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I groan and put my phone on speaker, tossing it onto the bed next to me. Of course it has to be me. Goddamnit. “I don’t have time for this, Manny. Can’t you bring in one of the seasonal guys?”
“I would if I could, but our overall sales have been down, we can’t afford it. Besides, it’s been eight years since you’ve been home, don’t you think it’s time?”
No, I don’t. “I’ll get back to you by the end of the day. Keep me updated on my father’s surgery”
Wrenching myself upright, I reach up and stretch out my tightly coiled muscles, twisting my neck side to side. The interrupted sleep is wreaking havoc on my body already. I need a session of hitting the bag before I go into the office this morning.
“No can do, boss. It’s Cinco De Mayo weekend. We’re booked solid for the first time in months. You need to get down here so everything runs smoothly. I can’t do this all by myself.”
Fucking hell. A growl builds in my throat and I rip my sheet off, letting the cool air glide over my heated skin. I rack my brain for viable options that don’t include me going back to Puerto Vallarta.
Nothing. I’ve got nothing.
“Fine. I’ll come back for a couple weeks, but I’m not running the tours, Manny. I’m serious. I’ll handle the back end of the distillery and make sure we meet our orders, but I’m not leading around drunk tourists. Fuck that.”
“Claro que sí. Of course. I’ll see you when you get here. Te veo luego.”
I end the call and let the silence consume me as I slump back and release the world's longest sigh. My head bounces against the padded leather headboard and I lift my glasses to rub the sleep from my burning eyes. The next few weeks are going to be hell. I swore I’d never go back to the agave fields—never be a jimador like my father. It’s not the profession, but the strife that goes hand in hand with working the fields until your fingers are bloody and your mouth is coated in a film of dirt.
I swallow tightly around the cotton balls clogging my throat to get rid of the phantom acidic soil lingering on my tongue. An earthy scent of freshly plowed red clay after a summer storm settles around me, raising a flash of goosebumps along my forearms and thrusting me back into my childhood.
Nights of going to sleep with an achingly empty stomach and scarred hands plague me. Reminding me of why I made the choice to leave at the first chance I got. There’s no money in dirt. At least not the soil on Jiménez Casa Agavera’s land. I moved to Los Angeles to make something of myself—and I have. Going back to Puerto Vallarta won’t break me.
I brush off the intrusive memories and study my bedroom. The dawning sun plays with the shadows creating patterns of light and darkness against the hardwood floors, highlighting the broken glass I need to clean up. Fuck. Lifting my hand, I eye the agave plant tattooed on top of it. It’s a basic design with black shading that’s faded over the years, but still a glaring reminder of where I’m from and how far I’ve come.
Zipping up my leather toiletry bag, I nestle it into the open luggage on my bed, and grab a few pairs of jeans to do the same. Most of what I own is not agave field appropriate—I’ll have to buy a few things when I arrive at Puerto Vallarta later this evening.
Once I’m sure I’ve packed everything I’ll need, I close the luggage and set the wheels on the floor. My phone rings and I check the caller ID before slipping it into my pocket and double tapping my right AirPod. “This is Dante.”
“Damn man, I never thought I’d see the day you went back to Mexico,” TJ’s boisterous voice shouts in my ear and I instantly regret answering.
The caller ID said it was the downtown office; why the hell is he calling me so early? No, the better question is why is he already at work? The guy is perpetually late to every meeting, no matter how high profile our client is. We’ve gone round and round about his complete lack of time management and order.
His comment doesn’t slip past me, leading me to snap at him. “What the fuck are you talking about? We went to Cozumel for David’s bachelor party last year, and our team went on that Mexican Riviera cruise a few years back.”
I know I shouldn’t engage, but I’m riled up and TJ is the perfect outlet to let off some steam. He rolls with the punches better than anyone I’ve ever met. Sometimes I think he prefers my savagery. He has an affinity for pissing me off and purposefully trying to disrupt my schedule. That, or a radar to detect when it’s happening. I despise when things are thrown off course and the phone call from Manny this morning has completely derailed my carefully laid plans.
“You know what I mean, you’re going home to Puerto Vallarta. That’s epic, man.”
I pause and turn towards the living room balcony, as if I can see him in the office a few blocks over. “How do you know that already? And why the hell are you at the office? Did you sleep there again?”
“I have my ways, but I’ll let you stew on that.” His ensuing laughter is maniacal, and not for the first time I wonder if he’s actually batshit crazy. How did this guy pass the bar?
“And yeah, I had one too many night caps while working on research for the Duncan case here last night. Ended up passed out face first on my keyboard, woke up with the letter keys imprinted on my cheek. I’ll send you a picture when my phone’s done charging. Anyway, have a good trip, bring me back a souvenir in the form of tequila.” Click.
What the hell just happened?
Shaking my head, I turn back to my luggage and extend the metal handle as high as it will go before balancing my duffle bag on top of it. I bring them to the front door, and take one more pass through the apartment to double check the lights are off, appliances are unplugged and windows are secured before I’m ready to go. This apartment might be thirty floors up in a high rise, but anything that can happen in Los Angeles, will happen.
My phone chimes, alerting me that the car service I called has arrived. Right on time. Strapping my laptop bag across my chest, I head out the door, towing my luggage behind me. Just because I’m going out of the country, doesn’t mean I’m on vacation. I still have briefs to pour over and client proposals to craft—when I’m not feeding the earth my sweat and blood.
“Why do you have a go bag in your closet?”
I roll my eyes at Scarlett. “It’s like you don’t know me at all,” I say around the printed airline confirmation I’m holding between my teeth.
“You’re right. Dumb question. Must be the champagne.” She tips her glass at me smiling wolfishly.
“Passport?” Lucy asks, drawing my focus to her. She’s holding a pen poised above her notebook, ready to mark off the next thing on her list.
