Chapter 22
Garcia
I know drinking in the sun can be dangerous, but I didn’t think I had that much tequila.
Slow smacking movements begin in tandem with me battling to open my eyes.
They shouldn’t hurt this bad.
They shouldn’t fucking hurt at all.
I don’t wear cheap sunglasses.
I don’t own cheap sunglasses.
I don’t even look at ones that don’t require the checkout girl to have a key to the display.
Why do they feel so goddamn dry?
Like they could crumble quicker than a stepped on Cheeze-It if I were to let a bit of light in?
Dio Mio…Zero and his damn crackers.
I swear if I step on another one on my way to the bathroom tonight, I’m gonna throw his whole stash out and find some rule of law to make it justifiable for getting crumbs between my toes.
Another round of aches begins thumping at my temple igniting a deep, guttural grumble.
Shit.
It might be time to stop drinking.
Or at least switch to blanco.
I’m too old for this hangover shit.
Groans that are not my own prompt me to finally lift my lids, exposing my blurry vision to a wiggling figure beside me.
Wait.
Why the hell is my vision blurry?
Why the hell can’t I see shit?
And where the hell am I?
Concern swiftly conquers my system, commanding that my stare focuses.
That my limbs wake up.
Get to moving.
Transition me into an upright position.
Unfortunately, the only thing that successfully happens is my gaze locking onto the person, that’s lying on their side, facing me, making the sounds of discomfort.
Despite the immediate pain, my eyebrows dart down in confusion, outrage over seeing the woman I’m in love with – something I don’t think she’d believe even if I said – pushes me to fight past the sandpaper feeling in my mouth to croak, “You okay?”
Salay stops rubbing the side of her face against the mattress just long enough to narrow her gaze at me and bite, “Do I look okay?” Her shoulders resume their wiggling movement. “Is it my hands being duct taped that gives you that impression?”
The snark – which should have me rolling my eyes – leads to me examining her somewhat immobile frame instead.
Shit.
She is duct taped!
Seeing her in such a position has me checking myself, revealing my own restraints as well.
Sonofabitch…so am I!
“Really?” she sassily snips upon managing to gracefully sit upward. “You thought only one of us was duct taped?”
“No sé qué pensar!” I huff back, body bucking around in a failed attempted to match hers.
“And why would I know what to think?!” Wildly flopping my torso back and forth steals the air out of my lungs.
“Or what’s happening?!” Frustration slams into desperation as I hump the mattress for momentum. “Or-”
“How to sit up while being bound?” arrogantly escapes alongside a mocking head tilt. “You look like a horny mudskipper.”
“Eso suena racista.”
“That wasn’t racist, it was descriptive,” Salay insists prior to swinging her legs over the edge of the mattress and standing up. “You’re not even that brown.”
“That was definitely racist.”
Snickers slip loose alleviating a healthy dose of the dread that was overwhelming my system.
She’s okay.
If she can talk shit…give me shit…then she’s fine.
And if she’s fine…I’m fine.
I can take a breath.
A beat.
A fraction of a recess.
Post a long, small exhale, I lower my mouth to inquire about Zero, our surroundings, how we got here yet am forced to switch gears courtesy of the sight of her suddenly ass humping the edge of a desk.
Hm.
That’s not shit I see every day.
Or come to think of it…ever.
Bewilderment bursts across my face as I ask, “What the hell are you doing?”
“Freeing myself,” she retorts without missing a beat. “What the fuck does it look like?”
“Like you’re trying to bring back an old dance move.”
Her legs continue to bend, adding momentum to her arms that seem to be ceaselessly working. “This would embarrass the Juvenile elders.”
“Juvenile is an elder at this point,” I tease in tandem with attempting to sit upward again.
“You get hang ten for knowing who Juvenile is; however, I’mma let you continue to struggle to get up for calling our Patreon Saint of Southern Rap an elder.”
Once more, I’m torn between glaring and chuckling.
It’s where our relationship keeps me.
It’s honestly where I always want our relationship to be.
Us to be, no matter what lies ahead.
Watching the sawing like motion make actual progress on her tape due to the edge of the desk pushes me to ask, “How do you know how to do that?”
“This isn’t the first time I’ve been kidnapped.”
“What?!”
“Or held hostage.”
“What?!” Disbelief and outrage blend together. “And how do you know we’re being held hostage?!”
“And I bet you a frosty marg,” she adds a bit more force to her sawing, “that the muscle who snatched us are nicer than the last men who got a hold of me.”
“Wh-”
“Tadah!” Salay abruptly interjects at the same time she shows me her broken restraints. “Free as a gull.”
“Explicar.”
“Mom taught me how to survive a rip current and Dad – being a lawman – taught me how to escape if you’re caught by pirates.
