Guadalajara

By Michael Bronte

Paul Henley is a lawyer from New York, and his wife Elena is an author of children’s books. After almost four years of marriage, they think the time is right for them to become parents. If they’re lucky, their hope is that Elena will become pregnant during their vacation to Guadalajara, Mexico. What Paul doesn’t know is that the current Elena Henley is formerly Elena Díaz, sister of Sergio Díaz, who is the head of the Calle Santiago cartel. The revelation is mind boggling to Paul. How is it possible that Elena has never revealed she even had a brother, let alone one who runs a drug cartel? Paul’s world is thrown into even more chaos after two other occurrences. One is when he accidentally kills a man while defending himself during street mugging gone bad. The other is when Elena disappears from their hotel room without a trace. Paul’s search for her is all consuming. Follow the action as he becomes a fugitive from the Mexican police, while at the same time fighting rival cartel killers when he and Sergio combine forces to discover what happened to Elena. The betrayals between characters are never-ending, and each one is bigger than the one before.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Michael Bronte
• Release date: Jun 28, 2022
• ISBN: 9781005454227

Michael Bronte

Michael Bronte is a graduate of Union College in Schenectady, New York, and George Washington University in Washington, D.C., and lives with his wife of 38 years in New Jersey. "All of the heroes in my novels are everyday people," says Bronte. "Any of them could by your next door neighbor. None of us really know what we're capable of until the time comes for us to reach beyond the boundaries of our everyday lives. Remarkable feats of courage are performed everyday, by everyday people. It's amazing."​ As a young teenager I remember reading paperback mysteries under a huge oak tree outside my parents’ neighborhood grocery store in Dalton, Massachusetts, a small town located in the heart of the Berkshires. I can recall pulling a book from the rack and getting locked in to those novels as the fragrant summer breeze of Berkshire County tried to turn the page before I was done reading it. I don’t know why, but I was greatly affected by a book titled The Fan Club, by Irving Wallace. When I was done reading it, I can still recall thinking that someday I’d be able to write a book like that on my own; I knew I could do it.Well, the idea stayed dormant for over thirty years while I did what I thought I should have been doing for a living (looking back, it all seems so trivial sometimes) until I rekindled my infatuation with writing novels. Now, many years after that, and many mistakes and many failures later, there are several Michael Bronte novels available for those of you who like mystery, suspense, action-oriented stories with true-to-life characters.

Book preview

Guadalajara

by

Michael Bronte

Copyright ©: Michael Bronte 2021

All Rights Reserved

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Part One

Chapter 1

Flight 1183

My ears popped as soon as I swallowed, making the engine noise twice as loud as it had been a second earlier. I guess I must have nodded off, which was unusual for me. My oversized frame wasn’t built for airplanes and certainly not for the middle seat. At six foot four, my knees were scrunched into the seat in front of me with no wiggle room whatsoever. I felt like I was in a straitjacket. With my mouth dry as desert sand, I rubbed the sleep from my eyes and noticed that my palms were sweaty. That meant only one thing: that I’d had one of those dreams, the type where you wake up with your heart thumping but have no idea what kind of dangerous fantasy your subconscious had conjured up. Sure, why not? What else could make me feel worse on this horror movie of a flight? Every seat was taken so that the air was thick with exhales from half a dozen languages being spoken. The grating hum of the ventilation system was annoyingly constant in my ears, but it was nowhere near strong enough to cleanse the air of its staleness. The sound of several screaming babies only added to the ambiance.

I tapped the back-of-the-seat screen in front of me to check our flight progress, noting with some disappointment that we were still eighty-two minutes from the end of our journey. With flights and connections, we’d been traveling for ten hours, and I’d had my fill of crowded airports and fully packed airplanes. I hoped our destination would be as relaxing as the travel brochure made it out to be. Looking out the window, I doubted it. The only color I could see was brown, and I imagined Mexico to be hot, dusty, and inconvenient. We were headed for Guadalajara, which, when viewed cartographically was like the funny bone on the elbow of Mexico. So far, the trip hadn’t been very funny.

