Chapter 2
First class disembarks before everyone else. There are, like, maybe fifteen passengers here, so pretending I don’t know him is pretty silly at this point.
We’re not talking, but we’re walking down the same hallway, taking the same escalators, getting our passports checked by the same immigration officer.
Now here we are, waiting for our bags at the same baggage carousel.
I mean… are we together? Are we not? Are we going to share a cab, since we’re headed to the same place anyway? Or are we just going to pretend the other doesn’t exist and go in opposite directions the second we cross the airport’s door?
Of course the first-class bags also come out first, so we both end up crossing those doors practically at the same time, stepping into the arrivals hall where, very clearly ahead of us, there’s a man in a navy-blue suit, matching hat and all, holding a classy little sign that reads, in elegant letters: Mr. Jasper Hassmann.
At the peak of my shock, I blurt out, “Mila didn’t tell me she hired a driver.”
“She didn’t—” Jasper begins, but I’ve realized my mistake the moment I closed my mouth.
“You hired a driver,” I assume. Then repeat his earlier words with all the disdain I can find in me, “Because you have a job.”
Of course he hired a driver. Why wouldn’t he? He’s a successful lawyer who wears Calvin Klein suits and buys first-class tickets. Of course he can afford a driver. He could hire a driver to bring him here all the way from New York if he wanted to.
And still, I somehow find a way to be surprised, because this kind of thing is absolutely not normal to me.
He stops in front of the guy, but still turns to me to say, “I hired a driver because last time I tried improvising in Mexico, I ended up at some bull-riding arena with the same name as my hotel. I bet a thousand dollars on a bull named Maldición and lost everything to some guy in spurs and a gun on his waist who only let me leave after we finished a bottle of tequila together. I’m not in the mood for rodeo dust inside my lungs today. ”
My jaw drops, but my eyes roll impatiently. That’s how I usually react every time Jasper tells some absurd story and I never know if he’s telling the truth or just making stuff up to shock me.
The driver puts the sign away, offers to take his suitcase, then gestures toward the exit doors, showing him the way.
“You could just ask, you know?”
“Ask what?” I play dumb.
It’s his turn to roll his eyes. And restrain himself from arguing.
“We’re going to the same place, and I have a driver, so you could…”
I could ask for a ride. Sure. Because he’s a jerk who will never offer me one.
He’s a jerk who wants to watch me humiliate myself for a simple favor.
“It’s so like you to parade your money around, Jasper,” I say, instead of asking for anything. “It’s almost like you’re trying to compensate for other things that aren’t nearly as big as your bank account.”
Well, if there was ever a chance he’d give me a ride, it vanished right away after that.
Jasper shrugs, officially ending whatever truce he was very inefficiently proposing, because he simply says, “Well, I’ll see you around, Julia.”
Then he turns away completely like I’m not even here.
“Sure!” I snap back. “I’m perfectly capable of finding my way without acting like some spoiled little brat who has everything handed to him.”
“Be my guest,” Jasper replies, totally emotionless, his voice even lower as he follows his driver toward the exit.
And here we are. Silence, at last.
Jasper is gone. I am freed from his presence and ready to move on my own.
Except… I’m not perfectly capable of finding my way.
Once Jasper disappears through the sliding doors without looking back, I follow the airport signs toward the shuttle pickup area.
The moment I open Uber on my phone, two things happen: First, I hear a couple walking past me talking about how the taxi line is insanely long because rideshares aren’t allowed at the Cancún airport.
Then, I realize I forgot to activate my international data plan, so now I can’t call anyone.
Airport WiFi is a complete joke, so my only choice now is to join the enormous line of late-night passengers fighting for the not-so-enormous line of cabs outside.
The taxis barely stop before they’re swarmed by desperate tourists practically shoving each other out of the way. When an old lady nearly gets run over by a luggage cart, I move away from the chaos, hoping I might flag one down before it reaches the war zone by the terminal doors.
Besides my carry-on and backpack, I brought a huge suitcase with my bridesmaid dress, shoes, a makeup kit and all sorts of stuff for the wedding favors and bachelorette party, so the suitcase is packed and I had to pay like fifty dollars for all the extra weight.
