book-cover

HONEYMOON

SCENE 1: THE ROAD

 

He laughed into the wind, sucking in mouthful after mouthful of joyous, salty air as the rocky cliff flanking the road suddenly parted and dropped, revealing an astonishing expanse of blue that stretched away from the cliff sides and into oblivion. Allen blinked through wind-tears, wiping at his blue-gray eyes—Thames gray, to be exact: the gray of fog and smog, of all those soggy English women he had dated over the years, and of the dreary vacations he’d taken with them to the sad crags of the English shores, which now, in comparison, seemed like ghost-cliffs and shadow-waters. This was real ocean, ocean as it was intended: a sparkling sapphire carpet that caught the light of the afternoon with a thousand tiny, dancing facets and made you think, just for a moment, that maybe you could fly.

Was this his life? The beauty of the Baja Sebastien Vizcainzo Bay was only the latest in a string of perfections that filled his heart with a fireworks display of satisfaction. He had just sold his second screenplay in Hollywood and was, according to his agent, “hot” right now. Very hot. With that paycheck he had promptly bought a black convertible Mercedes, in which he now sat proudly. Next to him was the gorgeous, brilliant, essentially perfect woman he married a mere 18 hours ago. The wedding had been a Herculean task to organize but was an enormous success. The ceremony in England to please his parents, the reception in LA to please hers, and three dozen of their closest friends who had used the word “perfect” themselves more times than Allen could count. She—his wife—had looked better in her dress than he had ever imagined, gliding over to him at the ceremony with a power and grace that prompted him, unexpectedly, to drop to his knees when he gave his vows. She was nestled behind the wheel of his convertible now, the wind tossing her long, dark hair around her shoulders and neck, occasionally nipping at her cleavage, which  was shamelessly on display in a tight white tank top…no bra. He smiled to himself, knowing that those breasts would soon be in his mouth. His wife’s breasts, and his wife’s thighs, gently spreading for him as he laid her back gently onto the hotel bed for the first time as his own, his woman, his fingers drifting up to the warm crease between her—

“Allen—look!” She pointed at the sky in front of them. An eagle was hovering in the air about 200 feet above the cliffs, perfectly still as it balanced on the gentle Gulf breeze.

“Ah, he’s just showing off for you,” Allen yelled above the wind, shifting against the swelling in his crotch.

Why had he waited so long to come to this glorious land? Darcy, his beloved wife, had been telling him for years that he needed to see Mexico, that no country was so relaxed and pleasant and sensual all at the same time. She had summered here as a child and knew the Southern tip of Baja intimately, and so when it came time to plan their honeymoon, she naturally insisted on making arrangements on her favorite strip of Mexican coastline. Allen hadn’t lifted a finger to plan any of it, except to lift his credit card from his wallet from time to time. He liked it that way: it was sexy and easy and all of their holidays together seemed to fall into the same natural rhythm: Darcy would give him a choice of three destinations, usually in three different countries, and he would select his favorite. Then she would set about masterminding the ideal itinerary, carefully plotting every detail, every meal and every outfit, barking threats down the phone to the travel agents and concierges when things didn’t go her way. Allen was usually seated at his desk, typing away while she worked the phones, his credit card primed nearby, ready for the moment she needed it. Some part of him did like that feeling, the idea that he was being used for his money to satisfy her decadence. The phrase “wallet rape” always popped into his head whenever Darcy called out to him in that gentle, cooing tone she used when she wanted something expensive. Still, a good rape is a good rape, and even wallet rape was sexy when it was Darcy.

His other unofficial holiday job that they had never officially discussed was a bit less glamorous, though he bore it well. Darcy refused to carry her own luggage, instead forcing “bag boy” to “take care of it.” She always said the words so sweetly and with such a genuine smile that Allen actually didn’t mind the task—although to be clear, Darcy did not pack light… ever. She had been known to bring as many as three suitcases with her for a simple weekend away, and for their honeymoon she had splurged on a new Vuitton luggage set in order to accommodate her 16 dresses and 3 bathing suits specially selected for the Mexican seaside. The suitcases were now snug in the back seat of the convertible where Allen had left them, seemingly enjoying the sunshine as the car sped past cliff after cliff after cliff.

To be continued…