Page 7 of Raspados & Regret

I freeze, and before I can process it completely, his mother says, “Elías,” from somewhere inside the trailer.

He coughs like he is hiding a laugh.

I turn slowly. “What’d you call me?”

He looks over his shoulder, eyes too innocent. “What?”

“You heard me, pendejo. What the fuck did you just call me?”

“I told you to be careful.” He chuckles under his breath.

“Nah, after that.”

He turns around and stares at me. “Maybe your ears are still asleep.”

“My ears are pierced, not stupid.”

His eyes flick to one of my hoops. Then lower, to the chain at my throat. Then even lower, to where sweat has made my crop top cling to my chest.

For half a second, his expression shifts. It’s quick; his throat moves when he swallows, and the sight of him doing it makes something warm and unpleasant curl low in my stomach.

Okay, not unpleasant—I’m lying to myself.

That is the problem.

I step closer so he straightens. The case of syrup bottles sits between us like a bright plastic warning. Bottles of Fresa, Mango, Tamarindo, Piña, and Watermelon. All lined up and all too sweet.

“You got something to say?” I ask.

He tilts his head, and the silver ball in his tongue flashes again when he speaks. “You always this sensitive before coffee?”

“I had coffee.” What I could really use right now is a shot of tequila… or seven.

He winces and says, “Then maybe you need another.”

“Maybe you need longer shorts.”

His eyebrows jump when the words hit the air, and I hear them a second too late. That makes his smile come back slow.

Terrible.

Devastating.

A crime scene wearing glasses.

“Are my shorts bothering you, Fabián?”

I never like how my name sounds coming from his mouth. He always says it like he’s testing the weight of it with his teeth.

“Na-no—” I stutter.

“Then why are you worried about them?” He stops what he’s doing to lean back against one of the tables, spreading his legs just enough to give me a glimpse of his inner thighs.

“I’m just…” I clear my throat. “Worried about public decency. You know there are gonna be kids here.”

“You—” he chuckles, eyes dropping to my waist. “Worried about public decency… in that shirt?”

“For the last time, it’s a work shirt.” I grab at my chest, where my tío’s shop logo is printed. “See.”