Outside, the night is warm and slightly suffocating in that it’s-about-to-rain kind of way. Not a single leaf is moving on the trees and it doesn’t take long before I’m sweating from absolutely every pore on my body.
God, maybe I should have been less stubborn.
Maybe I should have asked for that stupid ride and accepted that, at least in situations like this, being a spoiled brat with everything at hand has its perks.
I wave at a taxi that splashes mud across the sidewalk, nearly soaking me. I wave at the next one and, the driver doesn’t even look at me. At this point I’m waving at any headlights approaching. To my shock, one of them slows down.
Then stops.
It’s a taxi!
I mean… one could call it a taxi. It’s an old, dented car, with mostly white paint and a mostly green stripe and the word TAXI mostly printed on it. All I can read is an X and part of an I because the rest got scraped off by a crash.
Maybe it was a taxi at some point.
The horn lets out a dying cough when the driver presses it to get my attention, then he rolls down the passenger window with his right hand.
“Necesitas un ride, senorita?” he asks, mixing languages with a heavy Mexican accent.
He’s got a goatee, wavy hair and tan skin. Looks about thirty, but somehow the smooth cheeks and big round eyes make him look like fifteen.
“Uh…” I grab my phone, opening my bridesmaid guide with the tiny map showing the address of the beach house Mila rented. I rush to the dented door and show it to him. “I need to get to this address.”
He squints while studying the map, then keeps nodding with full-on enthusiasm. Only after about thirty seconds, he finally says, “Sí, sí! I know where it is. I take la senorita! Come in, come in!”
He gestures for me to get inside, but after eyeing my mountain of luggage, decides to step out to help. When he slams the trunk closed, the whole car shudders and the passenger-side mirror falls off with the impact.
Against every instinct of self-preservation, I get in the car.
“El Callejón Desnudo, here we go!” he declares proudly, grinning wide. “Soy Guillermo de Arraes. And la madame?”
“Julie,” I say. And because Guillermo keeps staring at me, I introduce myself in his style, “Julie Sawyer.”
“Rúlie!” he beams, pronouncing the J like an R. “Vámonos, Rúlie!”
Then he starts the engine with a thunderous roar and some kind of explosion from the exhaust that makes me briefly think there’s a shootout happening.
I glance around, and there are two security guards busy breaking up a fight near the curb, so honestly, a rattling exhaust pipe is the least of anyone’s worries.
“Cancún, muy bonito, Rúlie. You like?”
I’ve never been to Cancún. I didn’t even see the city from the plane because Jasper hogged the window seat, so I’m not sure how to answer.
“Yes, it’s very beautiful,” I say, thinking of all the pictures I’ve seen, though I’m not really paying attention.
I’m much more concerned with the fact that we’ve just pulled into a large avenue and he is not using any GPS.
Sure, maybe Guillermo knows the city like the back of his hand – which, judging by the size of Cancún, might not be that hard – but how many little side streets and gated communities are out here for him to recognize the address from a single glance at a tiny map?
The deeper we go into the city, the more Cancún’s night comes to life.
Bright clubs, neon palm trees, people wandering around with giant cups of alcohol.
We pass an open market full of colorful lights and food stalls, and, through my broken window, the smell of tacos fills the car, spicy enough that I can feel it in the air.
I stare at my phone, praying for a signal so I can warn someone that I’m on my way, but my phone company locked me entirely. No data. No texts. I can’t even buy an international plan without access to WiFi.
“Here, market,” Guillermo announces proudly. “Place muy bueno for burritos.”
I look up, and my suspicion solidifies into genuine concern.
“We’ve passed this already, haven’t we?” I ask, trying not to sound too panicky.
“No, no. Different market. Muy parecido,” he insists, but I’m not convinced.
Shit, I’m gonna get kidnapped, aren’t I?
I’m gonna get kidnapped and murdered in Mexico because I refused to ask stupid Jasper Hassmann for a ride. He is absolutely gonna tell this story at my funeral with a smile.
I inhale slowly, trying to ignore my heartbeat pounding in my ears, telling myself I’m overreacting.
I’m not going to die.
It’s my best friend’s wedding! How would she survive without a maid of honor?
