Total pages in book: 37
Estimated words: 34442 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 172(@200wpm)___ 138(@250wpm)___ 115(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 34442 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 172(@200wpm)___ 138(@250wpm)___ 115(@300wpm)
“Hola, Mr. and Mrs. Brooks!” the man with the guitar greeted us through a cheerful bellow. “Today, it will be our pleasure to serenade you!”
What? No.
“I don’t think—”
Loud and enthusiastic and with complete disregard for the words coming out of my mouth, they dove straight into the music. The chords of the guitar riffed the accompanying instruments into a soundtrack of classic mariachi beats, the volume of which was so loud, it seemed to bounce off the stucco walls of the hallway.
“I’m Armando!” the man with the guitar shouted over their music, introducing himself. “And these are my brothers, Juan and Francisco!”
“Hola!” the brothers greeted in synchrony, Juan still playing his trumpet on the necessary notes and Francisco never missing a stroke on his violin.
“And we’d like to introduce you to two more very special guests that will be playing with us today…” Armando paused and offered a quick, sharp whistle from his lips.
“Here are Bobo Buttons and Mr. Boots!”
And right there, before Georgia’s and my very confused eyes, two small monkeys in little red vests appeared and hopped up onto Juan’s and Armando’s shoulders.
Poised in their little fists were maracas, which they didn’t hesitate to shake to the beat, teeth-filled little monkey smiles pasted to their faces.
With one glace to each other, it was clear there was only one thing running through both my wife’s and my minds.
Was there really a Valentine’s curse upon us? And would we ever be able to escape it?
Armando and his brothers were committed to their task of serenading us. Even the monkeys hadn’t stopped shaking their fucking maracas since we’d left our suite.
In the elevator.
Through the lobby.
Wherever we went, they followed.
I’d tried several times to get their attention to talk—to call them off, for the love of God—but they’d only sped up their tempo in response. I knew they spoke English—Armando had given away that fact right up front—but they were obviously experienced at pretending they didn’t.
Luckily, it seemed their break time fell during our breakfast, giving us a few blessed moments of silence as we ate. Although, they didn’t go far. In fact, they merely stood near our table, instruments still in hand, and Bobo Buttons didn’t give one single fuck about keeping a polite distance.
I watched on as he snuck a piece of my wife’s pancake from her plate, and I sighed. This is fucking insane.
It was insane. And, generally speaking, when insane shit went down in my life, it all revolved around one goddamn equally insane person.
I hadn’t spoken to Thatch since we’d left, but a couple of vest-wearing monkeys, as it turned out, were the perfect watering can for my always-present seeds of doubt. In fact, with all the shit he gave me about not making a big romantic gesture this weekend, I was surprised I hadn’t sniffed his scent at the first sign of disaster last night.
Frustrated and fed up, I set out to get to the bottom of the situation. Now that they weren’t actually playing, maybe I’d be able to ask Armando a question without setting off a crescendo.
“Hey, Armando?” I inquired, instantly getting his attention.
Unfortunately, just like before, he took my question as the signal, and after one quick nod to his brothers, they were off to the mariachi races, filling the entire resort restaurant with their upbeat music.
Shit.
“Armando!” I whisper-yelled over the music, trying not to interrupt the other patrons’ meals. But it was useless. The music was already fucking loud as shit.
Goddammit. If I found out Thatch was really behind this, I was going to take a couple of inches off his favorite appendage and shove them up his big, jolly ass.
Bobo Buttons and Mr. Boots joined in on the fun, and Georgia looked like she was two seconds away from burrowing herself into the restaurant floor.
“Armando!” I shouted again, louder this time, and I started to gesture my hand in the air in a universal sign to cut it.
But he was oblivious, his jovial face smiling and looking around the room while his fingers strummed at a quick pace across his guitar.
“Armando!” I tried again to get his attention.
This time, it worked. He met my eyes and bellowed back, “Do you have a song request, Mr. Brooks?”
A song request? I wanted to shout back at him. Silence, Armando! That’s my fucking song request!
Thankfully, no matter how strong the urge to lose my cool, I stuck with my usual MO—a calm and clearheaded approach.
“Could you please stop playing for a second?” I questioned, making my voice the loudest it had ever been in the middle of a restaurant.
“What was that, sir?” he called toward me, his voice even louder than mine.
Jesus Christ.
“Stop playing!”
“Stop playing?” he repeated while he, in fact, kept playing.
“Yes! Stop playing the fucking music!” I shouted, bringing Armando, his brothers, and the monkeys to a screeching halt, and the eyes of every patron over to me.