Chapter 27: I Might End Up Somewhere in Mexico

Playa Chileno, Baja California Sur

March 11, 2005

The loungers were cheap, sun-faded, and perfect. Five of them, carried out onto the sand by a Mexican family who clearly ran this stretch of Playa Chileno like a well-oiled machine. Three American dollars each—cash only—and that price included umbrella adjustment, sand smoothing, strategic angling toward the sun, and the unspoken promise that a member of the family would watch their things as if they were priceless artifacts.

Jake lay back on his lounger and let out the kind of exhale his body rarely permitted. Warm sand beneath, warm sun above, warm air moving across his skin in a steady, lazy breeze. His plastic cup of genuine Mexican margarita on the rocks sweated onto his chest. He didn’t care. The thing was strong enough to make his teeth relax.

Two local teenage girls—sisters, maybe fifteen and seventeen—had brought the drinks ten minutes earlier. Shorts, bikini tops, bare feet, the kind of casual confidence that suggested they’d been running tequila across the sand since birth. They would not have been legally permitted to hand out alcoholic beverages anywhere in the United States.

Fortunately, Cabo had never given two shits about American rules.

Laura sat to his right, legs curled to the side, paperback open but mostly ignored. Her sunglasses hid her eyes, but the slow, rhythmic rise and fall of her breathing made it clear she wasn’t reading. She was basking. Fully, unashamedly basking. Two days in Cabo had untied knots in her shoulders she had forgotten were even there.

To his left, Celia was stretched out like a cat in a maroon bikini that made half the beach glance twice, even if they tried not to. One knee bent, one leg long, her face tilted toward the sun, her margarita balanced on her flat stomach. She looked like the concept of vacation had been invented solely for her.

Down by the edge of the surf, Tif and Owen sat shoulder to shoulder with their feet in the warm shallows. Tif scooped up a handful of wet sand and let it run through her fingers, her face lighting up every time a wave washed over their ankles. She nudged Owen with her hip, laughing at nothing in particular—just the sheer happiness of being here, being warm, being alive. Owen nudged her back gently, matching her energy. When a bigger wave splashed them both, Tif squealed and grabbed his arm, and he wrapped an arm around her automatically, steadying her like he’d been built for exactly that job.

The beach around them hummed with quiet energy—kids splashing, snorkelers drifting around the rocks, umbrellas dotting the sand, a few locals casting lines from the far end of the cove. It wasn’t crowded. It wasn’t empty. It was that rare, perfect middle ground where everyone minded their own business.

Playa Chileno wasn’t their first beach attempt, but it was easily the best. A group of local women’s futból players—Kim had met the entire starting lineup and half the bench at a sports bar before inviting them to Casa Tisdale for one spectacularly chaotic night—swore Chileno had the clearest water and the fewest idiots. They’d been right.

Jake took another sip of his drink and let the alcohol warm through him. Their private wing at Matt’s mansion had been a godsend—silent, cool, its own world—but getting out into sunlight made everything even looser. Two days of sleeping until ten, swimming in the infinity pool when no one else was around, eating in their own dining area, and passing through the main wing only when they absolutely had to ... it had worked wonders.

The main wing itself was an ongoing natural disaster—loud, relentless, half-naked, tequila-soaked, populated mostly by Mexican women (the “local gash” as Matt called them), the occasional European, and whatever stray Americans drifted in off the shoreline like shipwreck survivors. Yesterday a bachelorette party from Dayton, Ohio had entered Matt’s gravity well in matching pink sashes. By nightfall, Matt had bedded the bride-to-be and one bridesmaid while Kim and Jim handled the third. Afterwards, Matt had shrugged the whole thing off, saying, “I’ve had better.”

Laura tipped her chin toward Jake. “How you doing?”

Jake shifted slightly on the lounger. “I think I forgot how to have this little stress.”

“Mmm,” she agreed, sliding her sunglasses down her nose just enough to look at him. “I can feel my blood pressure being lower.”

Celia didn’t move except to lift her cup a half-inch. “Me too.”

Jake smiled.

Tif shrieked something unintelligible from the waterline. Owen answered with, “You did that to yourself!” and then yelped as she splashed him again.

Jake chuckled under his breath.

This—this was what they’d needed. Not symbolic rest. Not escape from the mansion. Just a beach. Warm skin. A drink. Nothing to solve. No one to answer. They were out of communication with the rest of the world unless they chose to communicate. And, once Yami and Pauline had been told of their plans for the rest of the week, they had chosen not to do so. Jake had not heard from the FAA or the insurance company or the mechanics fixing his plane. Nor had he heard from any media types wanting to question him about the recording of Drew and the thugs or what had happened in his near-death inflight emergency (that it was now a “known fact” he had been drunk during).

