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)
Me: That big fucking giant cocksucking asshole is the one behind all of this, isn’t he?
A minute later and my source didn’t even question who or what I was referring to.
He only responded with one word.
Wes: Yep.
I fucking knew it. That sealed it. I was going to kill him.
Cabo, Friday, May 26th
Once Kline and I—and Bobo Buttons and Mr. Boots—finished our breakfast and my husband had tried to convince the mariachi brothers that their presence was no longer needed, to no avail, we tried to make the best of our day.
First, we attempted a little shopping in some of the resort’s boutiques, but our music-playing entourage proved to be an annoying disruption to everyone else inside the shops.
The beach was our next destination, but it was hard to relax in the sun when a mariachi band was right beside you, playing their little hearts out.
From my lounge chair, I lifted my hand to shield my eyes from the sun and glanced over at my husband. Arms across his chest and his mouth set in a firm line, Kline was pissed.
So ticked off, in fact, that anger was literally vibrating off his body.
Though, it was hard to notice with, you know, the mariachi music surrounding us.
He was convinced that Thatch was behind it all, yet no matter how many times he tried to reach Thatch, he’d yet to receive any response. Which, understandably, only made him angrier.
Not to mention, one text to Wes and it had apparently been confirmed that Thatcher Kelly was the man behind the monkeys.
I glanced back and forth between my stone-faced husband and the jubilant men strumming their instruments and offered up a silent prayer. Please, God, grant Kline some serenity before he explodes.
My husband wasn’t the kind of man who resorted to impulsive anger, but he also wasn’t the kind of man who tolerated nonsense for an extended amount of time.
And if anyone was keeping count, the hourglass of crazy had just about run out.
Armando strummed the strings of his guitar, bringing their current song to a close, and an internal sigh of relief loosened up the tightness clutching at my lungs.
Though, the relief lasted all of two minutes.
Ba-ba-ba-bum! Ba-ba-ba-bum! The familiar, strong, and vibrant beats bounced through the air again, and it was the straw that broke the camel’s back.
“Enough!” Kline shouted, jumping up from his lounge chair. “It’s enough! I’m sorry, but it’s enough!”
Uh oh. I cringed.
The music stopped, definitely, but crickets followed. Fellow beachgoers offered curious, shocked looks in our direction. And Armando and his brothers stared at Kline with dropped jaws and wide eyes.
Even Bobo Buttons and Mr. Boots hid their tiny maracas behind their backs. Truthfully, I was kind of starting to get attached to the two little guys.
“I’m sorry, guys,” Kline backtracked, trying to calm himself down. “I really am. But I can’t handle you following us around for the rest of the weekend. It’s too much. No matter how great you guys are, it’s way too much. My fucking idiot friend has basically hired you to stalk us. I know that’s not your fault, but if you don’t go away when I ask, my only real option will be to call the authorities, and I’m pretty certain I’d ruin my wife’s surprise getaway if I called the police and your cute fucking monkeys ended up in handcuffs.” He sighed. Ran a hand through his hair.
No response. No white flag waved. The brothers just stared at him, while their monkeys hid behind their legs.
All I could do was sit there on my lounger, while the tightness in my chest damn near squeezed the breath out of my lungs.
“I will pay you double whatever Thatch is paying you to make it stop!” Kline shouted finally, fed up with the stonewalling, and the tension in the air endured an immediate, lightening shift.
“Double, Mr. Brooks?” Armando asked.
“Yes. Double,” Kline replied without hesitation. “And if that motherfucker even thinks about suing you for breach of contract, I’ll gladly pay your legal fees to beat his fucking ass in court. Truthfully, at this point, it would make my goddamn day to watch him explain to a jury why he hired a mariachi band to stalk his friend for an entire fucking weekend.”
Armando looked toward his brothers, and both Francisco and Juan shrugged, then nodded.
“Okay, Mr. Brooks,” Armando eventually said, holding out his hand toward Kline’s. “Consider it a deal.”
A giant breath of air whooshed from my lungs.
“Thank fuck for that,” Kline agreed, shaking hands and finalizing the verbal deal.
After my husband offered several apologies for his outburst and gave Armando and crew his secretary Meryl’s contact information to get paid, I felt a little sad as I watched Bobo Buttons and Mr. Boots pack up their maracas and head off into the proverbial sunset.
Good luck, little buddies!