Chapter Three
Cece
I wake up still wearing Revel’s hoodie, with Guacamole plastered to my side like a naked little heating pad with abandonment issues. One wrinkly paw shoved into my ribs and his judgmental demon face way too close to mine.
The second I open my eyes, he blinks.
Slow.
Accusing.
“Oh, don’t start,” I mumble, voice rough from sleep. “You don’t know anything.”
Guacamole blinks again.
I roll onto my back and drag the blanket over my face. “Nothing happened.”
He makes a tiny offended noise.
“Okay, rude.” I peek out at him. “One thing happened. Maybe two things. Depending on how technical you want to get.”
He steps onto my chest like my shame is his throne, all warm, bony feet and unnecessary attitude.
“Ow. Guac.” I huff, grabbing him under his little armpits and moving him slightly to the side. “You’re not my priest. Stop judging me.”
He settles right back against me, purring like an evil little engine.
I stare at the ceiling.
My brain—because it hates me—immediately replays Revel’s hands on my waist. His mouth on mine. The way he lifted me onto his bike like I weighed nothing. The way his lips dragged to my throat. The way I kissed him first.
First.
Like some desperate woman with no survival instincts and a thing for bad decisions with an addiction to danger.
I groan and press both hands over my face. “I’m never speaking to a man again.”
Guacamole yawns.
“Don’t look so relieved,” I tell him. “You’re still not the man of the house. You don’t pay bills.”
He bumps his head against my chin, probably because he loves me, but more likely because breakfast has not magically appeared yet.
“Fine,” I mutter, pushing myself up. “We get up. We eat. We work. We do not think about Revel St. Clair’s mouth.”
Guacamole meows.
I point at him. “Exactly. Growth.”
I regret saying that thirty minutes later when I’m standing in my kitchen wearing an oversized shirt, one sock, and Revel’s stupid hoodie. Well, not wearing it, holding it.
To smell it.
For scientific reasons, obviously.
“Don’t,” I warn Guacamole, who is sitting on the counter like he pays rent. “I know what this looks like.”
He stares at me.
“It’s laundry analysis.”
He licks his paw.
“Exactly. Thank you.”
Except it smells like him.
Clean laundry, leather, night air, and that faint bite of gasoline that should not be attractive, but apparently my standards packed up and moved out sometime between getting on his bike and letting him put his tongue in my mouth.
I toss the hoodie into the laundry basket like distance will fix whatever it’s doing to my head.
Then I immediately take it back out.
“Nope,” I say, pointing at it. “I’m returning this. That’s all. We are not becoming sentimental over stolen fabric.”
Guacamole meows.
“Borrowed fabric,” I correct. “Don’t make me sound like a criminal.”
He hops down from the counter with all the grace of a raw rotisserie chicken and trots toward his food bowl, tail high, clearly done with my emotional crisis now that it no longer involves him.
“Yeah, yeah. I know. Breakfast.”
The second I open his food, he starts yelling like I’ve been starving him for years instead of six hours.
“Ay, Dios mío, calm down,” I tell him, scooping his food into the bowl while he screams at my feet. “You are so dramatic. Mira, look. Food. You survived another tragedy.”
Guacamole is bald, wrinkly, and built like a tiny old man who knows everyone’s secrets, but he’s my baby, so of course I let him act like I personally betrayed him by not serving breakfast fast enough.
I set the bowl down, and he dives in like he just came home from war.
“You’re welcome, mi amor,” I tell him. “Ungrateful little demon.”
He dives in like the bowl owes him money.
Cute, but ungrateful. Typical male.
I make coffee, but it’s trash because I’m out of the good stuff.
I take one sip and immediately regret it.
“Nope.”
I set the mug down and stare at it like it betrayed me.
Guacamole keeps eating.
“Yeah, must be nice having no standards.
Trash coffee is still coffee, and I have a set to finish.
My little work corner is tucked near the window in my bedroom, half music equipment, half controlled chaos.
Laptop, controller, headphones, a notebook full of track lists and messy timing notes, one dying plant I keep forgetting exists, and a tiny framed picture of me behind the booth at one of my first real gigs.
I was nineteen in that picture. Eyeliner too thick. Smile too big.
Terrified, but acting like I wasn’t.
I kind of miss that girl.
She thought getting behind a booth at some packed bar downtown was the biggest thing that would ever happen to her.
She had no idea how hard it would be to make people take her seriously.
Men called her cute before they called her good. Promoters gave better slots to guys who barely knew their own equipment. People acted surprised when she knew what she was doing, like a girl behind the booth was supposed to be decoration first and talented second.
I had to work twice as hard for half the respect.
But I loved it.
That part never changed.
