Page 15 of Capicú Summer

Her brows furrow. “What?”

“You heard me, I’ll beat the old man. But when you lose to me, I’ll get you all summer.”

She shakes her head immediately. “No, what the fuck?”

“Afraid to lose? Or afraid of me, I don’t bite, Adri—but I do eat.” She snickers, despite the red crawling up her neck, and those beautiful eyes narrow into thin slits. “You can always leave,” I say low enough for only her to hear. The anger I’ve swallowed for the last five years rises like smoke, choking us both. “Since running is what you do best, trackstar.”

Adri freezes for a second before doing exactly what she does best. Running. Turning her back to me. Coward. I keep my mouth pressed into a thin line, keeping it shut before I say something I’ll regret. Ruben clears his throat beside me. Pulling my gaze from the woman who continues to walk all over my heart. The very organ that’s pulsing inside my throat. I swallow hard, my Adam's apple bobbing from the force.

* pendejo - dumbass

* las chimosas del barrio - the noisy neighbors.

* Jamón y queso en pan sobao - Ham and cheese on Sobao bread.

* Asi son las mujeres malas - That’s what bad women are like.

* Suelta, mi hija. - Let go of my daughter.

* Tu ta loco mijo - You crazy boy.

* Dios mío, niña, deja tu frescura - My God, my girl, leave that freshness.

* Déjenme tranquilo - Leave him alone.

* Ven acá, muchacho. - Come here, boy.

* Ay Dios, esto va a estar caliente - Oh god, this is about to be hot.

* porque esto va a ser un show - because this is going to be a show.

CHAPTER 5

Adriana

Reggaeton blasts through the speakers outside the bodega, the bass rattling the kitchen window as the showdown between Ruben and Yael drags on. Memories of our heated exchange has me spiraling. And now, every time the song switches, I swear Yael’s doing it on purpose.

It’s ridiculous to think that after all this time he would still think of me, let alone have feelings for me. However, the thought lingers and it has me scrubbing the dishes harder, like I can scrape the feeling from my skin. I hate that I can still read him like that. Hate that part of me is curious to know.

Using the back of my hand, I wipe away the sweat dripping from my temples. It’s so fucking hot. My skin prickles from the heat, the metal squeaking from the fan grates on my nerves, and my mind is consumed with the events from this morning, especially the bomb Abuelo dropped on me. Working with Yael.

I couldn’t.

Fuck, I couldn’t even stay downstairs pretending to work because my heart was too busy trying to escape my body. How could I pretend my soul wasn’t pacing like a caged animal. A scoff escapes me. From the kitchen window, I watch the block move through the heat like it's a living organism. People in shorts and tank tops, beers sweating in their hands. Kids sprinting around with water guns, shrieking as they soak each other.

The same group of girls double dutch right in front of the salon, which is where you will find most of the girls from the block. The sight of the salon packed with clients makes me smile. It's nice to see that some things never change. Every girl is getting ready for their blow out, rolos clipped tight as they wait for their turn. For a second, I contemplate getting my hair straightened and imagine myself in one of those chairs, letting someone else take care of me for once.

Then Estrella comes into view.

And just like that, the fantasy dies.

Immediately making me reconsider, reminding me of why I stopped going to her mother’s salon. She walks from deep inside the salon, hips swaying with confidence before stopping in front of the large window. Her gaze slides across the street, and of course, I follow it, feeling stupid the moment it lands on him. Yael. The boy that caused our friendship to blow up in flames.

There he stood, with no shirt, his white tee slung over his shoulder, the ink on his arms on full display, shorts hanging low enough to show that damn happy trail that used to make me lose my mind. I swallow hard, forcing myself to look away and focus on finishing the dishes, like they’re suddenly urgent.

I need to keep my head in the game. I need to win tonight.

I can’t lose to him—not with the way he said that wager, not with that edge in his voice. I’m not opening that can of worms. Not even if Abuelo wants this. Not even if part of me still aches in ways I don’t want to name, or even acknowledge. I’m elbow–deep in suds when I hear a soft shuffle behind me.