26
26
NEALSON NEWLWEDS
A s soon as we emerged from the plane, a khaki-uniformed guard holding up a sign that read “Nealson Newlyweds” greeted us. My wife looked as taken aback by this as me. I grinned down at her shell-shocked face and grabbed her hand, noting her palm was a little sweaty.
“Come on, Mrs. Nealson,” I enthused. “Let’s get our honeymoon on.” I was in such a sudden good mood, I almost stopped off to buy some ridiculous sombreros in the giftshop for some commemorative pics by the pool. My urge to dash to the restroom beat out my urge to shop because my little wifey had slept on my lap for the last half of the flight.
After waiting for her to do the same, our benevolent guide escorted us to baggage claim and hauled our revolving luggage onto a rolling cart. Luckily our bags had remained together for the trek over, and I considered that some kind of an omen. I restacked her brand spanking new suitcase, with her brand spanking new initials, on top of my futuristic rolling bag and duffel, and we set off toward the mile-long customs line. The Katie-Kat looked a little deflated by the impending queue, but I just grinned as we bypassed the whole lot of eager touristas, with their bright print shirts and overpacked bags, to the front of the line. Everybody gave us the side-eye, but nobody said shit-all as we were sallied through customs with a new stamp and warm wishes for a pleasant vacation. Pleasant my ass—paradise was where we were headed.
With another shit-eating grin, I grabbed my shorty’s hand and we exited out sliding glass doors and into a balmy 85-degree day. We blue-eyed foreigners blinked against the glare of the tropical sun and, in tandem, we dug in our bags for our shades. Shades firmly in place, we bypassed more lines for waiting buses and taxis to a glimmering black Escalade curbed next to a Mexican police car.
My wife’s brows lifted above her gold-rimmed glasses. “A police escort?”
I grinned again. “Well, you are a VIP.”
She just shook her head and, fighting a smile, climbed in before me. I noted she didn’t slide all the way to the other side, but remained in the middle so we could sit together. I took this as another good sign.
“Hola, amigos!” greeted another khaki-suited guy. This one with a gun strapped to his hip.
“Hola,” we greeted back, turning to smile at each other. Mine might have been a bit more foolish than my wife’s.
“Welcome to Puerto Vallarta! Me llamo Juan Carlos.” He paused and inquired, “Hablan espanol?”
“Un poco,” I said, winking at my wife. She hid her smile.
Juan Carlos climbed into the driver’s seat and didn’t bother buckling up. My wife and I didn’t either; we were in Mexico, after all. “We’ll be arriving at Villa Hermosa in less than forty-five minutos.” He peeked behind him as he pulled onto the road leading out from the airport. “It lives up to its name and the perfect place for your esposa nueva to spend her vacation.” He winked at me in the rearview mirror, and I busted into a grin. Could not argue that.
As we hurtled along the scenic highway, the AC was flowing along with upbeat Mexican tunes, and the conversation flowed just as effortlessly as we listened to JC, as I’d dubbed him, drone on about the wonders of Riviera Nayant. About twenty minutes later, we’d left the quaint town of PV and spent another pleasant few minutes climbing up a blossoming mountain to a gated community called El Paredon. We stopped just long enough to flash our passports and get some waiting visitor badges from the politely efficient security guard manning his station. Then up the hill we climbed some more, bypassing various luxury beach homes until the Escalade crunched upon the gravel of our driveway.
The Katie-Kat’s lips popped open in wonder. “Is this where we’re stayin’?”
I nodded, purposefully not letting her in on the fact we weren’t staying at a hotel, as she’d surmised.
Juan Carlos beamed with pride. “She’s a beautiful home, belonging to the former president of Mexico,” he announced.
We were greeted at the gate by a middle-aged Mexican couple. La mujer was holding a tray with some kind of tropical drink topped with a triangle of pineapple, and el hombre a tray with some cool white towels. Gotta love Mexico.
“Hola! Bienvenido,” greeted our host, who introduced himself as Pedro. I sighed. The first bad omen of the trip. I let it pass with the sea breeze to advance forward and shake his hand. His wife, Esmeralda, had a steady gaze, a kind smile, and a freshly-squeezed juice cocktail waiting for us. After wiping our hands and quenching our thirst, we were escorted to our room forthwith.
Over her pineapple rim, my wife smiled at me. I took it as another good sign and took in a deep breath of fresh air, reveling in the feel of the tropical sun on my arms and the warmth of my wife’s smile in my soul.
