“You know how I like it when you yell at me, Torres.”
A beat passed, and then she laughed—the real one that resonated in her chest—and every part of me settled at the sound of it, the shark included.
“Oh, I know.” Selena bit her lip, and a sly look crept into her smirk. “You know, a couple times there, I thought maybe you two were gonna kiss instead of throw punches.”
“So Iwasright.” I grinned, leaning in. “This gotyou going. I’m the shark, and somehow you’re the one with a taste for blood.”
She didn’t deny it. She just looked up at me, neon sliding across her face. Then her grin went absolutely feral, and for one honest second, I was afraid for my life.
“What?” I said.
“How would you like to go to arealparty, Perez?”
“It’s nearly midnight already.”
She laughed.
“Oh, the night is still young.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Chase
I hadn’t beenin the backyard for more than thirty seconds when a random tía pressed a Modelo into my hand, and I was accosted by a woman who might have been a hundred and fifty years old.
“Pobrecito, so skinny,” she said.
The next thing I knew, I had a paper plate in my other hand, so laden with rice, beans, some sort of meat, and tortillas that I was surprised it hadn’t collapsed under its own gravity.
“Gracias, mamacita.” I winked at her, and she pinched my cheek—hard.
“Don’t flirt with me, coqueto. You won’t survive it.”
“Abuela, he’s very fragile. Be gentle with him.”
Selena appeared at my side, and her abuela gave her a much gentler pinch on the cheek, I noted, before disappearing back into the crowd. Selena looked between my two full hands and grinned.
“No one ever goes hungry at a Torres party.”
“I can see that.”
The music was loud and lively, the backyard filled to the brim with people talking and dancing, and a few maybe even fighting, although that got broken up quickly. String lights drooped overhead, throwing warm light over everything. Somebody had set up a folding table that sagged under more food than the crowdcould ever finish—a mountain of carne asada still hissing off the grill, bowls of rice and beans and pico, a stack of tortillas wrapped in dish towels to keep them warm. Smoke rolled off the grill where two tíos argued over the meat. Kids tore between people’s legs despite it being nearly one in the morning. The whole yard smelled like citrus and woodsmoke, and beneath the music you could hear three separate conversations happening in two languages, none of them quiet.
It was chaotic and full.
Nobody in it was performing for anybody.
It was home.
I pulled out a chair from a nearby table, only to find it already occupied by a sleeping toddler.
Selena chuckled, took the plate from my hand, and folded a tortilla around some meat, holding it up to me. I took a bite, maybe making sure I nipped her fingers too, then let out a very unmanly groan.
“Fuck, that’s good.”
“You haven’t even had the mole yet.”
I glanced up to see Lupe fussing over her pot on an outdoor burner, stirring it slowly, not really looking at it.