Laura took a long sip of her margarita and let her head fall back. “We should’ve gotten here weeks ago.”

“Months ago,” Celia echoed dreamily, as if she were making a prayer.

Jake closed his eyes again and let the sun heat his chest. The air smelled like salt, sunscreen, and coconut oil. The world sounded soft. He wasn’t thinking about Dallas or Reno or emergency descents or headlines or Matt’s toga collection.

For the first time in far too long, Jake Kingsley was doing absolutely nothing.

And doing it perfectly.

Jake had just reached that perfect, heavy-limbed stage of relaxation when footsteps approached over the sand. He opened one eye.

The older margarita girl stood there with her tray tucked under one arm. Maybe seventeen. Not beautiful in a magazine way, but pretty in the soft, youthful way of someone who didn’t yet know how rare that kind of glow would become. Chunky hips, strong legs, sun-browned skin, half a braid coming undone. A smear of dried margarita mix on her wrist. She looked exactly like a girl who spent her days hauling booze to tourists for a dollar a cup.

She cleared her throat. “More margaritas?”

Jake answered her in Spanish. “Yes. Another round for all of us, please.”

Her eyes flickered wide with surprise—tourists almost never spoke to her beyond the transactional lines. She nodded quickly. “Five more. Yes.”

She moved between the loungers, collecting the empty cups. Laura raised hers with a grateful smile; Celia just lifted her hand without bothering to open her eyes.

As the girl gathered the last cup, she said earnestly, “The ice is clean. Filtered water. You don’t have to worry.”

Jake smiled. “I wasn’t worried.”

She seemed relieved, but still a little shy. She hugged the stack of cups to her chest and hesitated—clearly working up to something.

“Sir...” She swallowed once. “Are you the musician ... Jake Kingsley?”

Jake tilted his head, amused. “What do you think?”

She flushed a little, not used to tourists who could actually converse with her. “I think you are. And my papa thinks you are. And he thinks...” She darted a glance toward Celia, lounging like a centerfold carved from sunlight. “ ... that she is Celia Valdez.”

Jake nodded. “Your papa’s right.”

Her eyes went wide with a quiet, reverent wow—nothing dramatic, just genuine awe.

“Thank you,” she said. “I’ll bring the next round.”

“Thanks,” Jake told her.

She hurried back toward the cluster of umbrellas where her family worked out of a large van.

Jake watched her go, then eyed the cups in her hands.

He sincerely hoped they didn’t rinse and reuse them.

He’d take Cabo ice over American backwash any day of the fucking week.

Jake settled deeper into the lounger, the sun warming his chest, the margarita settling pleasantly into his bloodstream. Celia murmured something next to him—so soft he almost missed it.

“Do you think we should get in the water later?” she asked, eyes still closed.

Jake shifted his head toward her. “Yeah. When it gets hotter. Or when the margaritas get stronger.”

“That’ll be in about ten minutes,” she said.

Laura snorted lightly. “You’re assuming there’s a strength limit.”

Jake opened his mouth to fire off a comeback, but the soft crunch of approaching footsteps returned. Rosa—the margarita girl—was back, carrying a tray like it weighed nothing. On the tray sat five fresh margaritas, the ice clinking softly as she moved.

Beside her walked a man in his forties. Fit in that wiry, capable way that suggested he’d grown up doing real work, not gym posing. Broad shoulders, weathered skin, the posture of someone who both expected trouble and absolutely knew what to do with it.

Rosa set the tray down on the sand and began handing out drinks. Jake reached for his wallet and handed her a five and two singles. She murmured her thanks, cheeks pink with pride.

The man stepped forward, extending a hand.

“I am Juan Mendoza,” he said. “This is my family’s business. We hold this part of the beach.”

Jake shook his hand. Firm grip. Calluses. The real deal.

“Nice to meet you,” Jake said.

Juan nodded once, respectfully. “It is an honor to meet you. I have been listening to Intemperance since the first album. My wife is a great fan of...” He turned slightly, nodding toward Celia. “ ... of you, señora.”

Celia lifted her sunglasses and gave him one of her small, warm smiles. “Thank you, Juan. Please tell your wife hello from me.”