I put my headphones on, open the mix for Friday night, and stare at the waveform for a few seconds, trying to figure out where the hell it stopped working.
Neon Tide gave me midnight.
Fucking midnight.
Not the early slot where people are still ordering food and pretending they came to talk. Midnight means the room is already warm. Drinks are flowing. Bodies are moving. People are loose enough to stop caring how they look.
That’s when I like them best.
I don’t want to beg the room for attention. I want to take it.
Build the beat slow. Let them feel it in their chest. Make them wait a little, just enough to get hungry for it, then drop it hard enough that everybody forgets they were ever standing still.
That’s why I started. Not because I wanted attention.
I mean, okay, sure, attention is nice.
I’m not dead.
Music was the first thing that ever listened to me. Back then, when home felt heavy and everyone’s mood could ruin the whole house, I could put on my headphones and make something work.
The beat did what I told it to.
The drop hit where I wanted it.
All that noise turned into something I could control.
And yeah, maybe that sounds dramatic, but whatever. It mattered.
Still does.
Which is why it’s really pissing me off I can’t get this transition right, because every dirty bassline keeps making me think about Revel’s bike between my thighs.
Ay, Dios mío.
Focus, Cece.
I pause the track.
“Nope.”
Guacamole lifts his head from his little cat bed in the middle of the floor.
“Not you. Go back to being unemployed.”
He blinks, fully unbothered, then tucks himself back into the blankets.
I start the track again.
The first part works. It’s smooth, a little sexy, with a Latin house beat sitting under this darker vocal that comes in soft before the whole thing turns dirty.
The second drop still isn’t right, though.
I want it to hit like a bad decision. The kind you know is a bad decision before you make it, but you do it anyway because it feels too good to stop.
Which is, unfortunately, very Revel-coded.
Dark hair.
Big hands, and don’t even get me started on that stupid mouth.
The way he looked at me last night when I said nothing happened, like he knew I was lying and was cocky enough to let me.
I stop the track and yank one headphone off.
“Nope. Absolutely the fuck not.”
My phone buzzes.
I look down, and my stomach does this annoying little twist before I even see the name.
Ay, of course.
Him.
Revel: Morning, community service queen.
I stare at it.
Then at the ceiling.
Then back at the phone.
“No.”
Guacamole’s ear twitches.
“I’m not answering.”
I answer.
Me: Lose my number.
His reply comes fast.
Revel: Can’t. You stole my hoodie.
I glance toward the laundry basket, where the hoodie is half hanging out like a guilty secret.
Me: Borrowed.
Revel: You slept in it, didn’t you?
Heat creeps into my cheeks, which is rude as hell because yes.
Obviously, I did.
Me: No. I used it as a blanket for my cat.
Revel: That’s a lie, but I’ll pretend. What a lucky cat.
Me: Don’t flirt with Guacamole. He has standards.
Revel: Higher than yours?
My mouth drops open.
“Oh, he’s bold today.”
Guacamole snores from his bed, completely unbothered.
Me: Wow. One kiss and suddenly your balls dropped, huh?
Revel: Two, actually. But I love that even after “nothing happened,” you’re over there thinking about my balls.
I hate him.
I hate that I laugh more.
It slips out before I can stop it, small and stupid, and Guacamole lifts his head just enough to look at me from the bed.
I press my lips together.
“What?” I say. “He’s not funny.”
Guacamole blinks.
“Okay, he’s a little funny. Don’t make it a thing.”
Me: Nothing happened, and trust me, your balls never cross my mind. Nothing about you does, besides annoyance.
There.
Mature. Firm. Clear.
Revel: Sure, mama.
I narrow my eyes.
Me: So how’s the team’s dental insurance? Just making sure you’re covered for when I see you again.
Three dots appear.
Disappear.
Appear again.
Then nothing.
I smile despite myself.
Finally got him.
Then my phone buzzes.
Revel: You’re already planning to see me again? Cute. Do me a favor, go out to your porch.
I frown.
“My porch?” I say out loud.
Guacamole lifts his head again.
“Don’t get up. I’ll handle it. Since I’m the only adult in this house.”
He immediately gets up and follows me.
“Chismoso,” I mutter.
He trots behind me anyway, tiny claws clicking against the floor like he’s part of the investigation team.
I unlock the front door, already irritated, confused, and preparing to text Revel something mean enough to make myself feel balanced again.
Then I open the door and stop.
There is a brand-new car battery sitting on my porch.
Beside it is a drink tray with coffee, and a paper bag from Taco Veloz.
My brain short-circuits so hard I just stand there in the doorway, one hand on the knob, hair probably insane, shirt falling off one shoulder, and my sock half sliding down my foot.
Because absolutely fucking not.
This is cute.
Fuck.