The Slayer (Untamed Hearts #2)(26)

“Why are you always counting like some pendejo on an exercise video? Just go until you feel like you can’t feel your arms and do five more. About tonight, you come out with me and Carmen, and I help you steal a car after. That’s the deal.”

Chuito looked up at his cousin Marcos, who was spotting him in the garage as he bench-pressed. “Carmen the Cuban?”

“So what?” Marcos shrugged as he stood over him. “I don’t give a shit if she’s Cuban. Have you seen her tetas?”

“Take it,” Chuito grunted, pushing the barbell up until Marcos helped him put it back. Then he rubbed a hand over his face and groaned. “Why do I have to go?”

“She’s got to bring her friend along. Always with the friends. Why? All the chicas do that. So annoying,” Marcos grumbled. “I wouldn’t bring you along if I didn’t have to. What is it with them?”

“It’s probably ’cause they know you’re going to stick your fingers in her * the first chance you get. They protect their own.”

“I’m going to stick more than my fingers in her *, cabrón,” Marcos assured him as he leaned against the barbell. “As long as you keep her friend busy, I’m going to eat it and f*ck it.”

“Her friend’s probably Cuban too. What the hell am I supposed to do with her?”

“The same thing you do with a Boricua Latina,” Marcos said with a grin. “Make out. Suck on her tetas or something. You don’t have to f*ck her since you’re obviously saving yourself for marriage. Just keep her busy.”

Chuito sat up and avoided his cousin’s gaze.

“I’m not you, Marc,” he finally admitted. “Chicas don’t like me.”

“Sure they do. You’re Boricua. You’re naturally chulo.”

“I don’t think I’m naturally chulo,” Chuito argued as he turned to his cousin and confessed a fear he hadn’t admitted to anyone. “What if I’m like him?”

“Him?” Marcos pulled back, looking confused for a long moment before he said, “Ay Dios mio.” He came around and sat on the bench next to Chuito. “You are ruining my sex life for that motherf*cker? You’re not like him, Chu.”

“Maybe I am.” Chuito shrugged. “I am half him.”

“Okay, I’ll admit you have an unnatural obsession with stealing shit,” Marcos agreed. “And you are a mean motherf*cker when you’re fighting. That’s all pretty f*cking gangster, but you’re not going to hurt a chica.”

“How do you know?”

“I just know.” Marcos held up his hands in evidence. “’Cause you’re my cousin and I know you, okay? I wouldn’t leave a car unlocked around you. I sure as shit wouldn’t piss you off, but the chicas are safe from you. More than safe. You’re sort of hopeless around them. We have to work on this.”

“I’m fourteen,” Chuito argued. “That’s not—”

“I’ve been f*cking for a year now,” Marcos argued. “This is not okay. We need to get your game on, motherf*cker, ’cause this shit is hurting my game.”

“Can’t you find chicas without friends?”

“They all have friends. Even the skinny ones,” Marcos assured him. “Let’s f*cking discuss this. I’ve dragged you along enough times to know you got a little game. What have you done?”

Chuito shrugged, unable to meet his gaze.

“Look, why don’t you just focus on the chicas getting off. Just make it about them. Don’t worry about your dick if you’re so f*cking uptight about it. Don’t you like sucking on tetas?” Marcos gave him a harsh look. “Please tell me you like sucking on them.”

“I like sucking on them. I just start to worry I’ll lose control and—”

“Have you licked *? That’s harmless. Just do that.”

Chuito gave him a sharp look. “I’m pretty sure you’re the only one who knows how to do that. I don’t even hear motherf*ckers at the warehouse talking about it, and they get * all the time.”

“It’s easy. I’m going to draw you a diagram.”

“Please don’t.”

“Juan!” Marcos shouted, leaning back on the bench and looking toward the open door to the house.

“Mierda,” Chuito cursed and turned around, looking for his shirt that he couldn’t find. He jumped up, keeping his back to the door. “I don’t have my f*cking shirt on.”

“What?” Juan asked as he came to the door.

“What do you mean, what?” Marcos asked him sharply, speaking Spanish save the word what that he spat out bitterly in English. “Why are you always speaking English? We’re home now. We don’t have to speak English at home. Save that shit for school.”

Chuito reached over and hit Marcos’s head on instinct, making sure to keep his back to his brother. “He can talk however he wants. He’s smart.”

“So what? He can’t be smart and speak Spanish at home?” Marcos argued. “The gringos here make you think if you speak Spanish, you’re not smart. We’re f*cking smart, Juan. We’re smarter than those motherf*ckers. Speak Spanish. Represent.”