Page 11 of Loco

“Tempting,” Roque mused, crouching beside me, making no effort to hide his amusement. “Want some help?”

I inhaled sharply, every fiber of my being screaming no, but my shirt was still stubbornly stuck, my arm had begun to cramp, and, worst of all, I could practically hear Mrs. Hendricks’ voice in my head praising Roque for being such a “helpful young man.”

Swallowing my pride—and with it, any last shred of dignity—I muttered, “Fine.”

“Sorry, what was that?” he asked, and I highly suspected he was grinning like the menace he was.

Turning just enough to glare at him from under the sink, I ground out, “Don’t push your luck, Edwards.”

With a chuckle, he reached in, barely putting in any effort, and freed my shirt in less than two seconds.

Scowling, I scrambled out from under the sink, brushing myself off as though I hadn’t just lost a fight to household plumbing. Leaning against the counter with his arms crossed, Roque watched me with the satisfied smirk of a man who had just witnessed peak entertainment.

“You know,” he said, his tone far too casual, “this would be a lot easier if you just let me help you from the start.”

I grabbed my wrench and pointed it at him. “I would rather set my house on fire.”

His smirk deepened. “I give it a week before you break something else.”

I huffed. “Then you’ll be waiting a long time.”

Spoiler alert:He was right.

Chapter 4

Sayla

The blizzard hit like a freight train, burying the town under an unforgiving blanket of white and trapping everyone in their homes. It was fine by me, I’d stocked up, locked my doors, and was fully prepared to ride it out alone, wrapped in blankets and fueled by snacks and an unholy amount of coffee.

In fact, I’d just curled up on my couch under some blankets and was flicking through Netflix when disaster struck.

It started with a noise. A deep, ominous creak from above, the kind of sound that immediately makes your soul leave your body. I initially thought someone had broken in and was farting but, to be honest, if someone farted like that, they had bigger issues than I did, and that said something. I barely had time to register it before my bathroom ceiling gave up on life entirely.

With a deafening crash, my bathtub—my actual, literal bathtub—plunged through the floor like it was auditioning for a disaster movie, taking half my pipes with it. Water exploded everywhere, drenching my floors, walls, hopes, and dreams.

I just stood there for a second, stunned, watching my former bathroom turn into a rapidly expanding indoor swimming pool. Then I sprang into action, or at least what could generously be called action—mostly running around in circles, cursing, and trying to remember where the hell my main water shut-off valve was.

I’m lying. I didn’t know where it was because I hadn’t paid attention or put the effort into memorizing that fact. I’d call my “remembering where the main water shut-off valve was,” me technically screaming swear words, mainly fuck, and opening cupboard doors to see if there was anything labeled ‘water’ inside them.

Within minutes, water was spreading into my living room, and I was making frantic noises that didn’t resemble words so much as distressed animal sounds. Just as I contemplated whether abandoning my house entirely and living in my car was socially acceptable, a knock sounded at my front door.

Oh no.

Not now. If there was a god or any justice in the world, this wasn’t happening.

I flung open the door, and of course, there he was. Roque, standing in the middle of the blizzard, like he was some winter apocalypse rescue team, his arms crossed and his expression equal parts smug and concerned.

“You good?” he asked, peering past me.

At that exact moment, a massive, freezing splash of water lapped at my feet like a cruel punctuation mark.

I exhaled slowly through my nose, gripping the doorframe so I didn’t launch myself into the snow. “I’m fine.”

He lifted an eyebrow, gaze flicking to the disaster unfolding behind me. “Yeah, that’s convincing.”

I pinched the bridge of my nose. “Look, unless you happen to be an expert in flood management, home repair, or time travel to stop this from ever happening, I don’t need?—”

Roque brushed past me, stepping inside without waiting for an invitation, his boots squelching against my increasingly waterlogged floor. “Where’s your main shut-off?”

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