Chapter 1: Tequila and Too-Close Bodies
The bass from the speakers was a physical thing, a thump in the chest that vibrated through the floorboards. Xairo leaned against the sticky kitchen wall, a red plastic cup of warm beer in his hand, and tried to look like he was having fun. The air was thick with the smell of frying oil, cilantro, and too many bodies in a small space. Someone’s abuela’s recipe for carnitas was burning on the stove. A wave of laughter erupted from the living room, where a crush of people were dancing, a blur of jeans and glittery tops.
“You look like you’re waiting for a root canal,” a voice said, smooth and close to his ear.
Xairo didn’t have to turn. He knew the scent of that cologne—something clean and sharp, cutting through the party haze. Kayden.
“Just soaking in the atmosphere,” Xairo said, taking a deliberate swig of his beer. He kept his eyes forward, watching Isaac try and fail to flirt with a girl from their biology class.
Kayden materialized beside him, a bottle of tequila in one hand, two shot glasses pinched between the fingers of the other. His light brown hair was messy in a way that looked intentional, and the two moles on his neck were just visible above the collar of his black t-shirt. He moved with an easy confidence that made Xairo’s jaw tighten.
“Beer is for spectators,” Kayden said, his smile all white teeth and challenge. “This is for players.”
He set the glasses on the counter with a click and filled them with a golden pour. The liquid caught the overhead light. He slid one toward Xairo. Their fingers brushed during the transfer—a fleeting, electric contact.
Xairo flinched. Pulled his hand back as if burned.
Kayden saw it. His grin didn’t falter, but his eyes, dark and perceptive, sharpened. He let out a soft laugh, more breath than sound. “Easy, vato. It’s just tequila. Not a proposition.”
Heat flooded Xairo’s face, a mix of shame and anger. He hated that reaction, the uncontrollable jerk, the way his heart was now pounding a frantic rhythm against his ribs. He wanted to be cool. Unflappable. Like Kayden seemed to be.
“I know what it is,” Xairo muttered, his voice gruffer than he intended. He snatched up the shot, his knuckles white around the glass. “Salud.”
“Salud,” Kayden echoed, his gaze locked on Xairo as they both threw back the liquor. It burned a welcome path down Xairo’s throat, a distraction from the other, more complicated fire simmering in his gut.
The taste of salt and lime lingered. Kayden was still watching him. “You’re wound up tighter than a drum, Ara. What’s eating you? Big game tomorrow?”
“Something like that,” Xairo lied. The game was the least of it. It was the scholarship, the constant pressure to perform, the way his mom’s voice on the phone always sounded tired. It was the confusing, unwelcome pull he felt standing this close to another guy, to this guy in particular, who dated girls from the cheer squad and talked shit in the locker room just like everyone else.
“You should relax. Live a little.” Kayden’s tone was light, but there was an undercurrent there, a hint of something that wasn’t quite about the party.
Before Xairo could muster a retort, a body shoved firmly between them. Isaac. His best friend’s face was uncharacteristically stern, his shoulders squared. He looked from Xairo’s tense posture to Kayden’s amused expression.
“Hernandez,” Kayden said, nodding, his smile turning languid. “You want a shot?”
“Nah, man,” Isaac said, his voice low. He didn’t move from his spot, effectively forming a barrier. He leaned slightly toward Kayden, his words meant only for the two of them. “You don’t play with fire unless you mean to burn.”
The noise of the party seemed to recede for a second. The words hung in the thick air. Kayden’s eyebrows lifted, not in offense, but in something like appreciation. He looked past Isaac’s shoulder, his eyes finding Xairo’s again. That look was a clear message: Is that what you think this is? A game?
Xairo looked away first, staring into the empty shot glass.
“Just making conversation, ese,” Kayden said finally, his voice smooth as honey. He capped the tequila bottle with a definitive twist. “No fires here.” He gave Isaac a slow, deliberate once-over, then turned his attention back to Xairo. The intensity was gone, replaced by his usual charming mask. “Later, Ara. Good luck tomorrow.”
He melted back into the crowd, a dark head moving easily through the packed room.
Isaac turned, his expression a mix of concern and frustration. “What was that about?”
“Nothing,” Xairo said, too quickly. He busied himself getting another beer from the cooler, the cold cans sweating against his palms. “He was just being Kayden.”
