Chapter One
Jaime Montez sat on his oceanfront deck in La Jolla, California, watching the birds perched on the rocks in the distance.
A blonde girl in yoga clothes posed for pictures that her probable boyfriend was taking. Jaime had definitely been in that guy’s shoes when he had dated Instagram “models.” But he couldn’t complain because they had returned the favor for his own accounts.
Next to the girl, a few tourists wearing oversized San Diego sweatshirts sat on a bench overlooking the sunset. And a couple most definitely living the van life was parked right in front of his garage. His cliffside mansion was sleek and sophisticated—clean lines that blended natural and modern design, creating a perfect blend of indoor and outdoor elements. With views of Crystal Pier, Coronado, and Point Loma, the hot tub on his deck was the perfect place to watch the sunsets. Palm trees swayed, reminding him thatthe Santa Ana winds were brewing and would make an exhilarating day for surfing.
Yup. Another day in beautiful, sunny San Diego.
His home was eerily quiet since his brother Enrique was atsome charity event with his girlfriend, Carolina, and his other brother Ramón was tasting wedding cakes with his fiancée, Julieta. Ramón had moved to Coronado with Julieta but still spent time at the brothers’ home when he surfed in La Jolla. Jaime couldn’t believe that soon his eldest brother would be a married man.
So, it was just Jaime, the cool sea-salt breeze, and a bottle of tequila that was sent to him from yet another thirsty brand hoping to hire him as an influencer. He poured himself a shot and sipped it slowly. Though the liquid was smooth with just a hint of spice, Jaime couldn’t help but feel that something was off about this liquor. He preferred this type of spirit mixed in a margarita with a Tajín-rimmed glass. The taste alone burned his throat, but maybe that was a good thing. He honestly didn’t truly know enough about tequila to judge. He prepared another shot but didn’t drink it yet.
He perused the press kit the company had sent him, which was filled with glossy product pictures, detailed background on the brand, and a fact sheet about the process of making the liquor. The proposal for the campaign was simple—a free bottle of tequila and a two-thousand-dollar payment for one Instagram post, two IG stories, and three TikToks for his twenty-two million followers to view. They even included a list of content suggestions such as pairing this liquor with “traditional” foods. No doubt they would love for his future sister-in-law, celebrated chef Julieta Campos, to cook them. But the joke was on them—Julieta would never pander. This brand, like the last thirty he had heard from, probably wanted him chomping on a taco, sporting a handlebar mustache, and wearinga serape so the ad could be as pandering and stereotypically Mexican as possible. It was all so gross.
Whose brand was this anyway?
He flipped through the materials, and a picture caught his eye.
A famous movie star and his bar-owner buddy—equally infamous for his supermodel wife—sat side by side on motorcycles driving through a field of agave plants. Both men were ageless, cool, and, most noticeably, not Mexican.
Not that one could discern someone’s ethnicity from a picture—Jaime wasn’t stupid enough to think that. He knew blond Mexicans, red-headed Mexicans, and pale-skinned Mexicans. But these men were beyond famous and if they were of Hispanic origin, they most definitely would’ve claimed it—especially since it could them help with their tequila sales.
And their publicist had sent this campaign, so Jaime, a Mexican-American influencer, could lend his stamp of approval.
What idiots. He wouldn’t be their pawn and give them his Latino thumbs-up.
Was that all he was to these people? Some beautiful brown face to use to hawk their non-authentic goods?
Jaime threw the bottle at his clear plexiglass wall, shards from the container shattering everywhere. He hated to admit it, but the momentary bout of rage soothed him, in some fucked-up way. After taking a deep breath, a technique ingrained in him from his brother Enrique’s regular meditation sessions, his nerves eased. He grabbed a broom and a dustpan from the closet, and a bunch of paper towels and some floor disinfectant from under the sink. He swept the glass safely away and then sopped up the liquid and sprayed the floor—he wasn’t such an asshole that he would leave this mess for his maid to clean up.
Why did all these non-Hispanic influencers have tequila lines? He wasn’t all woke like Julieta, but her words rang in his head.
Fuck those pendejos.
Jaime would drink to that.
He downed the shot that remained in the glass.
The second round of the liquor was decent but he would not promote it.
Even so, that small taste of tequila awoke something in him. A crazy thought he had pondered over the years. It had never been the right time before. He hadn’t had the confidence in his ability to run his own company when he was younger.
But now, he had no doubt that he could be a success.
His mind raced, and the idea took hold.
What ifhebecame involved in the mezcal business?
Why not? What was he doing with his life, besides partying like it was 1999 nightly and hooking up with some hot chicas? Fine—make that many, many hot chicas.
Nothing, that was what.
Well, it wasn’t nothing. But it was nothing he was particularly proud of. He was a top-paid influencer, man he hated that word, but it was what it was. He also occasionally did some modeling gigs for different brands. For years, he had run the social media accounts for Taco King, his father’s company, but after his eldest brother Ramón took over, Jaime had slowly transitioned out of the daily posting grind and focused more on brand deals and his own influencer career. One of his shirtless pictures for a hot sauce company had gone viral. The attention had been fun for a while, but if one more person called him Mr. Hot Tamale, he’d lose it.
He had never really cared about his lack of clear passion until recently. Jaime had been quite content to embrace his anointedtitle as the irresponsible younger brother, the baby in their dysfunctional family. While Ramón went to StanfordandHarvard and laid-back Enrique went to Cal Poly San Luis Obispo, Jaime had been content to kick it at Sonoma State, wanting to get as faraway from his family as possible without leaving his beloved California. NorCal was so picturesque and different from San Diego. Instead of clubbing, he’d spent his weekends getting wasted at wine tastings and hiking the trails with earthy vegan feminists. They loved him, and he adored them back. He could easily be tried and convicted as a womanizer, but he truly worshipped and respected females. He loved everything about them—their scents, their soft bodies, their strong minds. Jaime was many things, but a misogynist wasn’t one of them. And it wasn’t like he was having a series of one-night stands—in college he had been in a long-term relationship. Ever since he graduated, Jaime was open and honest about his intentions—no committed relationships. He didn’t like rules and wanted to love freely. Maybe that NorCal hippy vibe had rubbed off on him. And in his line of work, his chillness was definitely an advantage.
But this worked both ways—he wasn’t controlling. If a woman he casually dated wanted to see another man, that was fine by him. He wasn’t jealous.
