6. Elías #3
Instead, I lift two fingers in a salute. “Buenas noches, Salcedo.”
Then I walk away, and I feel him watching me all the way to the truck.
Don’t look back. Don’t look back.
But I look back once, and he’s still standing there under the parking lot light, a grey crop top clinging to him, arms crossed over his chest, looking like a man who has just realized he’s starving.
I get in and shut the door before I do something stupid.
Then I laugh, and the laugh turns into me choking back a tear because I spent all night teasing him and didn’t think about what it cost me.
Every time I flirted with someone else, I wanted to look at him.
Every time he got jealous, I wanted to reward him.
When he tried to get close, I wanted to let him.
But I didn’t.
Now he knows.
He can want.
He can ache.
If he wants me so bad, he can come get me.
After I get home, shower, and collapse into bed, my whole body feels too awake for how tired I am.
The house is quiet my mom’s room is dark.
Anita and Fatima went home with Julio. I lie on my back in clean boxer briefs and an old oversized Raiders shirt, glasses on, hair damp, and one hand on my stomach.
My phone sits on my chest, and I tell myself I’m not waiting.
I’m a big fat liar.
At 12:38, my phone starts vibrating, and when I flip it over, it’s an Instagram video.
@fabi.sin.filtro calling.
My heart kicks so hard the phone shifts on my chest. I let it ring twice.
Three times. Then I answer.
Fabián’s face fills the screen. It looks like he’s in bed too, or maybe sitting against his headboard. The room behind him is dark except for one lamp glowing orange in the corner. He is wearing the gray crop top from earlier, like he never changed. His eyes look wild.
Beautiful.
Bad for me.
“You’re still awake,” he says.
“Clearly,” I deadpan.
“You answer all your late-night video calls in bed?” He says it, and his tone still tells me he’s a little hurt from me leaving him in the parking lot.
“You make a habit of late-night video calls to all your enemies?”
His mouth doesn’t twitch. Instead, he drags a hand over his face, then looks at me like the camera is not enough, like he is furious there is glass between us.
“Come over,” he says.
Not asking.
Telling.
My stomach drops, and I prop the phone against a pillow and sit up. “No.”
His eyes sharpen. “No?”
“No,” I repeat.
“Lalo.” That voice.
I almost fold.
Almost.
I tilt my head. “You don’t get to order me over like takeout.”
“I—” He pauses for a second, then stutters over his words. “I’m—I’m not trying to order you.”
I snort. “You literally are.”
His jaw tightens, and he looks away for a second, then back. Then there is nothing but an awkward silence between us, and I let it fester.
He needs to say it.
Not command. Not hide behind that tough-guy scowl and dry little threats.
“Come over,” he says again.
Softer this time, but it’s still not enough. Coming from the man who said he would deny he kissed me if it got out.
I deserve more. Better.
I smile a little. “Why?”
His eyes darken. “You know why.”
“I want to hear you say it.”
His breathing changes, and the screen shifts as if his grip tightened on the phone.
“Elías—”
“No.” I lean closer to the camera. “You spent all night looking at me like you wanted to throw me over your shoulder, then acting like you were mad about it. You don’t get to be lazy now.”
“I’m not lazy. I just don’t like games.”
“You were jealous, and that was the point I was trying to make.” I shake my head. “You want me but only when it’s convenient for you. Fuck how I feel.”
He looks away.
I grin, slow and sweet and cruel. “There it is.”
“I wasn’t jealous,” he says, rolling his eyes. “You were seeing shit.”
“Papi.”
His eyes snap back to mine.
“Don’t lie to me in my own bed.”
His throat works, and I almost think he might hang up.
Instead, he says, rough and low, “I wanted to drag you out of there.”
Heat rolls through me, but I keep my face calm.
Barely.
“Why didn’t you?” I ask, biting my lower lip.
“Because you kept moving.” He chuckles softly. “Kinda hard to throw you over my shoulder and walk off with you when you kept dodging me.”
I smile. “That was the point.”