“Kayden’s a flake,” Isaac said, grabbing a beer for himself. “He’s got a different girl every week. He’s got drama written all over him. You don’t need that. We’ve got practice at seven, remember? You can’t be distracted.”
“I’m not distracted,” Xairo snapped. The lie tasted sour. He was completely distracted. He could still feel the ghost of that finger-brush on his skin. “Just drop it, okay?”
Isaac studied him for a long moment. He saw too much. They’d been friends since third grade, had slept on each other’s couches, knew each other’s families. “Fine,” Isaac said, clapping him on the back, the tension easing. “But you’re doing my suicides if you’re hungover.”
Xairo forced a laugh. “In your dreams.”
The party swelled around them again. The music shifted, a familiar cumbia beat pulsing through the house. People whooped, the energy lifting. But Xairo felt untethered. He watched as Kayden appeared across the room, already talking to a group of people, making them laugh. He was a flame, and Xairo felt like stupid, dry kindling.
He finished his beer in two long pulls, the buzz from the tequila finally starting to hum in his veins, blurring the sharp edges of his anxiety. He told himself Isaac was right. It was nothing. A momentary, awkward thing.
But as he stood there, the smell of smoke from the burnt meat mixing with Kayden’s fading cologne, he knew he was lying to himself. And the worst part was the tiny, treacherous spark of disappointment he felt watching that flame walk away.
And the worst part was the tiny, treacherous spark of disappointment he felt watching that flame walk away.
He needed air. The kitchen was a suffocating box of noise and judgment. Mumbling an excuse to Isaac about the bathroom, Xairo shouldered his way through the crowd, the cumbia beat now feeling aggressive, the laughter grating. A hallway led away from the main chaos, lined with closed doors and a flickering overhead light. He just needed a minute of quiet, a reprieve from the press of it all.
The first door he pushed open was a mistake.
The light was on, harsh and clinical. Kayden was there, backed against the sink, a blonde girl in a crop top pressed against him. Her hands were tangled in his hair. His were on her hips, but they looked stiff, like they’d been placed there as part of a set. Their mouths moved together, a slow, performative dance.
Xairo froze. His stomach did a nauseating flip, the tequila and beer churning. He saw the moles on Kayden’s neck, just above the girl’s clutching fingers. He saw the way Kayden’s eyes were half-lidded, but not with passion—with a distant, glassy look.
Then those eyes flicked open. Saw him.
Kayden pulled back from the girl, turning his head. The girl made a noise of protest, blinking, dazed.
“Hey—” Kayden started.
Xairo was already moving, shoving the door shut, the wood slamming in its frame. He walked fast, boots scuffing on the cheap laminate, heat burning the back of his neck. Idiot. Of course. What did he expect?
He was almost to the end of the hall when a hand grabbed his elbow, spinning him around.
Kayden stood there, his shirt slightly rumpled, his breathing a little quick. The smell of weed and perfume clung to him. The blonde was nowhere in seen.
“Hey, wait,” Kayden said, his voice low, urgent.
Xairo yanked his arm free. “What?”
“Don’t… don’t say anything, okay?” Kayden ran a hand through his hair, the picture of charming disarray, but his eyes were sharp, searching Xairo’s face. “I think she’s dating Montreal. From the football team? And man, I’m just… I’m kinda high right now. Wasn’t thinking.”
The explanation was pathetic. It was the kind of excuse guys like Kayden always had. Xairo just stared, his jaw clenched so tight it ached. He didn’t say a word. The silence stretched, thick and uncomfortable.
Kayden took a step closer. Then another. The hallway was narrow. The bass from the living room was a dull throb here, the light from the single bulb casting harsh shadows under Kayden’s cheekbones.
He was close enough now that Xairo could see the flecks of gold in his brown eyes, could smell the tequila on his breath mixing with the skunky weed. Could see the faint, uncertain pull at the corner of his mouth, the crack in the ladies-man facade.
“You gonna say something?” Kayden murmured. His voice had lost its performative edge. It was quieter, rougher.
Xairo’s heart was a hammer against his ribs. He could feel the heat radiating from Kayden’s body. The air between them seemed to crackle, charged with everything unsaid—the shot glasses, the flinch, Isaac’s warning, the ugly, beautiful twist in Xairo’s gut seeing him in that bathroom.
