Page 10 of Raspados & Regret

“You came because your baby mama’s brother found your house, and I guess you need to hide out for a bit.”

He points a crutch at me. “Allegedly.”

Elías bends over laughing, hands on his knees, and I try not to look at how his shorts ride up.

I fail because I’m cursed. Or maybe because it’s hot.

And I’m tired—I’m pretty sure my brain has been poisoned by syrup fumes.

Not because of anything else.

Absolutely not because Elías Cárdenas looks up at me through those glasses of his with his tongue ring flashing when he smiles, and something inside me goes hungry in a way I don’t fucking understand.

A cup tips behind us, and red syrup spills across the table, thick and glossy, dripping toward the edge.

“Shit,” Elías says, grabbing handfuls of napkins.

Moving fast, I grab a towel, and our hands hit the spill at the same time. His fingers slide against mine, sticky with syrup.

We both stop.

It’s nothing.

Ignore it. It’s just hands—a stupid accident in a stupid booth at a stupid summer market.

His fingertips press against the back of my hand, warm and slick, and my breath catches before I can stop it. He notices, and his eyes lift to mine. The corner of his mouth twitches ever so slightly.

Quietly, so only I can hear, he says, “You good, Fabián?”

I yank my hand back. “I’m fine.”

“Yeah,” he says, looking down at the syrup on his fingers. “You keep saying that.”

Then, because he’s evil, because he was put on this earth to test me, or because the universe has jokes and I’m the fucking punchline, he lifts his hand to his mouth. Slowly licking red syrup from his thumb. Tongue ring catching against his skin. All ten seconds of it make my whole body short-circuit.

He gives me a wicked smirk, and I stare at him for one second too long. Then I grab the trash bag from the hook beside the table and shove it into Junior’s chest. “Take this to the dumpster.”

Junior looks down at the mostly empty bag. “Why?”

“Because I said so.”

“It’s not even full, Fabi?” He looks at me completely confused.

The man doesn’t seem to have a working brain cell in his whole head. “Junior…”

He takes one look at my face, then at Elías, then back at me. His grin spreads.

“No mames,” he whispers.

I point toward the back lot. “Dumpster. Now.”

He hobbles away laughing to himself.

Elías watches him go, then turns back to me. “Subtle.”

“Shut up,” I snap.

“Mmmm, papi’s bossy.”