As a matter of fact, my wife was practically skipping as we took our tour of the place. Casa Hermosa was a white stucco and stone Mediterranean beauty topped with a red tiled roof. Built into the side of the mountain it came complete with a tennis court befitting a champ and a courtyard befitting a king. We parted ways with the Espinozas to change into our swimsuits in our master suite, overlooking the sparkling blue ocean below us. Upon our second sweep up the tiled stairs to our room, our luggage was waiting for us.
“I’m just gonna change in the bathroom,” my new wife informed me, turning a girly pink around the cheeks.
I laughed out loud, thinking all manner of dirty thoughts. “Not so fast,” I chastised her.
She froze, trepidation transforming her good-natured face, until I smooched her on her sweet cheek. She breathed out some relief and graced me a grateful smile. After she turned tail and fled, I blew out some pent-up frustration. My patience was beginning to wane, and I sincerely hoped her resolve to put me off would by the time the sun melted into the ocean. Because that’s all the time she was going to get. I whistled my way to my neatly packed suitcase and slipped on my favorite red trunks with the two white Xs stitched into the pocket by one Mrs. Kathryn Nealson.
A few minutes later, the little Mrs. emerged from the bathroom in a turquoise bikini over which she had slung some kind of nude sarong. It hung low on her slim hips, making her look like a super-cute, super-young Hawaiian girl. I let out a wolf whistle, rethinking my plan to let her hang by the pool and chillax before embarking on tonight’s festivities, because she also looked super-hot.
“I am a lucky man,” I announced, causing her face to suffuse with color again.
“Nice trunks,” she replied.
These two words made me laugh and breathe a little easier. I’d noted that the higher we climbed the stairs to the bedroom, the less she chattered back at me. I was hoping we could turn that back around when we descended the stairs. “After you,” I said, slapping her on her supple behind. She yelped just like I knew she would, and my palm fondle caused my Johnson to react, just like I knew it would. But I could just not resist.
Down the hallway from our master there was a terra cotta terrace with all manner of tropical plants shading an outdoor seating area. Some gauzy white curtains billowed in the breeze as we bypassed the open terrace to take the stairs leading down to the pool. I rearranged our dinner in my head from the elaborate dining room to the gazebo overlooking the ocean. I began whistling again as our flip-flops slapped the tile in a happy rhythm. My wife glanced at me sideways and offered another smile to add to the growing collection. I grinned back at her and opened the latch of the gate on the ground floor.
“After you,” I said, and she covered her bottom before skipping through with a giggle and a butt jiggle. I laughed out loud.
“Wow.” She stopped in her tracks to take in the pool area again. There was an enormous swimming pool complete with a monumental statue of Poseidon and his mermaids shooting arcs of chlorinated water in a continuous stream.
“Not bad, heh?”
She shook her head in wonder. “Not bad at all.” She dazzled me with her best smile. “I can’t believe I’m here.”
“Well, seeing is believing,” I quipped, grabbing ahold of her hand and leading her to what I considered to be the prime spot for sunbathing and vista viewing—right next to Poseidon and his chosen mermaid, overlooking the cliff with the winding bougainvillea popping fuchsia in the yellow sunshine. I chose two turquoise loungers and grabbed a couple of fat striped towels from a stack laid out on a stand.
Pedro pounced on us at once with his beatific smile and excellent manners. “Can I get you some refreshment, Mr. and Mrs. Nealson?”
I was beginning to get used to the sound of that. “Oh sure, why not.” I turned to my wife.
She thought for a second. “How ‘bout the same drink Esmeralda gave us when we arrived? It was delicious,” she stated.
Pedro beamed. “Of course.” He turned to me. “And for you, Mr. Nealson?”
I thought for two seconds, debating between tequila and beer. “An ice cold Modelo sounds great,” I said.
“Coming right up,” Pedro returned before departing with an unnecessary bow.”
“They’re so sweet,” my wife remarked.
“They are,” I agreed, leaning back to soak up some sun and much-needed R it had been awhile.
“Okay,” she agreed, reluctantly getting up from her chaise to dig into her bag. I waited patiently as she wound her hair into a jaunty ponytail, thereby subtracting a couple of years.
“Here, allow me.” I relieved her of the bottle and squirted a shot of tropical SPF into my hand. After rubbing my palms together, I massaged it into her shoulders, working my way lower, and lower, cinching her hour-glass waist before slipping my slippery hands beneath her turquoise bikini to rub her behind.
“Hey!” she protested, swatting at my hands. “You said my back.”
