We followed the concierge out of the hotel and into the basement car park. He unlocked a canary yellow scooter and retrieved two helmets. “Please make sure you keep these with you at all times. It’s a one hundred dollar fine if you lose them.”
Brax nodded, fastening mine with dexterous fingers. His touch sent my heart thrumming. Giving me a soft smile, he fastened his own helmet and straddled the bike.
I stood there, feeling like a ridiculous, overripe pineapple. The helmet weighed a ton.
The concierge handed me an A4 map, and drew a red oval, which I assumed was the hotel.
“This is where you are.” His minty breath wafted over me as he leaned closer, stabbing the map. “If you get lost, ask a policeman for directions. They are all over the city. And don’t separate. It’s best to stay together.”
My pulse thudded a little. Policemen lurked thick in this city. Not only lurked, but loitered on street corners with weapons and guns. Were the Mexican citizens so ruthless and dangerous?
Don’t answer that. Especially when we were about to explore on a contraption offering no safety whatsoever.
Brax patted the seat behind him; I smiled weakly. Throwing my leg over, I rested my feet on the little stirrups and wrapped my arms around his torso like a python.
Chuckling, he turned on the ignition and tested the throttle. “You won’t fall off with the death grip you have, hun.”
That was the plan. I kissed his neck, loving his shiver. “I trust you.” I tried to convince myself, as much as Brax.
The concierge smiled and left us to it. Brax eased off the clutch and we shot forward. My stomach failed to catch up, but after kangaroo hopping a few times, Brax wrangled the bike into submission.
“Ready?” he said over a shoulder.
Lying, I spoke into his ear, “Yep.”
We travelled out of the gloomy parking garage and into the blazing mid-morning sunshine. Even with dirty streets, Cancun reminded me of a vibrant party.
Brax put his feet down, stabilizing the bike as we stopped on the edge of the busy road. His heart thumped under my arms, concentration making his shoulders tight.
We watched as speedsters, crazy pedestrians, and vehicles painted in more colours than the rainbow shot past. For the hundredth time, I wondered just how crash hot this idea was.
“Which way, Tessie? Left or right?”
I swivelled my head, wrinkling my nose. No break came in the traffic from either direction. North, south, east, west—it didn’t matter when everything looked as death-filled and as foreign as the other.
Impulsively, I said, “Right.” Please, let us return to the hotel in one piece!
Brax nodded, scratching his chin where the strap of the helmet strangled him. He rolled forward, his flip-flopped feet slapping on hot pavement. The bike wobbled while we waited a good ten minutes for courage to join the swarming mass of craziness.
I wanted to suggest flagging, and head to the pool—
“Hold on!” Brax sucked in his abs and twisted the accelerator. The bike whined and took off with a skid.
My heart lurched into my throat as we shot forward, narrowly dodging a cyclist with a mountain of merchandise on the back and zipped in front of a smog spewing bus.
My mouth dried in panic and arms squeezed Brax so tight, his ribcage bruised my biceps. Oh, my God! I wanted off. This isn’t my idea of fun.
Brax laughed as we straightened and drove with the mass. His happiness wrapped around us like a protective bubble, and I tried to stop hyperventilating.
My heart softened. He was enjoying this, and I wouldn’t ruin it. I trusted him to keep me safe.
* * * * *
An hour later, a waterfall of sweat ran under my t-shirt. The bright sun had landed me with a headache, and my brain felt cooked in the helmet. More than once, I’d tried to pull away from Brax’s back, but we were both so hot and sticky, it was disgusting.
We’d relaxed enough to enjoy driving through the labyrinths of streets, exploring side alleys, skirting around markets and peddlers, but now my ass ached, and my thighs had had enough of the vibrations of the scooter.
I needed a drink and somewhere cool—very, very cool.
Almost as if he heard my thoughts, Brax slowed to a stop outside a tiny, decrepit restaurant on the outskirts of the markets we’d driven around.
It looked anything but sanitary, with a sad donkey piñata hanging limp in the sun. The ripped plastic tablecloths didn’t encourage one to linger, and the sign was so blackened with filth, I couldn’t read the name.
“Ugh—” I exploded into a cough as a cloud of exhaust billowed from a rusty car. Very hygienic.
Brax stroked my hands, still clutched around his middle. “You okay?”
I nodded, sucking in a harsh breath. “Yep. I was going to say, surely we can find something better than this dive?”
Brax clambered off the bike, helping me off. My legs were the consistency of rubber. I’d ridden a horse in my childhood and even spread-eagled on a fat animal was better than the scooter. Going over bumps and potholes wasn’t good for my lady parts.
“I’m dying of thirst.” Pursing his lips, he took in the dank appearance. “We’ll just grab a quick drink and leave.” Brax unclipped his helmet and tied it to the handlebars. I did the same, almost puddling to the ground in relief to remove the hotbox from my lank hair.
Brax chuckled. “Bad hair day, huh?”
I reached up, running a hand through his sweaty locks. He leaned into my touch, love sparking in his eyes.
I giggled. “A helmet on a hot day doesn’t exactly equate to sexy hair.”
He pushed his big fingers into my own tangled strands. “I think you look sexy no matter what.” Running fingers down my cheek, he kept going, all the way to my hand.
Threading his fingers with mine, he leaned in, kissing me gently. “Hopefully, this place has cold drinks and ice.”
My skin was on fire and the thought of ice made my mouth water, but I shook my head. “Not allowed ice, remember? Only bottled water. Our Aussie bellies can’t handle the local H2O.”
He sighed. “Good point. Alright, I’ll just have a beer.”
“If you think you’re drinking and driving in this mess they call traffic, you have another thought coming, mister.” I laughed as we entered the gloom of the little café—if it could be called that—more like a falling down cave. The walls were peeling and tacky posters hung sticky-taped in random places, hiding pockmarking in the plaster. I frowned… they looked just like— Hell, are they bullet holes?