Total pages in book: 137
Estimated words: 127201 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 636(@200wpm)___ 509(@250wpm)___ 424(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 127201 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 636(@200wpm)___ 509(@250wpm)___ 424(@300wpm)
Nero shifted closer, and his skin burned where his knee touched Miguel’s. It’s been a long time since he’d been this infatuated with a particular man, but he was determined to ride this wave and enjoy the excellent fucking awaiting him when it crashed.
“I’m starting to think I should get in trouble more often.”
Miguel rolled his eyes and grabbed the first shot, but Nero was determined. As long as Miguel was drinking, he was too.
Chapter 7
Nero
Miguel had lost their competition a shot glass or two before Nero would have fallen under the table. But they were both still standing, even though the Styrofoam box full of food from a street vendor felt like a bowling ball in Nero’s hand as he staggered across the square to a low stone fence surrounding a statue.
Miguel fared no better, slurring as he spoke. If he could drink another glass of tequila to make Nero go home, he would have. But he’d hit his limit, and now sat hunched forward, as if the food he was eating needed protecting from looters.
“This is so fuwking goo—” Miguel muttered, gorging on another meat-filled empanada.
A cheerful salsa tune came from a store nearby, inspiring two young women to dance in front of it, as if they lived in a summery beer commercial. Nero smirked, helping himself to a warm arepa. When he swung to the same rhythm as the girls, his shoulder bumped Miguel’s, and he glanced at the other man, whose tattooed skin was set aglow by the nearby streetlight. His skull felt too tight around his brain, but the world was good. In this moment, he was just another guy in the street, consuming fatty food during a night out. Not a gangster. Not Raul Moreno’s only son. Not a dangerous criminal.
People passed by. Two couples sat by plastic tables, playing a game that made them laugh. Three boys played soccer in a nearby street despite it being way past their bedtime. And he watched. But if the situation changed, like it often did in Nero’s life, he had Miguel at his side. They’d be undefeatable together, whatever happened.
“Never saw your hair unbraided,” he slurred as if there was potato mash in his mouth. “Is it curly? Mine is when it gets long.”
Miguel looked up at him with his cheeks full of food as if he were a chipmunk. Even though he didn’t smile, his gaze lost its usual sharpness. “It’s…” he stalled as if he couldn’t remember the right word. “Wavy. It’s wavy. Gimmie some of tha—” He pushed closer and grabbed an arepa out of Nero’s box. The scent of his body, earthy and masculine, wormed its way to Nero through the haze of drunkenness and the heavy smell of fried food.
“Mine’s kinky. Got it from my mother,” Nero said and rubbed his short green crop before focusing on the box in Miguel’s lap with a wicked smile. “I’ll get one of yours too,” he mumbled and leaned in, pushing his face toward the hot empanadas while imagining that Miguel’s cock might so abruptly harden it would push its way into the container. Nero would jump at that opportunity.
“No, no, take is one wif pork,” Miguel mumbled, pushing at Nero’s forehead until his nose was out of the fragrant box. Miguel then grabbed the hot parcel of food and shoved it into Nero’s mouth all too fast. Nero hummed, meeting Miguel’s gaze as he closed his lips around the small piece of the snack that remained out of his mouth before biting down. It was so damn juicy!
The world wiggled around Nero as he leaned on Miguel, chewing the food. ”So good...”
Miguel closed his eyes as he ate. “My mofer makes the most amazing tacos. Wif beef, and beans, and lime, and they’d burn off your mouth, but so delishus.”
“When did you last have her tacos?” Nero asked as the massive amount of food went down his throat, soaking up the alcohol. He’d never heard Miguel talk about his mother before, and he’d kind of assumed the guy was estranged from any family he might have since he never mentioned them.
“Three years? Four?” Miguel opened his eyes, staring at a family stopping by the store to get ice cream for their kids. “I’ll have them again one day. You don’t cook, do you?”
It was such a strange question Nero laughed out loud.
“I can boil an egg, but never really needed to learn.”
“I was told my wife would cook for us. No luck so far,” Miguel said with a sigh, confusing Nero. What was Miguel trying to tell him?
“So... why don’t you visit her? Your mother. You could take a few vacation days,” Nero mused and rested his head on Miguel’s shoulder as he bit into his last arepa. The plantain and beef filling melted onto his tongue as soon as he started chewing.