The journey hadn’t been my idea. Rather, I’d allowed myself to be romanced into it by the woman sitting next to me who’d already climbed over me twice to join the line for the bathroom. On this third time, I decided to go with her, if only to make sure my legs were still working. The folding door to the bathroom opened and closed as other passengers exited and squeezed past us on this sweatbox of a flight. None of them looked happy. I tried to breathe through my mouth so as not to smell the bouquet that seemed to hang like a curtain at the back of the plane. We did our business and returned to our row where I folded myself back into my sardine can of a seat.

The woman I’m referring to was my wife, Elena. We’d been married for just over three years, and both of us had always said we were fortunate to have found each other. For me, it was more than that. I’d say I was passionate about her, to the point where she was all I could think about when we’d first met. I think she’d felt the same way. The passion continued, but as in all marriages the intensity lessened over time as familiarity took hold. I think both of us took each other for granted until we realized we had to do something to rekindle the fire. It wasn’t that we were falling out of love necessarily, but we needed a boost. Neither of us had strayed from our commitments to each other—as far as I knew—but we talked about how we might reprioritize our goals and prevent ourselves from drifting into our own separate everyday worlds. Goals: it’s such a clinical term. Maybe ambitions was a better word, but it too sounded too distant for us. We needed something stronger to maintain our bond, and that’s when we started thinking the time might be right to become parents. We’d talked about it, and talked about it, but I couldn’t get Elena to fully commit to the idea until one day I suggested that we take some time and go somewhere where we could break away completely from the rest of the world and concentrate on ourselves.

You name the place, I said to her. Anywhere in the world.

We both knew that if we were going to do it, now was the time. We weren’t kids anymore. I was older than Elena, heading toward my late forties with two kids from a previous marriage, one in college and one having just graduated. I’d screwed that marriage up royally, and I didn’t want to go through that again with Elena. She was in her late thirties, and I knew from the very beginning that her biological timer was ticking away like the terminal clock at Grand Central. Silently, I was trying to convince myself that having a child at our advanced ages would improve our relationship, fearing that if we didn’t do it we could end up drifting apart. After three years I think we’d both seen what the other had to offer toward a lifetime relationship. I think both of us felt like we needed something more to look forward to. I wasn’t going anywhere, and I was willing. After thinking about it for some time, she said she was too.

We both closed our eyes and waited for this miserable plane ride to end. It wasn’t long before Elena was snoring lightly. I knew she was exhausted, having woken up at four a.m. for our flight out of JFK, and finally, at the tail end of our journey, she’d fallen asleep. I wish I could have done so myself, but my discomfort elevated my condition from merely being wired to downright loathing of everything around me. We couldn’t arrive in Guadalajara soon enough. I tried to make the best of it, thinking that if the guy behind me yanked on my seat one more time while hauling his fat ass into the aisle, I was going to say something to him. That’s how I felt, anyway. I knew I wouldn’t do it, though. I closed my eyes, thinking it would all be over in a little over an hour.

Out of nowhere, Elena suddenly began to mumble something in her sleep, sounding distraught. Seconds later, the mumble turned into a full-blown screech, the decibel level indicating some serious subliminal agitation. When the man sitting next to me in the aisle seat looked over, I shook Elena’s arm trying to rouse her from her subconscious trauma. It took some significant jostling to pull her out of it.

What!…Where!…What is it? she stammered. Her eyes were wide and fraught with anxiety. Where am I?

You’re on the plane, honey. You just had a bad dream.

She looked at me blankly. You’re here, she said, totally bewildered. Oh my God. The plane. She shook her head and tried to rouse herself from her nightmare. Where are we going?

You know where we’re going, dear. Guadalajara. She seemed surprised by my answer. I put my arm around her, bringing her head to rest on my shoulder.

Guadalajara. Right. Why are we going there?

She was still out of it. I leaned over and kissed her forehead. We’re going there to make a baby, I whispered in her ear so that no one else would hear me. I was still trying to convince myself that it was the real reason she’d chosen Guadalajara. She looked at me as if she didn’t even know me.

Chapter 2

Turbulence

The change in cabin pressure wreaked havoc with the eardrums of the babies onboard as we descended into Guadalajara. Like the crescendo of a symphony, several of them started moaning within seconds of each other. Those that didn’t broke out into crying jags, and mothers tried to calm their children in multiple languages with little success. I dared not look at Elena, fearing she’d consider what was happening around her as her future. No more white wine at fancy restaurants, no more lounging in silky pajamas, but a constant routine of cleaning up spit-up at one end and something even more unsavory at the other. She touched my hand and entwined her finger with mine, forcing me to finally turn my head.

