Page 176 of Raspados & Regret

The light changes and somebody behind me honks.

I look at the road, heart slamming, both hands gripping the wheel like I’m driving through a biblical event. Elías laughs quietly and sits back up, but he leaves his hand on my thigh the rest of the drive, fingers high enough to make every red light feel like attempted murder. By the time I pull into our parking spot, I’m hanging onto my self-control by a thread thinner than Junior’s work ethic.

Elías unbuckles his seat belt, and I shut off the engine, but neither of us moves. The truck ticks as it cools and the leftovers sit in the back seat. His yellow shorts glow faintly in the overhead light like they have personally declared war.

He turns his head, smiling lazily. “You okay, Papi?”

“No.”

His smile gets worse. “Good.”

I get out before I do something that gets us evicted from the complex. Elías follows, laughing under his breath, and I grab the foil container from the back seat because my tía will somehow know if I forget it. He waits at the bottom of the stairs, hands behind his back, glasses sliding down his nose, yellow shorts riding up like they were designed by the devil and approved by my worst instincts.

“You coming?” he asks.

I lock the truck. “You’re real brave for someone who has to climb stairs in front of me.”

His eyes flash. “You gonna stare?”

“I’m gonna suffer.”

“Pobrecito.”

I point at him. “Keep talking.”

He turns and starts up the stairs.

Slowly.

Every step is a crime. Every inch of thigh is a confession. His shorts shift higher, and my hand tightens around the leftovers so hard the foil crackles.

“Elías.”

He glances over his shoulder. “Yes, Fabián?”

I hate when he uses my name like that, all polite and sweet.

“Walk faster.”

He smiles and keeps going at the exact same pace.

I pray for patience.

God sends none.

Typical.

At the door, I have the key out before he can make another joke. It takes me two tries to get it in the lock because Elías presses against my back, his mouth near my ear.

“I love you,” he whispers again.

My hand stills.

There it is.

The cheat code.

The kill shot.