His eyes glimmering with humor, he said, “Well, you’re stuck with me now, Mrs. Walsh, ’cause our marriage is officially consummated.”
To the oh-so-soothing sounds of lewd catcalls and laughter, my ten-foot walk of shame might just as well have been ten miles. I slithered into my seat and hid my face behind a catalog. Pete flipped back to his magazine article and continued reading as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened.
A few minutes later, without looking up, he murmured, “I wonder if we get membership cards.”
Gaping, I punched him in the arm, then I turned my face away and gazed out the window. Tiny islands floated in the cobalt sea beneath us, and large cotton plumes, rising to unearthly heights, glowed in the brilliant sunshine. The Plexiglas window was warm to the touch, promising the tropical paradise we’d paid for. When the cabin pressure began changing, I rooted through my purse for a piece of gum, handing a second to Pete.
Our landing was altogether uneventful, but as the plane docked at the gate, one of the attendants appeared at our seats and handed Pete a bright-yellow plastic bag. “This is from the crew. Hope y’all have a wonderful honeymoon!” She then quickly left to assist an elderly couple.
Pete peered inside. “Well, isn’t that nice?” He held up a bottle of champagne with a note attached. Reading it, he grinned furiously. “Well, that didn’t take long.”
I snatched it from his hand.
Congratulations on your marriage, and welcome to the “Mile High Club”. Hope you enjoyed the turbulence.
–Your captain and crew
“I’m going to die,” I muttered, my cheeks surely as red as a clown’s nose. Pete retrieved our stowed bags, and since we were now first class passengers, we got the hell off the plane before the hecklers could rally. Pete thanked the crew on our way to the door, and I smiled tightly, refusing to make eye contact with the cheery flight attendant looping, “Have a nice vacation! Have a nice vacation!”
26
The Price to Pee
If I ever thought North Carolina was hot and humid, I was sorely mistaken. Nearly frostbitten from the airport’s air-conditioning, we were enveloped in a dripping thermal blanket, set on high as we stepped outside. After the atmospheric shock waned, Pete set our load of baggage onto the sidewalk and disappeared back into the building, leaving me fanning myself under a smoldering sun. He returned a few minutes later, carrying a cute, floppy, wide-brimmed hat and two bottles of ice-cold water. “Wedding gifts,” he announced, kissing my nose as he adjusted my hat.
Joining the herd of colorful tourists, we passed a long row of large coach-type buses and climbed aboard the brightly painted one our tourist company representative directed us towards. It was mercifully cool, and we claimed two crushed velvet chairs near the back.
“Well, so far, so good,” Pete said, collapsing. He exhaled deeply, propped his head against the cushioned headrest and smiled at me with great satisfaction. He kissed my hand and said, “I love you, Susan Walsh.” Then he pulled the bill of his brand new Mexican ball cap down and closed his eyes.
Though equally worn, I was also extremely excited. I’d been to Mexico once before with my demon ex-boyfriend but hadn’t paid any attention to my surroundings. I mentally spat to exorcize Ryan and that memory then leisurely ran my eyes over my husband’s beautiful form, wondering if fate or some mindless cosmic accident had thrown us together and eventually landed us in front of an altar. Susan Walsh. How oddly wonderful that sounded.
After looping around a clover-leaf of entrance and exit ramps, the bus rolled out of Cancun and headed south towards the Mayan Riviera, our personal destination. The loudspeaker crackled to life, and a man standing beside the driver spoke to us in heavily-accented English, repeating, I assume, the same spiel in several other languages. He shared the history of the region and expounded upon the multitude of attractions we didn’t want to miss.
The parched landscape was dotted with scrub brush similar to that of home, but far less verdant under this furious solar blaze. We passed dilapidated ranches and sparkling car dealerships. Billboards littered the highway, advertising every possible item one could want: watches, jewelry, dolphin shows, lobster dinners, exotic dancers, and sightseeing flights.
About an hour later, the bus entered the town of Playa del Carmen, navigating its tight streets. Shriveled men sat on overturned buckets, roadside, and unkempt dogs ran freely. Women, their ebony hair wound tightly into buns, carried overflowing baskets of laundry. Colorful shops and open-air restaurants lined the sidewalks.