Talk about getting on my last nerve, I said, rolling my eyes.

She knew I was referring to the wailing babies. We might as well get used to it, she said. If we’re going to do this.

I didn’t know if that was acquiescence, or resignation. I smiled weakly. I can’t wait to get to the hotel and get out of these clothes. With a lascivious grin, I added, And getting you out of yours.

Her eyes twinkled and she gave my hand a squeeze as reassurance that she was thinking the same thing. It still didn’t convince me that she wasn’t having second thoughts about what we were doing, however. I leaned over and gave her a kiss. I love you, I said. Unlike some men who gushed all over their spouses with disgustingly sweet public displays of affection that made me want to gag, I used the phrase sparingly. I don’t know, maybe I was being overly macho. Elena had never complained about it, but I could tell those words meant a lot to her at that moment.

From the moment I met her I knew it was true love. There I was, several years removed from a contentious divorce that tore my life and the lives of my children apart—Sharon had cheated on me with one of her coworkers, a sniveling little metrosexual prick named Toby. To this day I have no idea what she saw in him that caused her to give up on our marriage.

Sharon and I had been high-school sweethearts, and I guess she’d simply fallen out of love after being with me for more than twenty years. Deep down, I’d suspected her dalliance for a long time, but it still shattered me. I think she just snapped for some reason I couldn’t begin to fathom. I blamed myself for a while, but I eventually concluded that she’d probably never truly loved me from the very beginning. What other conclusion could I have reached? I thought about how miserable she must have been all those years we were together, and I felt sorry for her in a way. In another way I thought how selfish she was for walking away from an entire family.

For me, it was more than a divorce. The betrayal I felt was equally devastating for my kids. Luckily, with her obviously wanting to cleanse herself of that entire part of her life, I took custody. I had no objection to that, and I devoted myself to the task of raising them to be honest, well-mannered, respectful human beings who gave every indication that they wanted to do something significant with their lives. My daughter Michelle had graduated from Brown, and my son Clark was studying marine biology at Florida State. It took me a long time to heal the scars of my marriage to Sharon, and I had no idea at the time if I ever wanted to be married again. The thought of dating, or more accurately, trying to find someone to date, was totally unappetizing. I had no idea how to do that anymore. If it happened, it happened. If it didn’t, I determined that staying alone would be just fine with me. That is, until I met Elena Díaz.

From the moment she walked into my office I knew it was special. What was the line from The Godfather when Michael Corleone meets Apollonia for the first time? He was colpito da un fulmine. Hit by the thunderbolt: the overwhelming instantaneous sense that you’ve met your soulmate, a sense that had clearly evaporated in my marriage. Looking back on it, I concluded that even if it had existed with Sharon, I had never experienced it with the same intensity as I did with Elena. In that moment when I saw her for the first time, I was Michael Corleone and not Paul Henley. She was exotic, and slim, with cheekbones of a supermodel and skin color that radiated warmth. I was mesmerized by her laugh, her accent, and the way she looked at me when I talked. She radiated a presence that took me in instantly, and whenever I was in her company I felt like the most important person in the world. I knew without a doubt that she’d change the trajectory of my life.

After Sharon, I’d completely abandoned the notion of reconfiguring my idea of what love was. To say I was unprepared for it was an understatement of mammoth proportions. Butterflies dive bombed in my stomach in anticipation of seeing Elena, and whenever I did, I wanted to see her again to the point where I made excuses to do it. I’m an entertainment and intellectual property lawyer, and I could always find a reason why we had to speak. It could have been done over the phone, of course. Little did I know that she’d always agreed to meet with me in person because the thunderbolt had struck her too.