“Well, that is your back side,” I replied smoothly. “And your swimsuit line is where you’re most likely to burn.” It was the God’s honest truth. I squirted some more lotion and began massaging her shoulders and arms with it again. That’s when I felt her stiffen in my hands.
“What is . . .?” she didn’t finish her sentence.
I followed the trajectory of her gaze to the statue dominating this end of the pool. I hadn’t really noticed before but now that we were closer, you could make out the details of the elaborate carving more. I inwardly winced. It appeared that Poseidon was giving it to one of his mermaids, and it looked like she wasn’t that happy about it. In fact, she looked terrified. I took a breath and said, “Okay, now for your stems.” I neatly stepped around to block her view.
Her whole face was different now, no longer relaxed and smiling. And there was a newly formed crease lodged between her full natural brows. I tried not to let out a sigh or let this sink the mood. But then she said, “I can get my own legs.”
And then I let out that aforementioned sigh. I tried turning it around. “Alright, but then you gotta get my back.” Awkward pause where she should’ve responded. “It’s in the marriage handbook I heard you talking to Mikey about,” I continued. “Thou shalt have your husband’s back.”
She let out a little huff, half humor, half resignation. “Okay,” she murmured. After she was all coconut shined up and SPF-protected she turned to me, ever one to hold up her end of the bargain. “Your turn.” She flicked her eyes at me shyly.
I sprang back up from my lounger and turned around for her inspection, super proud of my hard-earned physique. I had to withhold my urge to flex for her.
She tilted her head up. “You better sit down,” she advised with a rueful smile. I sat, and she began with my shoulders, working in the cream and out a little of my tension, as she rubbed the lotion in, a lot more generously than I’d hoped for. I peeked over my shoulder when she paused to re-lube her palms. “Maybe we should ask Pedro to throw a blanket over that statue?” I tried.
She gave me a thin smile for that one and finished lubing my back, not daring to dive a single centimeter beneath my trunks. “Maybe you should get your own legs,” she suggested before sitting back down.
Just then Pedro arrived with our cold drinks and a much-needed snack, because airplane food, even first-class, is God-awful.
“Pedro,” I greeted, throwing my hands up, “you are the man!”
Pedro and my wife both smiled at this. He set about setting up the little table between us with a tablecloth and cloth napkins for our chips and salsa and guacamole and queso combo.
“Mmmmm,” my wife approved. “I love Mexican food.”
I hoped she loved the man who brought her to Mexico for the food, but I settled for her approval, once again. I generously scooped a chip with guac and offered it to her. She accepted, and I scooped another for me. “Cheers,” I said.
“Cheers,” she returned, with a smile that crinkled her eyes.
I’d just swallowed my chip and a single glug of my ice-cold beer when the familiar sound of my cell chimed. I knew this dreaded chime. Aw, hell. I let out a huge sigh before whipping out my phone to read the text: A couple of important Mexican officials are vacationing in PV this weekend. They would love to show you some hospitality and the charms of their town. It will just take a few hours. Tomorrow is their last day, so you need to contact them ASAP. Here is the contact info: Don Luis Perez Rubio 553-101-9350.
I swiped a hand over my hair, beyond irritated. A few seconds later a follow-up text: Make sure you take the Mrs. This is the precise reason why you married her.
“Fuck,” I said out loud. Maybe because that’s all I’d been thinking about all day.
My wife swiveled my way mid-bite. She set down her loaded chip. “What?”
I stared at my wife as though seeing her through the eyes of middle-aged men-of-means. Shiny brown hair, honeyed by the light. Luscious skin, sun-kissed and supple. Her gentle young curves and long, coltish legs. Pouty sweet face and those blue-black eyes, shining out innocence. Niceness practically oozed from her pores. They would so take advantage. I pictured exactly how it would go. We would turn on the charm, like The Academy pros that we were. We would be invited to dinner with their wives, who would, of course, love the Kitty-Kat, and then offer to take her shopping tomorrow while we boys played a round of golf.
No way, Jose. Could not have that.
I took a long pull from my beer before answering. “Work.” I said it like the four-letter word that it was.
“Oh.” She said it like she suspected this vacation was some kind of trick.
“Not you,” I hastened to assure her, and watched as she visibly relaxed.
“Do you need help with some reports or somethin’,” she offered half-heartedly.
I had to smile at this. “No. Some Mexican VIPs want a meet and greet.”
“Do you have to go?”
I was pleased that she didn’t seem to want me to. “Yes. It’s for my career,” I explained.
“Oh.” This time it came out hard and cold. “Well, I guess if it’s for your career, you gotta do it,” she practically sneered.
