Chapter 14
Wild Thoughts
Caleb
THE PLACE IS a shithole.
Then again, when you’re this far south into Mexico, it’s considered five-star accommodations.
The long winding drive down the coast and through inland valleys landed us in San Quintin. The small town sits in the middle of farm country as is evidenced by the fields upon fields of tomatoes, strawberries, and watermelons lining the two-lane Highway 1.
Dust from the dirt road clouds the car as I turn off onto the pothole-ridden path. When I pass an abundance of overgrown palm trees, I wonder if we should have pulled over at one of the painted shacks selling seafood cocktail and mangos we passed hours ago to get something for lunch because this place is seriously in the middle of fucking nowhere.
Beyond where the eucalyptus joins the vegetative mix, I can see brick and mortar. Soon, the main building comes into sight. Not exactly the same visual I got online.
Most of the thirty-four rooms ring a courtyard overlooking the inner leg of the U-shaped San Quintin Bay. I can’t see on the other side of the Spanish-style motel, but I know there’s more there from the recon work I did last night.
It’s a bit nicer than what I expected for the $60-a-night rate, but nowhere up to par for the prima donna sitting beside me.
A motel dolled up with the name villa.
Gemma stares open-mouthed at the two-story pale-pink stucco walled motel with its cheap plastic chairs and umbrellas set haphazardly around the concrete patio. “This is where Enrique instructed you to bring me?”
“Welcome to paradise, sweetheart,” I offer darkly as I pull the SUV into the shabby asphalt parking lot.
Looking over at her, she’s staring at me with those big amber-brown eyes fringed with long lashes like she’s trying to figure something out, but then she blinks it away when she notices I’m watching her. I swear the words, “fuck you,” are sitting on those pretty pink lips every time I attempt to knock her off her high horse and fail.
“Actually, Smith emailed me the itinerary,” I let her know. “And to his credit, it’s the most luxurious accommodations in a two-hundred and fifty-mile radius,” I tack on, because I’m nice like that. “If you prefer, we could drive back to Ensenada and get a place there?”
Her head jerks in my direction. “That’s almost three hours away, and besides, Enrique doesn’t like it when his directions aren’t followed.”
“Do you always do everything Enrique tells you to do?” I challenge in the dickly fashion I’ve taken up since meeting her.
“Do you always forget your place?” she retorts, opening her door.
Touché.
To my right are three golf carts in spots labeled, “Reserved,” but surprise, surprise, there’s not a single valet in sight.
Following her out of the vehicle like the puppy dog I’m becoming, I hastily grab our luggage and then take the lead. The broken sidewalk ends at an attached tile-roofed building with a faded sign above the door that reads, “The Hacienda.”
Pulling the marred wood open, I step aside and let Gemma go first. Inside, I hustle past her and stride up to the haggard-looking reception desk.
An older woman with chestnut-colored hair, wearing a white cotton top and long colorful skirt, looks up from the Spanish gossip magazine she’s reading. “Puedo ayudarte?”
Shit, my Spanish is a little rusty, and I struggle to respond. Pushing me aside, Gemma sets her elbows on the counter and smiles.
“Estoy registrando,” she responds. “Gemma.”
My Spanish isn’t great, but I know how to conjugate verbs and I know she’s saying I, not we. “Estamos,” I clarify, making room for myself beside her.
Gemma rolls her eyes.
“Sí, soy Maria,” the woman replies and then holds up a finger. “Un momento, déjame buscar a mi hijo.”
When she returns, a middle-aged distinguished-looking man is with her. Her son has dark hair, dark eyes, and beneath his suit jacket he is most definitely sporting a gun.
Immediately, I tense and ready myself to draw my own weapon.
“Welcome.” He greets us with a handshake. He seems friendly, and I relax. “I’m Carlos. I’ve been expecting you,” he says. "Your rooms are ready. Please follow me.”
With luggage in hand, I stay behind, watching him, watching her. Watching the way her caramel-colored hair bounces in the long braid, the way her ass sways in those tight jeans, the way her shoulder blades peak out from the spaghetti straps of her flowy top. One thing is for certain; today she isn’t dressed like she was yesterday.
A free-spirited SoCal girl has replaced the uptight woman, but don’t get me wrong, the bitchiness is still full-blown.
The question is—which one is she really?
And will I ever know for certain?
On the other side of the small building is a hidden walkway I hadn’t seen from the road or online either. It leads down to a private area with a number of freestanding buildings. All are pink stucco with tar roofs.
A sign above the first one reads, “Ocho.” The countdown continues to identical structures through, “Dos.”
Number one is at the very edge of the property overlooking the cliff and is set on a raised foundation with three steps leading to a screened porch. A roof pitched higher, more windows, and green shutters set it apart from the others.
It must be this place’s version of a VIP suite.
Carlos unlocks the door and then hands me the key. “If you need anything,” he says, “please ask for me.” I give him a nod and push the door open to find a brick fireplace, tile floors, and mismatched décor.
The two-bedroom suite isn’t the Ritz. Still, it’s clean and more than amenable, which I can’t say for Gemma, who is standing in front of one of the bedroom doors staring at me once again like I’ve grown two heads. “Be ready to leave in ten minutes,” she tells me and then slams the door to what I assume is going to be her room before I can even set the luggage down.
I bite down on my fist to keep my mouth shut. I’m playing babysitter to a woman who may never get me what I want. A woman, who in fact, could very well get me killed with what she knows, and to boot, she’s acting like a spoiled child.
Fuck my life.