Page 70 of Raspados & Regret

SIX

ELÍAS

Whoever called hickeys “love bites” apparently has never seen the ones that Fabián leaves behind. These motherfuckers don’t scream “love.”

They’re bold, purple marks that serve one purpose.

A big neon sign that says “Fabián was here… don’t touch.”

They say, “Hey, remember how you let Fabián Salcedo shove you against a trailer last night and kiss you like he was trying to argue with your soul?”

Yep, I remember.

My body remembers too.

My mouth remembers.

My hips definitely remember, because every time I move, I can still feel the ghost of his hands, the way his thigh pressed between mine, and the hard line of his dick against me. I stand in front of my bathroom mirror Saturday afternoon, tilting my head to the side and staring at the marks blooming near my throat.

It is not subtle.

Nothing about last night was subtle.

I poke it, and it hurts a little.

I smile, then immediately stop because smiling at a hickey from Fabián Salcedo is pathetic behavior, and I do in fact have some standards.

Not many, but some.

The bathroom door swings open without warning, and I jump when my sister barrels in. “Ocupado!”

My sister leans against the wall with Fatima on her hip, already grinning like she heard my dignity hit the floor from three rooms away.

“What?” she asks. “You live in a house with other people. Lock the door if you’re doing crimes.”

“I’m not doing crimes,” I whisper. Then her eyes drop to my neck.

Then widen. “Oh my God.”

“No.” I hold up a finger as she starts toward me.

“But Elías⁠—”

“I said don’t.”

“Oh my God.” She smirks.

I point at her. “You already used your three ‘oh my Gods’ yesterday.”

She steps closer, Fatima reaching for the towel hanging near the sink. “Are those hickeys?”

“It’s a rash,” I say, clearing my throat.

“On your neck?”

“Yes,” I say.

“In the shape of a mouth?” She raises her brow.