6. Elías #2
“Then I’d suggest mango with chamoy,” I say. “Extra Tajín. If you can handle it.”
The man’s gaze drops to my mouth. “Oh, I can handle spice.”
A paper receipt tears in Fabián’s hand, and I bite the inside of my cheek.
“Good to know,” I say.
Fabián’s voice cuts in. “That’ll be nine dollars.”
The man glances at him. “I haven’t ordered yet.”
“You did.”
“No, I was asking for a recommendation.”
“And he recommended mango with chamoy.” Fabián taps the screen harder than necessary. “Nine dollars.”
The man’s eyebrows rise, and I turn away to make the raspado because if I look at Fabián, I will laugh and ruin everything.
Behind me, the man says, “You always this intense over shaved ice, my guy?”
Fabián answers, “Yes.”
I nearly drop the scoop, and when I hand the man his cup, he smiles at me. “Thanks, Lalo.”
He knows my name from the booth sign, obviously. Still, Fabián’s head turns like someone pulled a wire. The man winks, and being the flirt I am, I wink back.
Not because I want him but because I want to see if Fabián’s jaw can crack pavement.
It almost does.
The man leaves, and Fabián steps closer to me, his shoulder brushing mine. “Having fun?”
“So much.” I smirk, turning so I can look at him while he broods.
“Careful.”
I look up at him over my glasses. “There goes that warning again.”
“You like ignoring them.”
“I like when you make them sound like promises.” I tut. “Your promises do look so pretty in purple.”
His eyes darken.
Got him.
He leans closer, his voice low enough for only me. “You’re pushing it.”
“I thought you liked pushing me.”
“That mouth is gonna get you in trouble.”
I smile. “Not here.”
That stops him because this is the part he doesn’t get to control.
He can pin me to trailers when I let him, kiss me stupid when I ask for it without words, put hickeys on my neck, and make my knees do embarrassing things. But he does not get to corner me in front of a line full of TikTok detectives, my mother, and his tía.
Not unless I invite him, and baby, that invitation has been revoked.
For now.
The night gets worse from there.
Or better, it really depends on who you ask.
I feed the people—not literally, though also literally. I give them banter and the drama, giving them just enough to keep their phones up and their money out. When a group of college guys orders raspados and one of them says, “You’re funnier in person,” I put a hand over my heart.
“Only funnier? Not prettier?”
The guy laughs, his cheeks pinking. “That too.”
Fabián closes the cash drawer so hard the whole table jumps. I glance at him, and he is too busy mean-mugging the guy.
I turn to the camera someone is holding nearby. “He’s friendly. I promise.”
“No, I’m not,” Fabián says.
The person filming laughs so hard their phone shakes. Another customer, an older guy with salt-and-pepper hair and a nice watch, asks me if I’m single while Fabián is counting change.
I say, “Depends who’s asking.”
Fabián drops three quarters.
So to be kind, I bend to pick them up before he can.
Slowly.
I am still me, after all.
But most of all, the black shorts are doing God’s work, and I believe in honoring labor.
When I straighten, Fabián is staring at my ass like he wants to file a complaint with the city.
“Problem?” I ask.
His gaze drags up, furious. “You dropped something.”
“Actually, you dropped something,” I say, giving him the sweetest smile. “I was being helpful.”
“You bent like that on purpose?”
This man wouldn’t know obvious if it slapped him across the face. “So you were looking?”
His mouth shuts.
The older customer laughs. “This part of the service?”
“No,” Fabián says.
“Yes,” I say at the same time.
The man tips twenty dollars. “Whatever makes it fun in the bedroom later.” He looks over at Fabián and gives him a smirk.
My mom sees the tip jar and says nothing.
Capitalism has made her morally flexible.
Around eight-thirty, someone in the line starts chanting, “Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!”
It spreads like wildfire—not everyone, but enough for Fabián’s shoulders to go hard.
Enough for my stomach to twist because funny is one thing and strangers demanding pieces of us is another.
I lift both hands. “Ay, ay, relax. This is a family business, not an HBO finale.”
Some people laugh, and the chant dies out. Fabián looks at me, and it looks like gratitude.
Or surprise—almost like he expected me to keep feeding it until it ate us.
I wink at him, and he looks away.
Tiny victory.
I survive on tiny victories for another hour, anyway. Then Fabián starts fighting back. Like a man who realized I’ve been holding the leash all night and decided to chew through it.
It all starts with him standing too close. Not enough for my mom to smack us with towels, but enough that his arm brushes mine every time he reaches for napkins, and so his chain catches the light in the corner of my eye.
Close enough that I can smell him, soap, heat, and engine oil, which is not fair because I have to keep making raspados while my brain replays his mouth on my neck.