” She rips off the torn tape and banishes it to the ground.
“Both have come in handy more than once in my life.” The small cringe she flashes also includes a bit of amusement.
“More than either probably would’ve ever anticipated. ”’
Shock leaves my jaw agape.
“Been tryin’ to tell you for as long as I can remember that I’m not some fragile little flower.” Her figure spins on its heels to begin searching the dresser she just molested to aid in her liberation. “More like a fragile little bomb.”
“Siempre dotado con tu lengua.”
A saucy smirk is shot over her shoulder in my direction. “Never had any complaints.”
Of course she hasn’t.
But my reference about being good with her tongue was meant to be in regard to speech, not how well she can lick a pair of balls.
Which is quite impressive.
Rolling over in the opposite direction occurs alongside my investigating, “What are you looking for?”
“A letter opener.”
“Why would there be a letter opener?”
“It’s a desk,” she announces and returns to her frantic scouring.
“It’s a dresser.”
“It’s a desk dresser.”
“Eso no existe.”
“It is a thing.”
Landing on my feet does not happen nearly as smoothly as it did for Salay. Not having hands for balance or practice maneuvering my restrained frame or the ability to find my center of gravity on a moving yacht results in me clumsily stumbling headfirst into the nearest wall. “Fuck!”
“The Ocean Goddesses are reminding you to be nice to me.”
Groaning in discomfort precedes me turning to face her. “Why do you assume you’re gonna find a letter opener?”
“Bougie people always have one.”
“That’s not true.”
“Oh,” she briefly pauses her actions a second time, “what’s on your office desk in Spike Village, Mr. Attorney at Law?”
Nope.
Not gonna answer that.
Not gonna give her additional evidence that her annoying theory has a bit of merit.
“Pleading the 5th?”
“Pleading to know what you need it for.”
“To help get that tape off of you.” Her hand begins pulling open the top drawers. “It’s wrapped too tight to just unravel it, plus,” she moves onto the next one, “any type of weapon is better than no type of weapon.”
Fair point.
Again.
Not gonna say that out loud.
She doesn’t need my praise, nor does she believe it when I give it outside of the bedroom.
“And what do ya know?” One swift turn reveals to me her found treasure. “A letter opener.”
I offer her a mirthful grin. “Want a marg?”
“Two.” Sauntering towards me precedes her triumphantly smiling. “When we get out of this shitshow you owe me two.” An eyebrow waggle occurs before she whirls her finger around. “Show me that ass, Garcia.”
Facing away from her allows for a surprisingly quick cut, and I’m grateful for it.
The instant my hands are unbound, I give a soothing rub to my wrists, thankful for proper circulation to begin again. “We need to find Zero.”
“He’s – most likely – not here.”
“How do you know that?”
“Last thing I remember was him on the dock, not the boat, and some chick in the background approaching.”
“Some chick?”
“Yeah. Didn’t exactly get the best look at her before Huff, The Magic Goon got a little too fresh for my liking-
“He’ll pay for that.”
“-but she kind of looked like she could be related to Prince Douchebag.”
“His twin.”
“Likely.”
“We need to get to Zero,” immediately escapes, panic spiking all over again. “We need to get off this boat, find him, and save him from her.”
“Has it ever occurred to you that maybe he is trying to figure out how to find and save us?”
“He can’t don’t that.”
My lack of reluctance to argue shifts her brow to the ceiling, “Maybe he can do a lot more shit than you care to give him credit for because you’re scared if you do then he won’t need you anymore.
And if he doesn’t need you then that means wanting you has to be enough which is fucking terrifying to you because wanting is something someone can stop at any time requiring you put power in someone else’s hands while needing keeps it in yours. ”
My cracked mouth remains paralyzed.
“I believe Little One is a lot more capable than you’re comfortable with so I’m gonna operate under the guise he is trying to rescue us meaning we need to find a way to communicate our whereabouts as well find a safe place to barricade while we wait once the message has been delivered.
” One hand falls to her hip. “I’m thinking we secure a radio, find the signal for the Coast Guard, send our SOS, and hide out in the kitchen.
They typically have one access point on these types of vessels and a shit ton of things we can use as weapons or turn them into MacGyver style. ”
“Appropriate reference.”
“Thank you for being ancient enough to understand it.”
“Fuck you.”
“Fuck you.”
Disregarding the ugly truth about the other portion of her statement is harder than expected yet something I manage to push through. “We could just procure weapons from any of the security we come across.”
“We could, but guns are loud and will alert anyone and everyone to our whereabouts in a matter of seconds.”
“True…” escapes just above a whisper. “Quiet and methodical will be best.”
“Glad you agree, Counselor.” She flashes another smug smirk and waves her tiny weapon towards my face. “Now, find something to defend yourself with. Shit’s about to get a little rough.”