“My career is a priority because that’s how I’m able to protect you and Mikey,” I reminded her, peeved by her attitude. I was basically taking one for the team.
“Right,” she agreed so readily it wasn’t remotely believable.
“Right.” I stood up, wanting to get this over with. I leaned over for a kiss and she offered me her cool cheek. “Get some sun but not too much.” I smiled.
“Okay.” She smiled back but it didn’t have any force of energy behind it. “Have some fun but not too much,” she called to my departing back.
I turned around to finger-gun her, but she’d already flipped over. I took that as another bad sign.
A few hours later, and I bailed on the mission. These dudes were planning a heist on my honeymoon, and I rightfully claimed headache before they could collar me for another round of shots. I was exhausted from lack of sleep, exhausted from schmoozing, exhausted from trying to thaw out my bride. All I wanted to do was soak in the last dregs of sunshine, with my pretty young wife by my side, as I drifted into a late, late afternoon nap on the beach.
Upon my return, I couldn’t find my wife. I checked the pool, I checked the master suite, I checked my phone for a missed text. I checked the kitchen and found Pedro and Esmeralda in the throes of dinner prep.
“Donde està mi esposa?” I asked, clearly put out.
Pedro shrugged his shoulders and wiped his hands on his apron before picking up his walkie talkie. He spoke rapid-fire Spanish that I internally interpreted. I gleaned my wife was out with the two security guards on the Jet Skis. “Gracias,” I said, but was pretty sure it came out as a snarl.
I stalked back across the pool, through a bougainvillea wrapped gate, traversing down steep steps in my flip flops all the way to the beach, I hadn’t had a chance to set foot on all day. The first thing I spied was my pretty young wife, laughing and tearing it up on a gold and black Jet Ski with two virile young men, tasked with the job of guarding her. As soon as the happy trio saw me, their smiles drooped, although the dudes reanimated them on the double. It appeared that just spying me on the shore waving at her let some of the wind out of her sail.
“Hey,” I called when she’d zoomed up and puttered to a stop. “How about a ride?”
“I, uh, was just about to come in and rest before dinner,” she informed me. “Why don’t you take your turn though. It’s so much fun.” She turned back to one of the guys and beamed. “Pancho was just teaching me how.”
I breathed in through my nostrils, trying and failing to not be pissed. This was one of the activities on the agenda for tomorrow. I’d wanted to teach her how to ride, then ride off into the sunset together and make it on some private strip of beach. “Fine,” I said, feeling anything but. “I’ll come with.” I raised rakish eyebrows, a move the ladies usually found so charming.
She struggled off the wobbly wet bike, and I rushed forward to offer a hand. “It’s alright,” she dismissed. “I think I got it.”
I bit back hurt and offered my hand anyway as she came plunging out of the surf, I hadn’t dipped a toe in all day. As soon as I drew her to shore, I said, “You sure you want to go in so soon?” I glanced up at the rapidly fading day. “We should get a beautiful sunset in the next half hour.”
She briefly met my eyes, debating. “Um . . .”
While she internally debated, I tugged her to me to unzip her out of her lifejacket. Her hands fluttered up to block me, but then she capitulated, standing before me stiffly allowing it. I peeled off the blocky thing, letting it drop to the sand, then took a moment to admire my bride. Her hair was dripping wet over her shoulders and down her front, puckering her nipples, which were front and center of the aquamarine triangles. These mesmerizing targets were just begging to be shot at. So I did, roving my itchy hands up from her hipbones to cup those beautiful Baby Bs, thumbing them so they became even more erect. We sucked in a sharp breath at the same time.
And this time she grasped my hands. “Ranger, they’re right behind us,” she admonished.
I glanced over to where the two dudes were pretending not to notice this exchange. “They’re not paying any attention,” I lied. “And besides, your back is to them.”
She stepped away, diving for a towel hanging out on a lounger. Like a dog I followed after her, panting for attention. “Stay with me so we can enjoy the beach together,” I tried to persuade, but it sounded more like a plead.
All wrapped up in the towel, she peeked up at me through her wet lashes. “If you don’t mind, I think I’ll just go ahead and head in. I want to rest and get ready for tonight.” She lowered her eyes to the sand.
I felt a stab in my chest from her rejection. And just like poking a hungry dog, I had a vicious reaction. “Good idea,” I bit out. “I want you rested and ready for tonight.” I barely had time to witness her face suffuse with color and her eyes widen in alarm, before I stalked off to her recently vacated Jet Ski to work off some of my pent-up frustration.