When I turn to grab cups, he is there.
When I reach for napkins, his hand’s already on the stack, and when I pass behind him, he shifts back just enough that my chest grazes his back. I hiss through my teeth, but the bastard doesn’t look back at me.
“Careful,” he says, eyes on the tablet.
I lean closer. “You’re in my way.”
“You keep finding me.”
“You’re huge. Kinda hard to miss.”
His mouth twitches, then he says, without looking up, “Too bad you don’t know about all the huge parts of me.”
I freeze with two syrup bottles in hand. My soul leaving my body through the nearest emergency exit. Fabián keeps tapping the screen like he did not just pull a “my big dick” comeback. My face goes hot, and he finally glances over.
Slow. There’s something mean and satisfied in his eyes.
Oh.
So he wants to play.
Fine.
I step around him and lean over the counter toward a group of guys filming us. “Sorry, he’s being cranky because he misses me.”
The group erupts, and Fabián coughs.
He steps closer, voice low. “You think you’re cute?”
“I think you think I’m cute.” I wink.
“I think you like all this attention.” The words coming out rough, almost like he’s annoyed.
“I think you like when I have yours.”
His eyes flash, and he licks his lower lip.
“There,” I say softly. “That’s the face.”
“What face?” He clears his throat.
“The one that says you want to drag me somewhere dark and secluded.”
His jaw tightens.
I laugh under my breath and tsk. “But ya can’t.”
His gaze drops to my mouth, and my pulse thrums. Then I step back before he can try to persuade me.
That’s the game now.
Give him one inch—take three.
Let him feel the hook but never let him pull me all the way in.
Fabián spends the rest of the night dying.
Beautifully.
I watch him like my life depends on it. He watches me too, but I’m much better at multitasking.
I flirt with customers, with women, with men, with aunties, with anyone holding a phone and a wallet, and every time I do, Fabián gets sharper.
More silent. More dangerous. He stops making jokes, stops pretending he isn’t bothered.
He even goes so far as using my full name in that low warning voice when I step too close to someone else’s smile.
“Elías—”
I look over my shoulder. “Sí?”
His eyes say, “enough.”
Mine say, “You want me so bad? Make me stop.”
The tension’s so thick by closing that I’m surprised the syrup bottles don’t explode.
Our families notice. They would have to be blind not to.
My mom and Consuelo exchange one of those silent mom looks across the booth.
The kind that says, This is either going to end in a wedding or a police report.
Anita shows up near the end with Julio and Fatima, clocking the whole situation in less than three seconds. She points at my neck, then at Fabián, making a heart with her hands.
I flip her off behind the cooler.
Fatima laughs. I swear that baby loves drama.
Once everything is nearly packed up, I’m sticky, tired, overheated, and wound so tight one touch might snap me clean in half. Which is exactly why I don’t let Fabián touch me.
Not once, even though he tries.
It’s subtle—reaching for the same cooler handle I’m trying to grab. I switch sides, as if the touch is burning me. He steps toward the back table, and I duck under the canopy. He tries standing too close while I stack cups, and I hand the stack to Julio and walk away.
Julio looks between us and mutters, “Damn, crop top’s getting edged in public.”
Fabián turns on him. “I didn’t know you could read the comments on TikTok, Julio?”
Julio raises both hands. “Man… this joke’s getting old. Anita! Tell these culeros I can in fact read.”
I laugh, and Fabián looks at me like the sound hurts him.
When the last cooler is loaded and the market lights start shutting off row by row, I feel him behind me. Close enough that my whole back knows where he is.
“Lalo.” My name sounds wrecked coming from his mouth.
I grip the edge of the trailer’s door.
Do not turn around.
If I turn around, we’ll end up inside this trailer, and this time I do not trust either of us to stop at kissing.
“What?” I ask.
“You done?”
“Working?” I ask. “Yeah.”
His voice dips. “Playing games?”
My breath catches.
Damn him.
I turn slowly, and his face is too controlled, but his eyes aren’t. His eyes are honey-brown with frustration mixed with want so sharp it makes my knees remember last night.
I smile because it is the only armor I have.
“Maybe.”
His jaw flexes. I step closer, just enough to make him think he’s winning.
Then I pat his cheek lightly.
God, I’m terrible.
“Looks like you survived.”
He catches my wrist, and my body sings. Then I twist free before his grip can turn into anything else. His eyes narrow, and I watch his chest rise and fall.
I grin. “Not here.”
“Then where?” The words come out before he can stop them.
I see the want sitting there, ugly and honest. I could tell him to follow me home and let this become what it’s been threatening to since the first time he looked at me like he hated my mouth.