To my relief, we head toward a bustling part of town again. Guillermo wouldn’t murder me right in front of a nightclub that has a giant sign saying PARADISE FIESTA, right?
We pass other bars and clubs, inching forward because drunk pedestrians keep staggering into the street.
The meter is in US Dollars and it just hit fifty.
“Maybe we should ask for directions,” I suggest, now also worried about my bank account.
“No need, Rúlie. Trust en mí! We are close. Muy close.”
Muy close?
I look around. I’m certain Mila rented a ten-bedroom beachfront villa that cost thirty thousand dollars for the week. I’m certain her list of requirements did not include “constant club noise and puking tourists right outside my gate”.
With the night so still and barely a breeze coming through the window, and I’m sweating again. I swear, if I’m really being kidnapped, I’m just gonna beg them to kill me fast.
“Ah!” Guillermo shouts, slamming on the brakes so hard I fly forward and smash my face into the seat. I’m thinking it’s another pedestrian on the middle of the street, but then he exclaims in pure excitement, “Aquí estamos! Look!”
I must have hit my head real bad, because we’re clearly still on the same street. Same nightlife chaos. I see nothing.
“Where are we?” I ask, a bit dazed.
“Look!” he repeats, pointing ahead. The street ends at this block.
We can only turn left or right, but in front of us stands a massive black building glowing with red neon lights.
My eyes land on the sign at the top: A woman in red lingerie sitting inside a martini glass.
Next to her, in huge letters: Callejón Desnudo.
What in the actual fuck.
My jaw drops as I look at the line of men waiting outside. Then at the woman with leather pants and a whip controlling the entry.
Oh. My. God.
This place… this place is…
“Guillermo, this is a strip club!” I finally manage to say, dizzy with disbelief.
“Sí, sí, El Callejón Desnudo.” Then he translates, helpfully, “The Naked Alley. You work here, no?”
“No!” I shout immediately, suddenly speaking with a Spanish accent I didn’t even know I had. “No, no, Guillermo! I don’t work here. Callejón Desnudo is the address of the house I’m going to, not a strip club!”
“El Callejón Desnudo?” he repeats, confused.
And honestly? Fair point. Who names a street “The Naked Alley”?
But also: who names a strip club “The Naked Alley”?
We’re literally in an alley. Full of half-naked people. Maybe it does make sense.
I don’t know anymore.
Guillermo looks genuinely confused, just as much as I am. And because of that… I actually believe him. Despite the outrageous fare, he isn’t kidnapping me or taking me somewhere to steal my organs.
He simply got confused.
Suddenly Jasper’s words echo in my head. Last time I tried improvising in Mexico, I ended up at some bull riding arena with the same name as my hotel.
Shit.
“Perdón, perdón, Rúlie!” Guillermo exclaims, mortified. He finally takes out his phone and enters the address I showed him. “Un pequeno error, senorita! Now we go. El Callejón Desnudo, number twenty-three. Here we go!”
Yes. Here we go.
To the complete opposite side of the city.
Now I’m just praying the car won’t break down and for me to at least make it to the villa in one piece.
When we finally arrive, I’ve lost a hundred dollars and about three liters of sweat. Guillermo helps me unload my suitcase and gives me his business card, telling me that I, Rúlie, can call him anytime in case of emergency.
I keep the card out of politeness, though I’m almost certain I will never again get into a crumbling taxi with no GPS, driven by a man who thinks I work at a strip club.
But who knows.
Maybe I should take this as a win and appreciate that, if Guillermo thinks I could pass for a stripper, then maybe I’m not doing as badly as I thought.
So here I am: apparently sexy enough to be a stripper, yet exhausted, disheveled and drenched in sweat, ringing the bell at the enormous beach house Mila rented to host her family and the wedding party for the week.
Apparently the street ends at the next corner, and, in front of the house there’s only a huge patch of sand and rocks.
Is this The Naked Alley?
Are the rocks the naked part of it?
Before I lose more time trying to have a philosophical debate with myself, the electric gate opens, revealing a well-lit path that leads to the garage on the right, then the garden and pool area to the left, where, even at two in the morning, loud music blares amidst empty bottles and a crowd of drunks.