Page 39 of Raspados & Regret

“She’s seven months old, cabrón.” She sighs. “She laughs at everything.”

Fatima blows a spit bubble.

Rude.

Anita leans over the counter and glances at my phone, and I flip it over so fast the wet mango slips under my fingers.

Her eyebrows climb. “Oh?”

“No.”

“All I said was ‘oh.’” She says, giving me a devious little smirk.

“You made a face.”

She smiles like a woman who’s enjoying the downfall of her brother’s love life. “Is it Fabián?”

I point the knife again, and she points to the knife. “You’re holding fruit. I’m not scared.”

“You should be. I’m unpredictable.” I growl playfully.

My phone buzzes on the counter.

Loud as hell.

Anita’s smile widens until it becomes a whole damn lawsuit. I look at her and she looks at me. The phone buzzes again.

This motherfucker would message back at the most inconvenient time. She reaches like she’s going for it, so I snatch it up before she can.

@fabi.sin.filtro has sent a message.

My pulse does a stupid little kick.

Not because I care—caring would be insane. This is purely for curiosity sake. Entertainment to make the week go by faster. A safety concern, probably.

I open it.

Fabi.Sin.Filtro

Your cousin brought his car in.

I stare at the message and my pulse thrums. Which is so fucking stupid, because the message is about a car. It’s probably Ricky’s car because God loves reruns.

Lalo.Con.Limón

Which cousin?

I have like 47.

Fabi.Sin.Filtro

The loud one.

I snort.

Lalo.Con.Limón

Still gonna need you to narrow that down.