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And fucking rang until it went to voice mail,“You got Thatcher, baby. Leave a message.”
I hit end on the call and switched communication modes, back to the string of texts.
Me: I know you’re behind this goddamn monkey mariachi band AND the hibachi dinner last night.
I waited a few seconds, and when no response came through, I sent another. That fucker always had his phone nearby, and if he wasn’t answering, it was because he knew he’d fucked up.
Me: Call it off, dude. Call it all off, the band and the monkeys and whatever other crazy shit you have planned, or I swear to God, I’m ready to go to jail for your homicide when I get home.
Still, no response.
Me: THATCH
Me: CALL
Me: IT
Me: OFF
No matter what I sent his way, the outcome stayed the same—radio silence.
So, in the name of covering my bases, I shot a text to the only other person who might be able to provide confirmation. If I was right, it was the reason he’d checked in on us last night in the first place.
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 waspissed.
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.