“I know,” he sighs, running a hand over his head, looking absolutely wrecked. “You were flirting with everybody tonight.”
I shrug nonchalantly. “I was working.”
“You asked that guy if he liked sweet or spicy.” He grumbles and raises his eyebrow. “And you for sure weren’t talking about the raspados.”
“It’s a valid question to ask.”
“Yeah.” He clears his throat. “Well, I wanted to throw that raspado in his fucking face.”
“You almost broke the tablet with how hard you were tapping on it.”
Fabián leans forward a little with a dangerous look in his eyes. “I wanted to put another mark on your neck.”
My breath catches before I can stop it, and Fabián hears it.
His voice drops even lower. “I wanted you behind the trailers again. You and your sassy fucking mouth with your hands under my shirt, hearing you say my name like last night.”
My whole body goes still with want, raw and embarrassed and badly handled.
I swallow. “Then come get me.”
His eyes flash. “What?”
I sit up straighter, shirt sliding off one shoulder. “If you want me so bad, come get me.”
“Lalo—” He says my name, and it comes out all breathy.
I nod. “You heard me.”
He leans to the side to look at the nightstand. “It’s late.”
“You were the one who called for a late-night dick delivery—”
That makes him smirk. “Yeah, but you live with your mom.”
“You know how doors work, don’t you?” I roll my eyes.
His jaw flexes, and I see him mulling it over. I see him fighting himself. Then he says, “You serious?”
I smile.
“I’m so fucking for real.”
The call ends. No “goodbye.” No “I’ll be right over.”
Just gone.
For a second, I stare at the screen, and it finally clicks that he’s probably coming over. I start scrambling out of bed so fast my knee almost gives out.
“Fuck,” I whisper, laughing under my breath. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”
I look around my room like I have time to become a better person.
I do not.
I yank the Raiders shirt down. No. Too much. Too casual. Too, I was waiting, which I was, but he doesn’t need the satisfaction. I pull it off and grab a black tank from the chair. Then I throw that down too.
No.
Fuck it.
I keep the oversized shirt.
Let him suffer.
I fix my glasses.
Then take them off, put them back on, then take them off again because I am apparently hosting my own nervous breakdown.
A soft knock hits the front door less than fifteen minutes later.
It’s low and careful. Like even his desperation has manners.
My heart jumps into my throat, and I move through the dark house quietly, every floorboard suddenly louder than a gunshot.
The living room is dim, light from the streetlamp cutting through the blinds. My mom’s room stays quiet.
Good.
Great.
Terrifying.
I unlock the door and open it, and Fabián stands on the porch. He changed or half-changed.
The gray crop top’s still on, the one from the market, stretched tight across his chest. Gray sweats now instead of Dickies. Black slides with white socks and silver studs in his ears. His face is open in a way I’ve never seen before.
Not soft, exactly.
But stripped down jaw tight, eyes dark, breathing like he ran here even though his truck is parked at the curb.
My mouth goes dry while he looks me over too.
Oversized Raiders shirt. Bare legs. Glasses. Bed hair. Hickey still dark on my neck.
His hands curl at his sides.
“You actually came,” I say.
He huffs once. “You told me to.”
His eyes lift to mine, and I can’t tell if he looks angry. Then I realize he is not angry. He is terrified. Wanting me this much scares him.
Good, because it scares me too.
“Say it,” I whisper.
His brow pulls tight. “Say what?”
“You know what.”
He steps closer, into the porch light, but stops before crossing the threshold. “Don’t make me do this outside.”
My chest warms, and I lean against the doorframe. “Then come inside.”
His eyes flick past me into the dark house. “Your mom’s home.”
“She’s asleep.”
“Lalo—”
“—Fabián.”
He closes his eyes. When he opens them, they’re rough and so fucking gone.
“I can’t stop thinking about it,” he says.
I go still. “The kiss?” I ask.
“Your mouth.”
My breath thins while his voice drops. “Your taste. The way you sounded and the way you kept looking at me tonight like you knew I was dying.”
“You were?”