Elena had been referred to me by one of my other clients to straighten out the mess she’d made of her career, I’d been told. I was good at that. I’d helped clients in film, music, and literary endeavors protect their intellectual property rights, had represented them in court over disputes, and had negotiated deals that made some of them rich. My clients ran the gamut from child actors, to established TV stars and personalities, authors, and even a couple of political hacks who for some reason thought someone would be interested in their memoires. In all of those relationships, my job was to not only help them negotiate contracts and protect their rights, but to also look out for their general well-being by acting as a liaison between them and other professionals such as tax advisors, estate planning attorneys, financial planners, and the like. The world was full of wolves, and performers, writers, musicians, and artists were notoriously good at acting like lambs ready to be eaten by agents, publishers, recording companies, and film makers. My job often morphed into the role of being a guardian as much as an attorney.

Elena had made a mess of it, all right. She’d authored a series of children’s books called Isabella Can based on a character named Isabella, aimed specifically at little girls in the Spanish-speaking world. Like many unknown authors, no one wanted anything to do with her in the beginning, so she decided to self-publish her books, and guess what? They took off, one of them climbing to the top of the Amazon ranking in her genre. Only then did publishers want to pick her up, crawling to her with offers of advance money, promises of promotional tours, and all of the glamour one might envision by being a best-selling author. But Elena was smart, or so she thought. She knew she wasn’t an expert in the world of acquisitions, so she sought out an agent who she figured could help her wiggle through such negotiations. Big mistake. The agent guided her into a publishing contract where she gave up her rights for the publishing, marketing, and sales of her books, which was normal, but the contract also gave the publisher the exclusive rights for possible TV and movie consideration. The agent would get his fifteen percent, and everyone else would get a piece if the books were converted into a TV series for Disney or PBS, except Elena. Her rights were signed away to the publisher for the length of her contract, and her earnings were limited only to the royalties of her current book deal only. She should never have signed that contract and should have been so advised. She came to me to see if there was a basis to sue the agent and the publisher for taking advantage of her inexperience and not advising her in good faith. Given the success of Isabella Can, the foregone royalties and licensing fees to her could have amounted to some significant money. Given my infatuation, it didn’t take long for me to suggest that we talk about her case over lunch, which in the days after turned into talking about it over dinner.

Elena was like the hundreds of creative types I’d met over the years, hyped with enthusiasm about the uniqueness of her work that, in her opinion, made it different than anything else. She also knew her business sense and organizational skills weren’t strong enough to carry that conviction into the marketplace. Making the impossible seem within reach, she said, If I could just find the right audience… In her case, however, the success she envisioned was indeed possible. Her work was popular and getting more so, and I could see the potential in multiple mediums, including the highly profitable world of merchandising and licensing. In my opinion, she was sitting on the next Cabbage Patch or Ninja Turtle phenomenon for Spanish-speaking kids all over the world. I was enthralled as I listened to her talk about her work. Her voice, her accent, her flip of the hair, mesmerized me to the point where I had to remind myself that she was a client. That didn’t quell my fascination, however. At dinner, I poured another glass of wine for both of us as we finished our appetizers, and ordered another bottle.

Over the next few weeks, I continued the practice of talking about her legal situation over dinner until it got to the point where we barely touched on the topic. We both knew the dinners were a ruse, the real objective being to be in each other’s company. Eventually we got to the point where not talking shop over dinner turned into not talking about it over sex, which was fantastic. I’d never experienced such pleasure when I was married to Sharon, not that I could remember anyway. If I had, those times were erased from my memory by the acute unpleasantness of our undoing.

After some months of surreptitious love making wherever and whenever we could, I saw no reason to continue my self-imposed bereavement from my marriage to Sharon. I wanted companionship again—my relationship with Elena had become more than just wild monkey sex—and I asked her to marry me. It was the second marriage for both of us, her first ending at age nineteen when her twenty-year-old husband got himself killed in a gang-war dispute in Guadalajara, she’d said. She never remarried, came to the United States, and ended up working in a daycare center for preschoolers, which is how she got interested in children’s books.

I continued to be her lawyer after we were married, of course, and although we weren’t successful in suing her former agent or publisher, her books continued to be successful. Now, we were on our way to Guadalajara for two reasons. The first was that the three-year contract with her publisher was coming to an end and the print rights would be reverting back to her. Rather than renew the contract, however, the publisher felt that Isabella Can had run its course as a book series and wanted new material. Elena wanted to go back to Guadalajara where she’d grown up to find inspiration for a brand-new character.

