Epilogue #3
My dignity says nothing because it died sometime around the first No Regrets special.
“Stop looking at me like that,” Elías says, loud enough for my tía to hear.
I blink. “Like what?”
“Like you’re trying to figure out if the trailer has enough room for more bad decisions.”
Junior coughs. “It does.”
Everyone turns to him, and he raises both hands. “What? I know dimensions.”
I look at Elías and he looks at me.
No.
Not here.
Instead, I carry the trash to the dumpster and spend the walk reminding myself that patience is a virtue and murder is illegal. Elías follows with the last bag because he is a menace and apparently committed to testing every saint I have ever prayed to.
Behind the trailers, the market noise dulls.
Same place as last summer.
Same heat.
Same smell of sugar, trash, and fried food.
Same shadowed strip between public and private.
He drops the bag into the dumpster and turns to me but I behave, and I don’t touch him.
That is growth, if you ask me.
His eyes drop to my mouth.
That is not growth; that’s temptation wearing slutty little shorts.
“That was cute,” he says.
“What was?”
“Telling me you love me in front of everyone.”
My throat tightens. “Kinda felt like it was time everyone knew.”
“So, loverboy.” His smile softens. “You really mean it?”
I step closer and he stays put, making me come all the way to him. “I meant it.”
“I know.”
“You better.” I say, running my finger up the length of his arm, just to feel him shiver.
His mouth curves. “Still bossy after a year.”
“Still annoying after a year,” I retort.
“You love me.”
“Clearly my standards are low.”
He laughs and I catch his jaw and kiss him before the sound can get too far.
This is not like last summer. We’re no longer two men franticly trying to hide from the world.
It is worse now because I know the exact sound he makes when I bite his lip.
I know he likes my hand at his throat but only when he can see my face.
Because I know he cries during animated movies and pretends he has allergies.
I know he hates green olives, steals my socks, talks in his sleep, and once tried to fight a spider with a chancla and a prayer.
I know him and I love every single part of him.
The kiss deepens and his hands fist in my shirt. Mine slides to the hem of the yellow shorts.
He pulls back, breathless. “Seriously? Here?”
“No.” I shake my head.
“You sure?”
“No.”
He grins.
I grip the fabric and tug him close. “Let’s go home.”
His grin fades into something hotter. “Yeah?”
“Yes.” I groan into his neck. “Now stop testing my patience before I push you up against that trailer and change my mind.”
I bite his jaw, and he shivers.
“Take me home, papi.”
“I’m gonna be taking those shorts off.”
He laughs again, but this time it is breathless.
When we get back to the booth, both families know exactly nothing happened and exactly everything almost did.
My tía hands me a foil container. “Leftovers.”
“Gracias.”
She looks at Elías. “Don’t keep him up too late. He opens the shop tomorrow.”
Elías gives her his angel face. That face has lied to more adults than I can count. “Of course, tía.”
My tío says, “Mentiroso.”
Elías gasps. “Tío. You doubt my intentions to have your nephew at work on time.”
“Absolutely.”
Anita hugs him goodbye and whispers something in his ear that makes him shove her away with a laugh.
Julio tells me, “Good luck with that one.”
I look at him, and he nods at Elías. “Runs in the family,” he says solemnly.
Anita smacks his chest. “You love this family; stop acting like you don’t.”
“I do. Under protest.”
Junior salutes us from his cooler. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”
I stare at him.
“Junior,” I say, “that gives us too many options.”
My tía makes a sound like she is praying for my soul.
Elías laughs all the way to my truck. The ride home takes ten minutes, mostly because I’m not so good about following the speed limit.
Elías sits beside me, one knee angled toward me, yellow shorts glowing in the dashboard light like a warning flare.
His hand rests on my thigh, casual at first.
Then less casual.
“Muneco?”
“What?” He says, acting all innocent.
“Behave.”
His fingers slide higher. “I am.”
“You’re not.”
“I’m celebrating.”
I swallow hard. “We are three blocks from home.”
“Exactly. Almost there.”
I grip the steering wheel harder, and he leans closer, mouth near my ear.
“I love you,” he whispers.
My whole body goes soft in the wrong places and hard in the obvious one. “That’s cheating.”
“Is it?” He mumbles, his head dropping down into my lap, and he starts playing with my belt.
“Yes.” Oh fuck, I don’t think I could survive Elías giving me road head. I’m not so sure I could ask Jesus to take the wheel in this situation.
“Elías,” I warn, and my voice comes out rough enough to sand wood.
He pauses with his mouth dangerously close to my belt buckle. Then he looks up at me through his glasses.
Innocent.
