Page 27 of Raspados & Regret

Glasses knows EXACTLY what he’s doing.

This is what my abuela means when she says “se gustan.”

I need someone to write a whole series.

Why is this hotter than half the romance books I read?

Not him staring at that man’s mouth like it owes him rent.

That man is one tongue ring away from ruining his own life.

I lock the phone and set it face down. Walk three steps away, then promptly walk three steps back. Pick it up again and unlock it.

Watch the video one more time.

Not because I want to but because I need to inspect evidence.

That’s different; I need to know how bad it is.

It is bad.

It is worse the second time, because I notice the camera catches Elías looking at me too. People in the comments missed that. They’re too busy making jokes about me, but I see it. I see the way his eyes drop when I reach over him for lids. I see the way he smiles when I look away and the way he watches my hands when I wipe down the table.

Something tightens behind my ribs, then lower.

No.

We’re not doing this. I lock the phone again.

Nope, and I slide back under the Altima and reach for the wrench.

Work.

I do work.

I am good at work.

Engines make sense. Parts either fit or they don’t. A leak can be traced, and a bad belt can be replaced. A stripped bolt is a pain in the ass, but it has a solution.

This doesn’t have a solution.

This is just me, under a Nissan, trying not to think about whether Elías watched that video too. Trying not to think about him laughing at the comments, about him saving it. Definitely trying not to think about him sending it to his sister with that stupid smile on his stupid pretty face.

Wait, not pretty face.

Fuck.

Trying not to think about his tongue ring tapping against his teeth while he reads, “one tongue ring away from ruining his own life.”

My wrench slips.

“Chinga tu madre,” I curse. My knuckles hit metal, and pain snaps sharp through my hand.

Good.

Great.

Fucking awesome. I can understand pain—pain makes more fucking sense than this shitshow.