The second reason was the aforementioned idea of making her own real-life Isabella. At now thirty-eight years of age, she agreed to go to the next step in our marriage and finally have a child of her own and not just write about one. In her mind, she convinced herself that it was now or never. For me, at age forty-seven with two other adult children, I didn’t disagree.

Some abrupt severe turbulence shook us in our seats as we descended into Guadalajara, knocking us around like bowling pins. It was totally unexpected as up to that point the flight had been uneventful. Elena was in the window seat and I peered past her, seeing that the plane was trying to break out of some cloud cover. I heard the engines whine as the flight angle shifted and the nose of the plane dipped sharply. We were suddenly pushed back in our seats, thrown around like rag dolls as the plane bounced like a pinball through the clouds. It was the first time I could remember where I thought I was going to get sick on a plane. Some people did, and I could hear them retching. It felt as if the plane fell through a hole in the sky, dropping violently so that my stomach was in my throat. The captain came on the intercom and said that they hadn’t expected such fierce turbulence; everyone needed to buckle up. His voice sounded strained and urgent.

I looked at Elena. She had her hand over her mouth and was leaning back in her seat, her eyes shut tightly as she tried to keep it together. The guy next to me in the aisle seat groaned, his hands welded to the armrests. I put my arm around Elena and brought her to me, resting her head on my shoulder. I could feel her shivering.

Breathe deeply, I advised, having no idea if that was the right thing to have said. People around us were getting frantic. The cabin lurched to the left and people screamed.

Elena burrowed into me and gripped my arm. I hope to hell this pilot knows what he’s doing, she said anxiously. This feels like more than just turbulence.

It’ll be alright soon, I said, not sounding at all sure of myself. The plane took its body blows for the next few minutes, rocking and swerving like a carnival ride.

This isn’t the way I wanted to die, said Elena.

She sounded serious. We’ll come out of it in a minute, I responded, holding her tightly and hoping the wings wouldn’t fall off the plane. Indeed, it felt like it went into momentary free fall again, causing me to tighten my grip on Elena. I kept my eyes closed and held on for dear life until, as suddenly as it had started, we hit calm air and the turbulence stopped. I opened my eyes and felt the muscles in my face unclench. Ten minutes later, we were on the ground in Guadalajara.

I hope that wasn’t an omen of things to come, I said when my stomach dropped back to its normal position.

Elena’s fingers were still gripping my hand as the plane came to a stop and we waited for the gate ramp to roll into place. Why are you saying that? she asked. Do you think coming here was a mistake?

Chapter 3

La Quinta Imperial

Customs in Guadalajara was chaotic, to say the least. Hundreds of people were being herded into three different areas. One was for Mexican citizens, most of them dark-haired and bronze-skinned, with a fair number of women bouncing babies in their arms as they waited. Quite a few of them were dressed in what was clearly intended as American status attire—Air Jordan sneakers, Hollister t-shirts, Guess jeans—while they carried their other belongings in tattered suitcases and shopping bags. No doubt a lot of hours had been worked in order to afford those few prestigious articles of clothing. Another line looked to be composed of business types, most of them men and very American looking, all of them carrying that impatient look that told the world that waiting in line was highly inconvenient. We were in the third group, which looked to be relegated to tourists for the most part, many of whom looked from side-to-side seemingly wondering if they were in the right place. Unlike the business types, Caucasian-looking men with perfect haircuts waited patiently next to well-dressed women who looked quite made up and even statuesque in some cases. I didn’t see any babies in our line. I noticed a couple of guys from the first group ogling Elena. They looked away as soon they caught my rigid gaze.

We shuffled toward the customs booth when suddenly Elena said, Let’s turn around and go home.

My heart skipped a beat. What? You’re not serious, are you? Her face was frozen, her normally lustrous brown eyes looking gray and pasty. What’s the matter?

This suddenly feels very wrong. I don’t know if I can go through with it.

I didn’t get it. It had been her idea to come here. What could possibly feel so wrong about it? It was stifling inside the terminal, and I felt my shirt sticking to my back. Maybe she was just tired. After the plane ride we’d just had, it was no wonder she felt out of sorts.