He wanted to shove him. He wanted to close the last inch of space.
He did neither. He just stood there, trapped in that magnetic field, drowning in the contradiction of Kayden’s presence—the public performance still cooling in the air, and this sudden, private intensity that felt more real than anything else in the entire screaming house.
He just stood there, trapped in that magnetic field, drowning in the contradiction of Kayden’s presence—the public performance still cooling in the air, and this sudden, private intensity that felt more real than anything else in the entire screaming house.
Kayden was just too pretty for Xairo.
The thought arrived, unbidden and absolute, dismantling every defensive wall he’d spent years constructing. It wasn’t about handsome. It was the specific curl of his lashes, the way the bad lighting carved a shadow along his jaw, the soft look of his mouth, still faintly glistening. The way his hair, that perfectly messed-up light brown hair, rested on his forehead, a single strand caught in his eyebrow. Xairo’s fingers twitched with a terrifying need to brush it away.
All the noise—the thumping bass, the shrieks of laughter, Isaac’s voice in his head—faded into a distant, meaningless hum. There was only the charged silence of the hallway, the flickering bulb, and the painful, beautiful boy in front of him, looking at him like he was a equation he couldn’t solve.
Xairo kissed him.
It wasn’t gentle. It was a collision, an act of surrender and conquest all at once. He grabbed the front of Kayden’s shirt, fisting the soft cotton, and pulled him in, closing that final, impossible inch. Their mouths met with a messy, desperate pressure.
Kayden froze. For one heart-stopping second, he was rigid against him, all stunned tension. Xairo’s brain screamed, a white-hot siren of what have you done. He was about to shove back, to mutter an apology that would taste like bile, when it happened.
Kayden melted.
His shoulders dropped, a full-body sigh of release. His hands, which had been hanging at his sides, came up to grasp Xairo’s hips, fingers digging in through the denim. He opened his mouth, and the kiss deepened from a shock into a conversation. It was salt and tequila and smoke, and it was soft, so damn soft, a dizzying contrast to the crushing weight of Xairo’s fear. Kayden kissed back with a focused hunger that unraveled him, one hand sliding up to cup the back of Xairo’s neck, holding him there.
They were making out, right there in the grimy hallway, a door away from a hundred people. Xairo forgot them all. He forgot his name, his scholarship, his father’s voice, everything. There was only the heat of Kayden’s mouth, the scratch of his stubble, the solid muscle of his chest under Xairo’s splayed hand. His own mind went quiet, blissfully, terrifyingly empty, filled only with sensation.
He pushed Kayden back a step, until his shoulders met the wall with a soft thud. Kayden went willingly, a low sound humming in his throat. It was intoxicating. This power. This ruinous, perfect feeling. Xairo kissed him harder, his body aligning against Kayden’s, one knee sliding between his legs. He was losing himself, drowning in it, and he never wanted to come up for air.
That’s when Kayden let out a moan.
It was a raw, unfiltered sound. Pleased and wanting and utterly vulnerable. It vibrated against Xairo’s lips, into his mouth, and it detonated inside his skull like a flash-bang.
Xairo stopped.
He ripped himself backward, breaking the kiss with a gasp that sounded like a sob. His lungs burned. He stared at Kayden, who was left leaning against the wall, his lips swollen and dark, his eyes clouded with a dazed, hungry confusion. That moan echoed in the sudden void between them, exposing everything.
It was the sound of real desire, not a performance. And it was the most terrifying thing Xairo had ever heard.
His hand flew to his own mouth, wiping it. The spell shattered. The party noise came crashing back—the music, the screams, a bottle breaking somewhere. Reality was a cold splash. He saw the blonde girl from the bathroom. He saw Isaac’s disapproving frown. He saw his mother’s hopeful eyes.
“I can’t,” Xairo choked out. The words were gravel.
He didn’t wait for a response. He turned and walked, then ran, down the hall, shoving past a couple stumbling out of the bathroom, bursting through the back door into the shock of the cool night air. He didn’t look back. He just ran, the taste of Kayden like a brand on his tongue, and that moan a ghost he knew would haunt him for a long, long time.