The bus stopped in front of a modest hotel, and several passengers pulled their bulging bags from overhead compartments and waddled down the aisle. Once their suitcases had been unloaded from beneath, the bus pulled onto a wide and beautiful highway. The emerald and viciously manicured dividing island was a parade of sculptured shrubbery fashioned into bird and animal shapes. I’d never seen their like. I grabbed Pete’s arm to wake him. He mumbled something that vaguely sounded like I love you, and then promptly fell back into a soft, rhythmic snore.
We passed a large stone sign with the word Playacar etched into it. The bus pulled onto a bumpy, but new-looking cobblestone drive, slowing several times for exaggerated speed bumps. We stopped at an impressive barricade, and the driver spoke with the guard. The metal bar lifted, and we passed through, slowing for yet another series of speed bumps. The bus came to a hissing halt in front of a gorgeous resort boasting a thatched roof entrance bracketed by rustic wooden columns. Staff, dressed pristinely in starched white uniforms, rushed to aid the passengers’ descent. Suitcases were unloaded, and the guests were ushered inside.
This same scene was replayed approximately fifty times over the next two hours. I had no idea there were so many resorts in Mexico. I also hadn’t seen any signs for Tulum yet and was getting concerned that we were on the wrong bus.
Past Playacar, the elegant shrubbery disappeared, and the median was once again garbed in yellow crabgrass and stretches of sandy dirt. By this time, with no wifi and nothing to read, I was absolutely bored, ravenously hungry, and I totally had to pee. Plus, a kernel of resentment towards Pete, who was still soundly sleeping with a damned peaceful smile on his face, was sprouting, nourished by the fact that I had to bear this burden alone.
“Excuse me, señor,” I called out. “Can we stop for a bathroom break?” The few remaining haggard-looking couples nodded emphatically as well.
“Si, señora.” He rapid-fired some Spanish to the driver, and within minutes, we pulled in front of a rundown gas station. Several Mexicans dressed in soiled clothing listlessly lounged on the shaded porch. Dust billowed into the air as we scrambled from the bus. It was good to stand.
Greeted by bored faces, a man pointed towards a whitewashed cinderblock building in the back, onto which the word baño was painted in faded red letters. I hurried toward the señora’s side and nearly crashed into a squat woman barely four feet tall. Blocking the entrance, she held out her hand.
I’d left my purse on the bus, so I had nothing on me. I gave her the international sign for No thanks, I gave at the office. She shook her head and pointed to another sign. It read in plain English: Bathrooms $1.50.
“I have to pay to pee?!” I exclaimed. “That’s crazy.”
The woman behind me said, “I don’t care how much it costs, I’ve gotta go,” before pushing past me. Digging in her oversized purse, she shoved a wad of bills at the woman and scooted inside. The other ladies in line began scrounging for money as well.
“I can’t believe this,” I growled. “What a total rip-off.” I glared at the driver, casually smoking a cigarette, and stomped back into the bus. Pete’s legs were now stretched out on the armrest in front of him. I nudged them with my foot.
“Huh?! What?” he said, his eyelids popping open. “We’re here already? That didn’t take long.”
I rolled my eyes and held out my hand. “I need money.” Pete had all the pesos in his wallet.
“Sure, Susie-
Q. Already shoppin’?”
“Definitely not.” He doled out currency, and I turned on my heels and marched back to the bathroom. I handed the woman a ten.
She shook her head and handed it back. “American.”
“Oh for fuck’s sake.” I marched back to the bus again. The others were filing on, and I had to wait for them to settle before I could pass down the aisle.
“They only want American,” I said. “Just hand me my purse.”
Sitting up, he peered out the window at the barren landscape. “What’d you find to buy here?”
“Relief.” Just then, the bus lurched onto the highway. “Hey, wait! I didn’t get to go.”
The announcer guy shrugged and said, “Sorry, señora, we are on a tight schedule.”
I muttered a string of obscenities as I crawled over Pete. “Did you know,” I said, turning to him in a huff, “that you actually have to pay to pee in Mexico?”
“I did not,” Pete replied solemnly. Then after a moment, he got one of those demonic smiles on his face. “Ya want somethin’ to drink?”