You’ll feel better once we get to the hotel, I said, shifting my bag from one side of me to the other and putting my arm around her as I’d done on the plane. There were a couple of dozen people in front of us and we inched forward. I could feel the tenseness in her shoulders. I thought about one of the reasons we’d come to Guadalajara. I hoped she wasn’t having second thoughts. Trying to get her to relax, I whispered, According the pictures I saw on the internet, the shower in our room should be big enough for both of us.

She smiled weakly and said, That sounds delightful.

I felt some of the anxiety she’d passed on to me drain away. It had been a tough trip and I wasn’t feeling daisy-fresh myself. I pictured us in that shower together, foaming up and washing the New York grit from our bodies. I never got tired of feeling the softness of her breasts and helping myself to their lusciousness. I would linger there and then move on to other areas of her body and wait for the pace of her breathing to pick up, a sure sign that her interest was blossoming. It most often worked, not surprisingly. If there was one thing in our relationship that had always worked, it was the sex. Elena liked it slow and could go for hours. It wasn’t unusual that we’d do it twice in one night, and there were a few times when, after we’d rested in each other’s arms for an hour or so and had a little more champagne, that she’d help me rise to the occasion yet again, so to speak. I was always willing to make the extra effort. I think we were both pretty good lovers, or good for each other, at least. We always seemed to know what the other wanted on any particular night—or morning, or afternoon, or whenever the mood struck us, which wasn’t infrequently.

I put her comment out of my head for the time being and concentrated on getting us through the airport—which took forfuckingever—and into one of the canary-yellow taxis to our hotel. We’d booked a five-star hotel with all the amenities. Hopefully, something that had felt wrong to her for some reason would turn into something that felt very right. I had no idea why she said what she’d said, and I didn’t ask. Maybe I should have. I didn’t want to pepper her with questions and chalked it up to the exhausting trip. It gnawed on me, though.

Our driver spoke a little English and said it was about a forty-minute ride to the hotel. I’d learned enough Spanish from Elena that I could understand some of what was being said around me, but it was hardly enough to characterize me as conversant. My understanding of the language was limited to key phrases and common questions mostly, and as soon as I opened my mouth any true Mexican would recognize me as the pathetic American that I was.

We settled into the back seat with our carry-on bags between us, feeling the hot dry air blowing through the open windows of our unairconditioned taxi. Guadalajara looked to be a busy place as we traveled the wide avenues of the city. It being late in the afternoon, I surmised we were in the middle of rush hour. Our driver hit the gas hard after every light, only to stop a minute later as the next one turned red. People were gathered on the dry and dusty median strip at each of those lights, all of them peddling something as they walked between the stopped cars. Wallets, hats, cups of jicama sticks dusted with chili powder, all of it was held up to the windows of the captive cars, except the windows of the taxi drivers themselves. The hawkers knew better. An old woman whose leathery skin looked like it had been baked in the sun for decades was strolling between the cars selling roses. I held up an American dollar bill which she snatched away quickly, and I gave the rose to Elena. She smiled and gave it a sniff. The driver turned and said I’d paid twice as much as the old woman was selling if for. Elena held the rose and continued to stare absently out the window. Neither of us said much, being content to observe the passing cityscape. I wondered if she was still thinking about turning around and going home.

We finally arrived at the hotel, La Quinta Imperial, a gorgeous five-star establishment in the middle of the city where our very well-appointed suite was costing us ninety-one dollars a night—tax included—which was hard to believe. Even the smallest room, at the crappiest hotel, in the worst part of the city, would cost three times that in New York. Not knowing what we would be getting when I’d booked the hotel on the internet, it turned out to be the perfect spot, a sanctuary in the middle of the city. The spectacular ceramic floor in the lobby was lustrous and looked clean enough that a person could eat off of it. The cross breeze that blew through from the shaded porticos on either side made it feel like it was twenty degrees cooler than the convection oven outside. Elena looked impressed, and for the first time since we’d boarded our first flight in New York, the tightness in her face seemed to relax. She bantered in flawless Spanish with the young, attractive, perfectly groomed female desk clerk like they were old friends. I could only pick up a few phrases as she spoke in that rapid-fire way that only natives can do.

