear.
Telling Garcia…anything…has never been easy for me.
But she definitely has helped.
Helps.
“Uncle Fester mentioned open bar,” Salay impishly reminds, “and drinking on Prince Chad’s dime-”
“Thad,” we correct in tandem.
“-is the type of shit my beloved overlord Captain Jack Sparrow would insist we do, especially after he ripped us away from the first real meal of the day.”
“Does that mean we have to drink rum?” I practically whine, fingers hooking to hers. “To honor the pirate?”
“Yes.” Slightly being pulled towards the nearest bar precedes her adding, “We have to drink rum, dance in foam, and then you two,” her free hand wags a pointed finger between us, “can sword fight in front of me later.”
Warm laughs freely fall from me and against his best efforts, Garcia can’t help but chuckle too.
Another reason we need her around.
All the time.
Every day.
She manages to naturally debug a sitch with laughter.
And that’s so crazy.
Like first ever computer crazy.
Getting around the sea of bubbles and gyrating figures to order us a round of shots isn’t difficult; however, it is a bit awkward.
Partially due to the silence of the man, I’m still a bit in disbelief about putting in his place and partially because slightly familiar faces repeatedly attempt to drag me away for obvious fuck and forget purposes, an action that reminds the two people I’m with of my previous sexual habits.
By the time we get to an empty spot for ordering, I swear I can feel Garcia’s motherboards overheating, yet rather than give himself space, he invades mine.
Protectively traps me to his chest by bracing one arm on each side of me.
His face near my ear.
“I like being your hero, Zero.”
It’s impossible not to lean into his hold.
“And hers.”
“You wanna stare at my tits or earn some tips?” snaps Salay to the male behind the bar.
“Me gusta cuando me dejas. Odio cuando Salay no lo hace.”
I helplessly grin over him saying he likes that I let him but hates that she doesn’t.
“Three deep ocean shots,” she orders for the group, “and make ‘em doubles. I don’t really wanna have to do this again before the birthday bro returns from whenever he’s getting his dick sucked.”
The bartender laughs but the man whose arms I’m in huskily asks, “Does that kind of shit happen down there?”
I nod.
“Have you done that down there?”
Another nod occurs.
“Have you done that up here?”
This time I reluctantly nod.
“Should we go to the bathroom so you can do it again with me?”
Whimpers of what would be a yes are unfortunately overpowered by our female forcing drinks in our faces upon their individual arrivals. “Put ‘em up.” As soon as we all do, she enthusiastically demands, “Now drink ‘em down.”
One single swallow gets the unpleasant mixture of blue curacao, Hpnotiq, and coconut rum into my stomach and one excited tug to each of our hands gets us into the wet mess of a dance area.
While the music pouring through the speakers is more enjoyable than the gag worthy shit, we just chugged, it’s the sight of her nipples hardening in her top that’s really something to savor.
And of course, the way they brush against mine when she thrusts her chest forward to let her head hang backwards and her locks wildly swing to the rhythm, presenting a hypnotic hair show.
Between her rolling against me in the front – hips begging mine to move faster and harder – and Garcia openly, possessively – not giving a fuck who sees we’re together – grinding against me in the back, I damn near bust in my shorts when they collectively start clawing at my slick skin to the mesmerizing melody flooding our ears.
Fuck, this shit feels like virtual reality.
Too good to be true.
Too real to actually have.
“Eres mio,” fiercely pants the person I’ve probably loved from the moment we met. “Mine, no matter what happens.”
Any opportunity to reply is stolen by the Addam’s family member lookalike we previously spoke to. “Now.”
The one word – meant to be an order – is more than enough to facilitate our relocation to the roped off space we tried to visit earlier.
“Fiorenzo,” Thaddeus acknowledges, arms spread wide along the edge of the couch he’s occupying alone. “Garcia.” His eyes waste no time swinging to my soaking wet girlfriend – er almost girlfriend? – and drinking her in. “Salacia.”
“Yeah, I’m not interested in becoming a princess or cumsort, so you can point your Pixar approved eyes elsewhere.”
“Consort,” Garcia casually corrects.
“Not with the way he’s eye fucking me.”
Thaddeus lets the corners of his lips curl upward in tandem with him propping one boat shoe heel on top of his knee. “Is no one going to wish me a happy birthday?”
“Can we make it a happier one by leaving?” Salay swiftly snips prompting Garcia to curl an arm around her waist like a wordless reminder to watch her mouth.
He could make us disappear.
It’d take a bit of work.
And a lot of money.
And someone like me behind the keys.
But he could do it.
Meaning not provoking the birthday brat is in our best interest.
“Why are we here, Weslington?” I ask, fingers folding with hers to aid in the silencing. “Why did you yank us out of the house and demand a meeting?” Tightening my hold precedes me further investigating, “What is it that you couldn’t send in an encrypted email or text?”
“Father will be dead soon.”
“That’s information we already had,” Garcia grumbles. “Hence you blackmailing Zero to begin with.”
“I prefer bargaining to blackmailing.” Thaddeus devilishly smirks. “Better branding. Better PR.”
“And you better get to the point,” Salay demands.
“An inside source on his medical team – a source I have that my sister does not – is reporting that he is now deteriorating faster than he was.”
Quirking an eyebrow can’t be stopped. “How much faster?”
“Exponentially.”
“In other words?” Garcia cautiously investigates.
“You have less than a week to provide me with proof that you’ve located the treasure I need to guarantee my place on the throne, or I will use every pull I have to guarantee that Fiorenzo is not only extradited but lives just long enough to be. Publicly. Executed.”