“Come on, Captain Ahab,” I playfully begin prior to hopping out of the seats.“Let’s go get some ice cream.”
“Why ice cream?”
“Because your cum whale-”
“Sperm whale.”
“-took the only bottle of booze in the house, and everyone knows the next best thing to booze is ice cream.”
Once more, a smile threatens to slide into place.“What if they don’t like ice cream?”
“Then I don’t likethem.”
“What if theycan’thave ice cream?”
“Then froyo.”
“What if they can’t have that?”
“Then gelato.”
“Or that.”
“Then a fucking snow cone, which is just sugar and ice and disappointment.”My hands flop down onto my low-rise jean shorts sporting hips.“Now, do you want a treat or not, Little One?”
“I hate when you call me that,” he declares alongside needless fiddling of his leopard printed shirt.
Snatching a housekey out of the turquoise, storage bowl and tucking it into my black and white polka dot, vintage style bikini top barely precedes me arguing, “No, you don’t.”
“I don’t,” Zero immediately surrenders, entire body sheepishly crumpling, “but one hundred?”His bright gaze bores freely into mine.“I feel Ishould.Like…it’s cringe, you know?”
“What’s cringe is yousayingthe word cringe instead of just fucking cringing.”Light chuckles leave us both before I grab my jeep keys.“Hope you don’t mind that pretty hair of yours getting messy.I prefer to keep Neptune topless.”
“You named your jeep after the planet?”
“The Roman God.”
“Ohhhh!To match your name!”
“Godddd, I hope you’re better at finding treasure than you are at connecting dots,” leaves me in an exasperated mutter as we head for my vehicle.
Our drive from the house down to the business side of the beach is short but nonetheless filled with my loud, over the top, carefree singing to one of my favorite songs.The fact that Zero joins in on the karaoke style crooning, oddly makes me love the jam even more.
And likehimeven more.
It’s already kind of hard not to.
He’s basically a dumbo octopus.
Adorable and non-threatening.
Which I need.
My regular life hasplentyof danger constantly coming and going.
Danger that I may or may not bring upon myself.
Like nine times out of nine point five.