27
Let the Pins Fall Where They May
It appeared that our resort was the very last one before crossing the border to friggin’ Brazil. Once past the gate, the bus pulled onto a wide circular driveway flanked by short, perfectly spaced palm trees. It came to a hissing halt at the bottom of what looked very much like the Lincoln Memorial.
The driver shook the tip can, and I glared at him. Of course, Pete pulled out a few bills and said all kinds of nice things. I turned back and grumbled, “I’ll meet you inside.”
Sprinting up the expansive marble staircase like Rocky Balboa, I skidded to a halt at the entrance, looking frantically in all directions. My eyes connected with one of the staff. She simply smiled and pointed.
The bathroom was lavish by anyone’s standards, and I fully appreciated its air-conditioned splendor while leisurely washing my hands. The walls and countertop were fashioned of golden marble with dark, heavily lacquered, teak accents. Taking a deep, cleansing breath of the lightly perfumed air, I walked back into the reception area.
The grand hall, with its soaring ceiling and monstrous iron chandelier, showcased gleaming floors of the same dark wood as the bathroom. The brilliantly white walls contrasted handsomely with the rust-colored upholstery. Pete stood under the pinnacle, holding two glasses of champagne. “Here, my beautiful, darlin’ wife, welcome to paradise.” We clinked glasses, and he kissed me tenderly. “Our bags are on their way to the room. You wanna take a look around the place?”
“Let’s.”
I took his arm, and we walked outside to the curved veranda. It was truly a sight to behold. The beautiful stone walkway stretching out in front of us was surely the length of a football field. Dotted down its center were several joyfully gurgling fountains. Lovely landscaping, set in geometric patterns, decorated the lush fescue on either side. Not a single blade of grass seemed out of place.
A bounty of three-story stucco buildings, each graced with a series of romantic iron balconies, swept away to either side. Uniformed staff, the color theme apparently tan and pale yellow, hustled busily from one structure to another. Brightly dressed pedestrians meandered in dreamlike fashion as if thoroughly entranced.
What was perhaps the most beautiful thing of all, however, was the extraordinary turquoise water in the distance, its gleaming vision making my heart skip beats. “This is spectacular!”
Pete smiled broadly. “I hoped you’d like it.”
We slowly descended the curving stairs, my hand grazing the twisted railing. The sun was vicious, but a playful breeze eased its sting. We passed several restaurants and gift shops. One was filled with ceramic figurines and every manner of Tulum, Mexico-embellished trinkets. Another was devoted completely to jewelry; silver and gemstones glinted through the plate glass window. A third vended beach items—sarongs, sunglasses, blow-up toys, and the like.
The pool lay before us as we continued wandering hand-in-hand towards the sea, swept up in the resort’s enchantment. A giant kidney-shaped pool deck offered wide, welcoming stairs descending into blue liquid, rivaling the very sea itself. Music played loudly; a random mix of Calypso and American pop. People floated around a thatched-roof island, serving up festive drinks and much beer. Soaring palm trees, laden with green coconuts, separated the pool area from the glorious white sand beach. Though the sparse waves merely hinted at ocean, the liquid itself was alive and dancing.
Pete and I kicked off our shoes and squeaked through the hot sand to the water’s edge. We looked towards one another and let out the kind of sigh that says everything in the world is right. He took my face, and in front of God and everybody, kissed the living daylights out of me.
“Wanna check out our room?” he asked, nuzzling my nose.
♥
“Oh, this is gorgeous!” I whispered, entering the spacious bridal suite. Staged in resort theme, its huge, dark-framed bed was made up in crisp, white cotton. Gentle netting draped the headboard and puddled on the marble floor. I lay back on the plump comforter and closed my eyes. Heaven.
Inhaling deeply, my lungs filled with a fragrance so pure, so intoxicating that it was a living thing. I sat up and gasped. “Lilies?”
“Uh huh. I wanted ’em waitin’ for ya when we arrived.” He stepped away from the large dresser to expose what was, simply put, the contents of an entire flower garden. I flew into his arms and he spun me around in circles.
“You are the most amazing man I have ever met. Make love to me!”
His eyes positively smoldered, but just as our lips connected, a knock on the door interrupted our building inferno.
