Total pages in book: 61
Estimated words: 59119 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 296(@200wpm)___ 236(@250wpm)___ 197(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 59119 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 296(@200wpm)___ 236(@250wpm)___ 197(@300wpm)
CHAPTER 7
Elliott Jones
The moment I entered the hotel room, I threw my gear on the nearest bed and just barely held back from punching the wall.
Fucking zero leads on Carillo, zero leads on Crew. We had nothing we could use right now. We just…kept sweeping the goddamn ocean. Spain seemed like the most likely bet, if Crew was right when he’d said Carillo wasn’t entering through a major port. Which made sense. I wanted to believe him. I also wanted him to fucking reach out already. I was sick to my stomach with worry.
“I’ll order us some food,” Joel said quietly.
Did it look like I was hungry? Fucking asshole.
Crew Finlay
I found a neatly folded pile of clothes outside my cabin the morning after. Saving the jeans for another time, I dressed for comfort in sweatpants and a tee. Then I pushed the sweats up past my calves, creating concealed pockets around my knees in case I got the chance to steal something of use.
On today’s agenda: map out the yacht.
Around nine o’clock, I set out to find the breakfast spot, and I passed the narrow staircase I believed we’d used last night. I remembered something about five steps up. Instead, I followed the corridor to what I presumed was the middle of the yacht. Everything screamed luxury, but it wasn’t a yacht to get lost on. You didn’t need a crew to operate it. My guess…? Three floors, six to nine guest rooms, depending on the sizes. The middle of the yacht revealed a common area with chairs and small tables, plus a staircase going both up and down. I was willing to bet I was currently on the floor where you boarded the yacht. It was closest to the water’s surface, a bit elevated. Downstairs was probably nothing but engine room and whatnot.
I peered down the rest of the corridor. There was a door at the end, and I saw the blue ocean through the glass. And an outdoor deck. Unless the tender was somehow integrated with the yacht, it should be back there.
I trailed up the stairs and looked around. Bingo. Outdoor pool area nestled between two indoor areas. It was a small pool or a giant hot tub.
Breakfast was set up on the other side of the pool, and it was like stepping into a vacation fantasy. Adrien sat on the sofa, reading the paper, and the table was filled with food. Fresh bread, cheeses, deli meats, a pitcher with OJ, coffee, an actual hot plate with room for pancakes, bacon, and eggs.
And I guessed it was a luxury boat thing to have everything fixed to the interior. The sofa was built into a low wall that sectioned off the area, the damn hot plate was integrated with the table, the chairs were attached to the floor, and so on.
A canvas awning had been extended past the area, protecting us from the blazing sun.
The sea breeze was perfect, though. It didn’t feel too hot.
I cleared my throat and approached, and Adrien looked up from his paper. It was a UK newspaper, interestingly.
“Good morning, Crew.”
“Mornin’.” I sat down in front of him, a little dazed, to be honest. I’d never been surrounded by this kind of luxury. “I’d hate to deliver newspapers out here. What if you miss the mailbox?”
His smile was a good start to my day. “Even worse when they deliver papers two days old.” He gestured at the spread. “Dig in.”
Don’t mind if I do.
“Thanks.” I started filling my plate, and I’d clearly missed a bunch in my first assessment. Every plate had its own glass lid, like the dome kind my aunt used to serve pastries in. Fruits, crackers, little jars with preserves—the ones you usually saw in fancy hotels. I threw a couple blueberries into my mouth, wondering how this whole thing worked. “Are we expecting guests? It’s a spread for a whole family.” Fuckin’ bagels and croissants…? I mean… Whipped cream, maple syrup, sliced bananas. Score—Nutella. I put that on my pancake.
“Breakfast is my favorite meal of the day,” Adrien admitted. “On the weekends, Jack and I head over to my old man’s house with a bunch of food, and we just sit in the backyard for hours. Dad gets his nose stuck in another book, I go through three or four newspapers, and Jack does homework or watches documentaries on his tablet.”
He missed them. He missed that routine.
It sounded like a fucking fantastic way to spend the weekend too. Damn.
“The three of youse’re close,” I stated.
“Very much.” He took a sip of his coffee.
Adrien was one part polished and one part rugged. He carried himself as if he wore a two-thousand-dollar suit but preferred jeans and tees.
“Family is everything.” He set down his mug, eyes fixed on it, and he caught a coffee drop on the white porcelain with his finger.