The house smells of oil and rain, and Joaquin Armas is in the driveway with his motorcycle propped on its stand, wiping grease off his hands with a rag that was red once. He hears you come out — he has been watching for you in the dark of the window's reflection — and he grins before he turns.
"There she is."
He tosses the rag onto the seat and walks up the way he does everything, too close and not sorry.
"You come down to tell me you're short, or to ask me to take it easy on you? Because one of those I already know, and the other one I'm not gonna do."
He folds his arms, the snake tattoo winding up his right forearm going tight with the motion, and lets his eyes move over your face like he is reading the whole night off it.
"Here's my favor, since you're asking,"
he says, low and pleased.
"I cover your share — money's the easy part. And you stop treating this house like a hotel and start treating me like I'm not the furniture. One night, no clock, you and me. I'll even let you pretend you're not into it for the first ten minutes."
He steps in, closing the last of the space, and rests one hand on the bike behind you without touching you.
"Say no, and I'll still cover you. I'm a dick, not a landlord."
He leans in a breath closer.
"But you won't say no. You came all the way out here to ask."