“Señor y señora, welcome to Tulum! Your bags?”
“Si, gracias,” Pete replied. He pointed, and the man went about setting up our suitcases on folding canvas stands.
“We have muchas activities, and a meeting has been scheduled with your personal concierge at seven o’clock. Si?”
“No si,” I interrupted. “We’re on our honeymoon. We don’t need activities.”
Pete smiled at me and slipped the man some money. “Gracias and have a nice day.” He then put the “do not disturb” sign on the outside door handle and locked us in.
“Now where was I? Oh yeah, I believe I was about to make love to my wife.” He walked around the room slowly. “The question is, where.”
“The bed works just fine for me,” I said, patting the mattress.
“But we haven’t finished the tour. Ya might change your mind.” There was mischief in his eyes, which, at the moment, I cared nothing about.
I pulled my dress over my head and dropped it on the floor. “Make love to me now.”
His eyes raked over my form, and his breathing increased. “Oh, I plan to. Over and over, until ya beg for mercy. But first, you’ll want to see this.” He crooked his finger, and I floated towards him.
He stepped into the next room and I followed. My jaw dropped open at the sight of the gargantuan bathroom; the shower was large enough for a family of twelve to use at once. He raised an eyebrow and asked in a voice steeped in seduction, “Don’t ya wanna freshen up first?”
“Like never before,” I murmured.
He turned me so I faced the gold framed mirror. “Your hair is lovely, but I’m afraid it needs to come down.” He then planted a row of kisses around my neck.
“Later,” I panted.
“Right now.”
“Pete—” I whined.
A pin dropped into the sink with a tiny ping. Having suffered through Dottie’s persecution, I knew there were at least three hundred more bobby pins poking into my skull. “This will take all night. Come on, Pete, you’re killing me.”
Biting the tip of his tongue in that hungry way that launched me into sexual orbit, he continued his task. Another pin fell, this time on the counter. He bent down and sucked the skin near my shoulder into his mouth. My core literally percolated. “Ya know, I was denied the night
I wanted. I won’t be denied again.”
The first strand fell. He held it between his fingers, studying it. “You’ve got the most beautiful hair. It curls at the ends and brushes against your chest when you walk. It does terrible things to me. Let me show ya.”
He slowly unclasped my bra, letting it drop to the floor. He then pulled the curl taut, placed the tip in his mouth, and sucked on it. Meeting my eyes in the mirror, he brushed the wet tip back and forth across my nipple, painting it. I inhaled sharply as it pebbled.
Pulling out another pin, a second strand fell.
“Please—” I pleaded.
He wet its tip and dragged it down my spine, inciting a riot of goosebumps. “And your back curves in the loveliest way.” He planted kisses down the path my hair had traced and then continued his journey. When he reached the base, he hooked his fingers in my panties and slowly pulled them down. “And your tight, perfectly-shaped butt…like two halves of a sweet, sweet apple.” He gripped my hips solidly and took gentle, teasing bites. I moaned. He ran his tongue down the back of one leg and traced the other with a wet finger. “Oh, how I love these. Spread ’em for me, darlin’.” I did, and he relieved me of my panties.
“Now where was I?” he murmured, standing. He met my eyes in the mirror, his pupils fully dilated. “That’s right, your hair.”
My groan was a mixture of frustration and carnal desire. I couldn’t tell you where the percentages lay, as they vacillated constantly.
His smile was fully wicked as he pulled out another pin. He ran it down my sternum and drew circles around each nipple and then my bellybutton before dropping it on the counter.
“Please—” I whimpered.
“Sweetheart, you can beg all ya want. And ya will. But this hair comes down.”
His warm hands landed lightly on my neck, and he began rubbing it with lazy circles. The circles widened as his palms drifted across my shoulders and down my arms, boiling the blood underneath. “Your skin. It’s like the finest silk. So soft. Especially right here.” He grazed the outer edges of my breasts with his thumbs. A quivering mess, I arched, desperately wanting his hands on them. He chuckled darkly and continued his descent to my waist.
Back Where I Belong: A Wonderfully Witty and Completely Absorbing Love Story (Susan Wade Series Book 3) Page 20