As she motioned for a porter to bring a cart for our bags, the clerk turned to me and said in that same sexy Mexican accent that mesmerized me when I’d first met Elena, Would you like us to send something to drink while you take some time to relax from your long trip, Mr. Henley? Some champagne, perhaps, or some our best local tequila and sangrita if you’d like something stronger? It’s much better than what’s available in the minibar.

Elena must have noticed my fascination with the young clerk because she poked me in the ribs and said, Champagne would be wonderful. And maybe some fruit too, right darling?

Uh, buh… I looked at Elena. She was smiling now, and I knew that look.

I’ll take care of it right away, said the clerk. By the way, the current exchange rate is one dollar equals twenty Mexican pesos.

I knew why she’d said that, of course. She didn’t want us to overtip the porter. The clerk snapped her fingers, and the porter led us to our room. Not having converted any money yet, I asked him if he took American money. "Naturalmente," he said, and I slipped him a ten spot, knowing it was probably half of what he made in an entire day. He seemed very pleased.

I turned to Elena. What do you think? I asked, making a sweeping motion around the room. She came over to me and moved in close.

I think we should check out the shower to see if it’s as big as you said.

She turned her face up to kiss me and dipped her hand down below my belt line. You’re talking about the shower, right? I said as I instantly felt myself becoming aroused.

She wrapped her leg around mine and squeezed in even tighter. You smell like airplane. We should do something about that.

I kissed her deeply. What about the champagne?

I don’t need it. She fondled me through my trousers. Is this for me, or are you thinking about the girl at the front desk?

Maybe I am, I said, teasing her. Her name was Maria by the way.

You couldn’t handle it, she teased back. A man your age, it could kill you.

What a way to go. Our clothes came off in seconds. The fantasy I’d had at the airport about us making love in the shower took me over completely. The water was hot, and the vapor condensed on the glass to create our own private sanctuary. The spray poured over us, taking any tension we might have felt into the drain of the marble floor. I soaped my hands and lathered her back, then reached around and cupped her not insignificant breasts. I covered them in bubbly lather, squeezing them and making them slippery. I heard her moan, feeling her nipples stiffen beneath my fingers. In bare feet, Elena was almost a foot shorter than me so that my raging erection poked her just below the small of her back. She reached back and took it, soaping up her hands as I had done, stroking up and down the shaft so that it was slick and foamy. We kissed passionately, and I could tell there was no need for additional foreplay. In one single motion, I swung her around to face me and guided her down into a sitting position on the marble shower seat at the far end of the stall. It was as if whoever had designed that shower knew it was going to be used for making love. I put my hand between her legs, feeling the heat there radiating into my fingers. She was as slick as the lather, and I planted my lips over hers, hearing her moan as I inhaled the inside of her mouth.

Put it in, she ordered. Right now. She spread her legs wide.

With no hesitation, I positioned myself and drove all the way into her in one powerful thrust. She cried out and inhaled as if she couldn’t get enough air. I felt her vaginal muscles tighten as I started. Back and forth, I maintained that steady rhythm that I knew she liked, and her guttural moans told me I was right. We changed positions and I took her from behind, slamming into her with the warm water pouring over my back. She must have sensed my oncoming orgasm and pulled away, letting my penis dangle there untouched while she continued to stimulate herself with her fingers. We’d done that before, and she knew that doing so would abate my urge to climax. I kissed her again as she edged toward her orgasm, knowing I’d be able to prolong our session and resume thrusting until it got to the point where I couldn’t hold back. It worked, and I reentered her, continuing for some minutes until I was no longer able to control myself. She came with me, and I think both of us felt it coming from our toes. I pulled her up and held her close, the water cascading over us until we became worried that the rest of the city might run short.

We stepped from the shower, both of us feeling blissful and devoid of the tension that had plagued us the entire trip from New York. I changed into some fresh boxer shorts and a new Jose Cuervo t-shirt I’d purchased before our trip. We were still on New York time, and as such it was well past our dinner hour. I grabbed the hotel guidebook sitting on the shelf next to the TV, thinking I’d check to see if any restaurants seemed amusing. Elena slipped into a cozy white robe with the name of the hotel embroidered on it and proceeded to comb out her lustrous brown hair.

Are you hungry? I asked, peeking at her from behind the guidebook.

Starving, she said, finally looking happy. It’s amazing what a good fucking can do for you.

I love it when you talk dirty, I said,