Fake as hell.
“What?”
“We’re not doing that in traffic.”
“We’re stopped at a light.” He presses a kiss to my stomach. “There’s not traffic at eleven thirty, Papi.”
“That makes it worse.”
“How?”
“Because if you start sucking my dick right now, I’m not moving when it turns green.”
His smile spreads slowly. “Tease me with a good time.”
“Fucking little criminal.”
The light changes and somebody behind me honks.
I look at the road, heart slamming, both hands gripping the wheel like I’m driving through a biblical event.
Elías laughs quietly and sits back up, but he leaves his hand on my thigh the rest of the drive, fingers high enough to make every red light feel like attempted murder.
By the time I pull into our parking spot, I’m hanging onto my self-control by a thread thinner than Junior’s work ethic.
Elías unbuckles his seat belt, and I shut off the engine, but neither of us moves. The truck ticks as it cools and the leftovers sit in the back seat. His yellow shorts glow faintly in the overhead light like they have personally declared war.
He turns his head, smiling lazily. “You okay, Papi?”
“No.”
His smile gets worse. “Good.”
I get out before I do something that gets us evicted from the complex.
Elías follows, laughing under his breath, and I grab the foil container from the back seat because my tía will somehow know if I forget it.
He waits at the bottom of the stairs, hands behind his back, glasses sliding down his nose, yellow shorts riding up like they were designed by the devil and approved by my worst instincts.
“You coming?” he asks.
I lock the truck. “You’re real brave for someone who has to climb stairs in front of me.”
His eyes flash. “You gonna stare?”
“I’m gonna suffer.”
“Pobrecito.”
I point at him. “Keep talking.”
He turns and starts up the stairs.
Slowly.
Every step is a crime. Every inch of thigh is a confession. His shorts shift higher, and my hand tightens around the leftovers so hard the foil crackles.
“Elías.”
He glances over his shoulder. “Yes, Fabián?”
I hate when he uses my name like that, all polite and sweet.
“Walk faster.”
He smiles and keeps going at the exact same pace.
I pray for patience.
God sends none.
Typical.
At the door, I have the key out before he can make another joke. It takes me two tries to get it in the lock because Elías presses against my back, his mouth near my ear.
“I love you,” he whispers again.
My hand stills.
There it is.
The cheat code.
The kill shot.
The thing he can say in public, private, market lights, truck shadows, or anywhere, and I still feel it like the first time.
I turn my head. “You keep saying that like I’m not already hard.”
His smile brushes my jaw. “Maybe I just like reminding you.”
The lock clicks, and I shove the door open, and we get inside, kick it shut behind us, drop the leftovers on the little table by the door, and turn on him. His back hits the door before he can inhale. That taunting little laugh breaks into a gasp.
“You wore those shorts on purpose.”
“Obviously.” He rolls his eyes.
“You bent over all night on purpose.”
“Also obviously.”
“You let me tell the entire market I love you while wearing the sluttiest little shorts in Alameda County.”
His eyes go dark. “Did you like it?”
I drop to my knees and his mouth parts. “Fabián.”
“What?” I hook my fingers in the waistband of the yellow shorts. Then I lean in and catch the fabric with my teeth.
His whole body locks.
I look up at him from my knees.
“You told me I wouldn’t.”
His hands fly to my head. “Oh, fuck.”
I bite down and tug.
The shorts slide low on his hips, but not enough.
He’s already hard under them, the outline of him making my mouth water, and my jaw clenches because I spent the whole market watching him move in these little yellow disasters while he acted like he didn’t know exactly what they were doing to me.
I tug again with my teeth.
Lower.
His breath shakes. “Papi—”
“No.” I pull back just enough to speak, fingers working the waistband now. “Don’t ‘papi’ me like you didn’t plan this.”
“I did plan this.” The honesty hits low.
I yank the shorts down his thighs.
He steps out of one side and leaves the other caught around his ankle like evidence. His briefs follow because patience is dead and buried. His dick springs free, hard and heavy, and I press my mouth to the inside of his thigh first.
He groans.
“Fabián.”
“You wanted me like this?” I ask.
“Yes.”
“At the door?”
His head tips back against it. “Yes.”
“Couldn’t even wait for the bed?”
His throat works, and he looks down at me, smile ruined but beautiful. “You’re the one on your knees, carino.”
Fair.
Disrespectful, but fair.
I take him in my mouth before he can say anything else. His hands tighten on my head and he moans loudly. Full volume, in our apartment, our locked door, the night still warm around us, and Elías losing his smart mouth one inch at a time.
I groan around him because I love this.
God help me, I love this.