Laura offered a polite nod and a soft “Nice to meet you,” which Juan returned with equal politeness, even if he didn’t know who she was.

He turned back to Jake. “I saw on the news ... they said you almost crashed your plane.”

Jake sighed. “We had a pressurization issue. Cabin altitude started to climb. Nothing dramatic—we put the plane down safely in Reno. The FAA checked it out. It wasn’t a crash, wasn’t close to a crash. Just a malfunction in the bleed air system.” He shrugged. “The media likes to make things sound bigger than they are.”

Juan’s eyes widened, impressed. “You handled it calmly. I am honored to hear the story from you directly.”

Jake smiled a little. “Glad it wasn’t more exciting.”

That was when Laura shifted abruptly on her lounger and said, “I have to pee.”

Celia groaned. “Damn it, me too.”

Juan stepped aside as both women stood, brushed sand off their legs, and excused themselves. They walked a short distance down the beach, drifting naturally into conversation. Not heated. Not tense. But serious. The way they moved—heads tipped together, hands gesturing—suggested this wasn’t small talk.

Jake watched for a moment, trying to parse expressions he couldn’t quite read. Not worry. Not anger. Just ... concentration.

Whatever it was, it wasn’t urgent.

He let it go.

Rosa retreated back across the beach, her bare feet whispering over the sand as she headed toward the next cluster of umbrellas. Jake watched her go for a moment, then turned back just as a new shadow passed over him.

The younger margarita girl—wiry and bright-eyed—walked by with a tray loaded with six fresh margaritas for some other cluster of tourists. She handled it like a pro, chin up, bare feet steady, the tray balanced high.

“Hola, Papa,” she said as she passed.

Juan returned the greeting with quiet pride. “Hola, mija.”

She gave Jake a shy half-smile as she continued on.

Juan said, “That is Carmen. The baby of the family. She just turned fifteen last month.”

Jake nodded. “She’s good at the job.”

Juan beamed. “Very good. Fast. Smart. She knows this beach as well as any of us.”

He lifted his chin toward a young man crouched fifty feet away near the rocks, speaking quietly to a couple who looked like they’d wandered too close to a dangerous current. A handsome kid—lean muscle, sun-browned skin, no fear in his posture. He looked like the kind of young man who’d never had trouble in his life finding a willing girl ... or three.

“And that is my son, Miguel,” Juan said. “Twenty years old. He helps me watch the beach.”

Jake could see it immediately: the stance, the alertness, the way Miguel kept scanning—not tense, just aware. Protective. Territorial. A kid who’d grown up knowing exactly what his job was and never questioned it.

“He’s a good-looking boy,” Jake said.

Juan nodded. “That is an asset in this business. The tourists flirt with him. He flirts back and has probably had relations with more Americans than Mexicans at this point.” A sigh. “Sometimes I envy him.”

Jake filed that away. Not judgment—just observation.

Juan continued, “My family has been selling margaritas on this beach since 1990. My father started it with my mother. One cooler, a simple ice machine, and a table he built from scrap wood.” He smiled at the memory. “Now it is the second generation. My mama and my wife, Adriana, make the drinks. The girls serve them. I keep the peace. Miguel makes sure nobody tries to sell in our territory.”

Jake felt himself leaning in. The story hooked him—not for drama, but for the rhythm of it, the anthropology baked into family systems that survived through consistency, pride, and doing the damn work.

“That’s fascinating,” Jake said honestly.

Juan made a polite motion as if to excuse himself. “I will not bother you more, Señor Kingsley. I only wished to greet—”

“Stay,” Jake said. “Please.”

Juan hesitated.

“I’m a student of culture,” Jake added. “And I mean that literally. I’d love to hear more about your family’s business. All of it.”

There was a moment—one heartbeat—where Juan assessed him, weighing sincerity against tourist politeness.

Then he nodded.

“Gracias,” Juan said quietly.

He stepped over to the loungers and settled into the empty one Owen had vacated when he and Tif wandered down to the water. The man sat easily, confidently, the way someone sits in a place they’ve earned the right to occupy.

Jake shifted upright a little, drink resting against his stomach, ready to listen.

And Juan Mendoza began to tell his story.

Laura and Celia walked a short distance down the beach, just far enough that the surf drowned out Jake’s voice. She stole a glance back—Jake was already leaning forward in his lounger, elbows on knees, giving that deep-listening posture he only used when something genuinely fascinated him. Juan Mendoza was settled beside him, gesturing with his hands as he talked. Jake was hooked. He might as well have been in a classroom.