Después | Oscar Diaz

me das calor

Somehow—Claudia doesn't know how, doesn't remember him being this convincing before—she ends up at a Santos party.

Claudia  thinks it's a joke. She's twenty-three, for God's sake, a teacher with a  monthly student loan payment and a bunch of other responsibilities she  navigates all by herself besides. She likes to think she moved beyond  this type of thing, even if it was something she attended regularly before Oscar got locked up.

(She hates thinking of it like that. But that's what happened. There's no way around it.)

It  bumps the same way it used to, old school reggaetón blaring, mota in  the air and plenty of booze to go around. Lots of hynas in skimpy  outfits. Claudia can't blame them—it's hot as hell outside, and she's  sweating despite being in a tank-top and shorts. Oscar's got his hands  on her the second she gets out of her car, gets her pinned against  the kitchen counter as soon they're alone.

Claudia, like always,  gets caught up in him, the back-and-forth of their kissing—slick  tongues, the sharp bite of his teeth against her lower lip. She sighs,  and when she tilts her head he takes it as invitation to move lower,  bites lovingly at her throat.

She laughs, just a little bit.  Thinks of all the time they've spent doing this lately, even if it  doesn't lead to anything else. She says, her voice lower than usual,  Oscar mouthing at her skin, "They say kissing gets boring, sabés," and  blinks when he pulls away from her.

His eyes are so serious; for a  moment she wonders if she said something completely different. He says,  "They're not doing it right then, huh," before cupping her face in one  hand, lips against hers again. Makes her lose her breath from the  intensity of it, the way he tugs her close and grips her nape just so.  Pressed together like they never want to separate, somehow sweet and  possessive all at once, one hand flat against her lower back. He licks  into her mouth, swallows her moans, and when he stops she has to keep  her eyes closed for a second, overwhelmed and pliant in his arms. He  asks, "You bored, nena?"

"Besáme," she says, and he listens. She  presses her whole body against his, arms around his neck, and then  someone wolf-whistles and she jerks back. Finds herself looking straight  at Santi, scar over his eyebrow like someone came at him with a knife.

"Look  who it is," he says, and when he grins there's nothing humorous about  it. "Didn't know you was running 'round with us Santos again."

She  feels sixteen again, in pajamas, the two of them in the kitchen and her  not knowing where it might go. She wonders if Oscar can tell she's gone  stiff in his arms, thinks he might—he slides an arm over her shoulder,  tucks her securely against him.

"Wus good, homes," he says to Santi, doesn't offer him the handshake that Claudia remembers them exchanging back in the day.

"Wassup,"  he says back, eyes still on Claudia. If he seems bothered by the lack  of handshake it doesn't show. "Good to see you got your girl back, eh.  She a real one."

"Yeah," Oscar says, pulls her even closer, her  arm going around his waist so that they fit better. They've always fit  together. For a while, in those months leading up to his sentencing, it  seemed like they didn't.

She says, words careful, "How you been?" and he shrugs.

"Better than Spooky, probably," he says, teeth flashing. "Least 'til now, it looks like. You sticking around tonight?"

"Yeah," Oscar answers for her. His fingers curl against her arm. "Drinks out back, ya sabes."

"'Course,"  he says, and tilts his head, mocking, at the two of them. "Good to see  you," he says to Claudia, and she thinks he might even mean it.