Chapter Three #2
Flowers, I can hate. Flowers die, smell weird after two days, and leave sad little crumbs all over the counter. Big romantic gestures, I can roll my eyes at. Men love doing shit with an audience so everyone can clap because, wow, look, he remembered women like attention.
But a battery?
Coffee?
Tacos?
My fucking tacos?
All left on my porch with no one around to watch him do it. Not even me.
No credit. No grin. No “look what I did, Mama.”
Just useful shit I actually needed.
“That little shit,” I whisper.
Guacamole squeezes past my ankle and tries to shove his whole bald head into the bag.
“No.” I scoop him up with one arm while he fights me like a gremlin being exorcised. “These are not for you.”
He makes a broken little squeak.
“Don’t make that sound. You are so emotionally manipulative.”
My phone buzzes in my hand.
Revel: You alive?
I look at the battery again.
Then the coffee and tacos.
And my stupid traitor heart, starts doing something soft and unnecessary in my chest.
I text him back.
Me: What the hell is this?
Revel: Uh not gonna lie I kinda figured it was obvious. Battery. Coffee. Tacos. Try to keep up, mama.
Me: I know what objects are, pendejo.
Revel: Aw okay good. So proud of you.
I bite my bottom lip. I am not smiling.
Absolutely not.
Me: Why are they on my porch?
Revel: ur car’s dead, so I got you a battery
Revel: I’ll swing by after training and put it in, because no offense to your cousin-slash-mechanic, but I’d rather eat pavement than let that man near your car again
Revel: Had it towed from the garage too. Should be at your place in like twenty minutes
Revel: Coffee’s for the big show prep ur working on today, Lena told me about it. And the tacos are because no offence mama, but you’re mean when you’re hungry.
Revel: And after our hot as fuck kiss lastnight, I already know you’re waking up extra mean.
Me: I hate you.
Revel: Eat first. Hate me after.
I carry everything inside in two trips, because the battery is so much heavier than it looks. I set the coffee and tacos on the counter, then stand there staring at them like they might start speaking.
Guacamole immediately jumps up beside the bag and shoves his face into the paper anyway.
“Guac.”
He freezes.
I point at him. “I love you, but I will body-check you over these tacos.”
He blinks.
I sigh and tear off the tiniest piece of tortilla. “Fine. But this is between us.”
He snatches it like a feral little goblin and runs.
I unwrap the tacos slowly.
Egg, potato, cheese, salsa Verde on the side.
My exact order.
The coffee is my exact order too. Iced cinnamon latte, oat milk, extra shot, light ice.
I hate that more than anything.
I take a sip and close my eyes before I can stop myself.
Ugh, so perfect.
“Fuck.”
I set it down fast, like that will undo the reaction, but of course it doesn’t.
The warmth in my chest gets worse.
I grab my phone.
Me: How did you know my order?
A beat passes.
Revel: Because I pay attention.
I pause.
That should not hit the way it does.
Me: Stop paying attention to me.
The reply doesn’t come right away.
Good.
Maybe I finally got him to shut up.
Then my phone buzzes.
Revel: Why? We both know you like it, mama.
My stomach flips.
Stupid. Dramatic. Traitor.
I lock my phone and set it face down on the counter.
“So done.”
Guacamole is on the floor, one paw hooked in the sleeve of Revel’s hoodie where it hangs out of the hamper. He chews his tiny piece of tortilla like he’s minding his business, which he is absolutely not.
“No,” I tell him. “We don’t like him.”
He keeps chewing.
“He’s annoying. Cocky. Way too pretty for his own good.”
Guacamole pauses.
I narrow my eyes. “Don’t judge me, senor wrinkles. You’re bald and built like an uncooked chicken.”
He goes back to chewing.
“Exactly. Worry about yourself.”
I sit at the counter and eat because I’m not wasting good tacos just because they came with feelings attached.
That would be dramatic, and I am not dramatic.
I’m a grown-ass woman eating breakfast. Calmly. Normally. Like the man who sent it didn’t have his mouth on my throat last night while I stood there pretending I had even a little bit of self-control.
Totally fucking normal.
The problem is, the longer I sit there, the harder it is to stay mad.
The coffee is so good. The tacos are literally perfect. And the battery sitting by my door is proof that he noticed a problem and fixed it without making me ask.
Ay, Dios mío.
Why does he have to be annoying in a useful way?
I pick up my phone again, because, apparently, peace is not something I’m interested in today.
Me: You didn’t have to do all that.
He answers almost right away.
Revel: I know
I stare at the words.
Simple. No joke. No dirty little comment. No cocky bullshit wrapped around it.
Just ‘I know.’
Me: I could’ve handled it.
Revel: Never said you couldn’t, mama, but maybe I like taking care of shit for you
My throat tightens a little, and I put the phone down. Pick it back up. Put it down again. “See?” I tell Guacamole. “This is manipulation.” He is licking salsa off the floor.
“It is literal emotional manipulation. With tacos.”
He looks up.
“Yes, I’m still eating them.”
I take another bite because principles are important, but so is breakfast.
By the time I finish, my mood is messed up, my stomach is full, and my brain is a disaster. I go back to my desk with the coffee and try to work like I have not been personally attacked by basic consideration.
The mix is still waiting.
I put my headphones on, roll my shoulders, and restart the track from the top.
The opening breathes better now. I bring in the first vocal lower, almost buried under the percussion, letting it haunt the track instead of sitting on top of it. Then I cut the kick for half a second before I bring the beat back harder.
I nod to myself.
“Okay. There you are.”
I loop the next section and work the transition again.
The Latin rhythm is good, but the bassline is too clean. Too polite.
Neon Tide on a Friday night is not polite.
That room wants sweat, bad decisions, and music loud enough to make people forget they have jobs in the morning.
So I dirty it up.
More grit under the synth. More bite in the snare. I pull the vocal back a little so it feels less pretty and more dangerous.
I play it again.
Better.
I close my eyes and picture the room at midnight. Purple-blue lights, drinks sweating on tables, girls dancing like they came to ruin somebody’s life, guys watching like they have a chance.
Ay, pobrecitos.
The bass climbs, low and heavy, and I let it sit there for a second before the drop hits.
That’s my job.
Catch the room.
Hold it.
Make them wait just long enough to want it bad.
Hold them there.
Make them forget whoever they walked in as.
That’s the part I love most.
For an hour, maybe two if I’m lucky, nobody in that room belongs to their problems. They belong to the beat. And I get to drive.
I adjust the timing on the drop by a fraction.
There.
The second it lands right, chills lift over my arms.
“Yes,” I whisper.