Miguel silently watched as Fedora fought a losing battle to show no signs of panic.
It was a fascinating performance, though the boy's subtle body movements betrayed him at every turn. Suddenly, Fedora became a scholar of the environment, his eyes darting toward the trees and searching for imaginary objects in the distance with a desperate, newfound interest.
The display was so foolish, so transparently panicked, yet it was cute enough to make Miguel smile inwardly. Outwardly, however, he maintained the mask: that murderous, intense gaze that felt like a physical weight in the air between them.
After putting on a brief show of acting dumb and a little too ignorant for his own good, Fedora finally, voluntarily, gave up the act. It was as if he realized he had no other choice; this mountain of a man wouldn't budge.
From Miguel's unbothered, predatory stance, Fedora guessed the man was perfectly content to stand there until the sun went down.
This wasn't the plan.
Fedora had thought that if he just played the part of a confused bystander, the man would eventually get fed up and walk past him. He squeezed his eyes shut for a few moments, praying for a miracle, but when he peeked through one eyelid, the man was still there.
Miguel was motionless, as if silently mocking the entire theatrical performance.
Okay, that's enough, Fedora told himself, straightening his spine and clearing his throat with a subtle, sharp rasp.
The only thing that moved on Miguel's side was his eyes. They followed every single detail of the boy's frame, observing the twitch of a muscle, the flutter of a pulse in his neck.
To Miguel, the sight was a sedative; it was soothing his bruised, vengeful heart in a way he couldn't justify.
"Ummm... Hey. Good day?" Fedora finally melted the ice. His voice came out in a sing-song lilt, accompanied by a nervous wave and a smile that screamed capital false! It was a tone of cheerful dishonesty, a thin veil he hoped could still fool the giant before him.
This man looks upset—very, very upset, Fedora analyzed rapidly. It must be because of his wrecked window. He probably doesn't remember me from the club. He clung to that thought, hoping Miguel's silence was a sign of amnesia rather than brewing storm clouds. He would use that perceived ignorance to his advantage.
Miguel, on the other hand, didn't respond to the greeting. It wasn't out of spite, but because he knew that the moment he opened his mouth, he was likely to stutter.
That would ruin the illusion—the carefully crafted aura of fear he was projecting.
He was heavily upset, yes! But the source of his agitation wasn't the shattered glass of his Escalade. No matter how hard he tried to stoke the fires of his rage, he couldn't find it in himself to be truly angry at this "rot-mouth."
The realization unsettled him. He should be breaking bones, not standing here captivated.
Miguel was one hundred percent sure the boy had recognized him. This timid, "lost boy" routine was just a slippery attempt to escape a wrath that, unbeknownst to Fedora, was never actually coming.
Fedora had clearly mistaken Miguel's silence for a lack of recognition, but that was a fatal miscalculation.
The whole situation: the boy trying to be slippery, the wide-eyed innocence, was entertaining and deeply funny. Miguel's silence was, in fact, a selfish excuse to linger a little longer in the presence of this walking, soothing relief balm.
At least he would have something beautiful to think about while peeling Storm apart layer by layer. He was so deep in the luxury of his thoughts that Fedora's continuing yap of pretentious excuses barely registered.
"Hellllloooo!!" Fedora snapped his fingers theatrically across the man's line of sight, the sharp crack forcing Miguel to blink back into the human realm.
As Miguel's eyes slowly drifted back to land on Fedora, the boy suffered a brief, internal seizure. Those damn eyes. He was never going to get used to that piercing, predatory look. It made his pelvic region go cold with a strange, shivering electricity.
But so far, Fedora felt like he was in control. The man had seemingly bought his poorly delivered excuses.
I just need to play these cards a little more accurately, and I can run for my life, Fedora coached himself.
"I was asking... if you live around the neighborhood? I think I'm lost," Fedora reminded him, leaning into the role of the wayward traveler.
Miguel bit back the laughter that threatened to erupt and embarrass his tough-guy persona.
"No, I don't live around the neighborhood," Miguel answered, his voice low and grounding. "Actually... I own that car," he added, pointing a calloused finger toward the Escalade, which now boasted a gaping, jagged hole where the rear window used to be.
"Oh!" Fedora exclaimed.
He let out a shallow exhale, slowly shaking his head as his tongue swiped under his upper lip in a feigned display of pity.
"That's one hell of a damaged car. What happened to it?" Fedora asked.
The sheer audacity of the question earned him a dead scoff. Miguel's eyes widened, his jaw dropping slightly in utter bewilderment. What the hell? The brat was actually going to pretend he didn't know?
But before Miguel could even find the words to call him out, Fedora took the lead again, cutting him off.
"Anyways.....I genuinely don't want to know, okay? Take care" Fedora placed a palm carefully over his heart while subtly stretching his other hand out toward Miguel, as if giving a blessing.
It was time to go.
He had a schedule to keep: 'flexing and flexing' and he needed to be alive to do it. Even though the look on the man's face made him skeptical that his plan had actually worked, he had to try.
Fedora gave a curt, soft nod and began to walk away, heading in his original direction.
"Tsk!" Miguel clicked his tongue, shaking his head in disbelief. This boy was a chaotic blend of random and unpredictable.
One minute he was a feisty, fearless brat, and the next he was a scaredy-cat trying to vanish from the mess he'd created.
"Is this your real habit or something?" Miguel asked aloud, his voice rich with amusement as he calmly turned to follow Fedora's retreating form with his gaze.
Fedora paused in his tracks. His brows furrowed into a sharp V as he snapped his head back.
"Excuse you?" Fedora tilted his head. For a second, his blood pumped faster than it should, his heart racing as he tried to decipher the hidden meaning in that question.
Miguel lowered his head, finally allowing a small, knowing smile to take over his features. The sight made Fedora's brows twitch with profound unease.
This was the moment. Fedora could run. He could bolt down the road and never look back; who cared if it was embarrassing? But he didn't. He stayed glued to the tar, under a spell, studying this weird, magnetic man.
Finally, Miguel raised his head. He mimicked Fedora's earlier gesture, running his tongue slowly under his own tempting lips before taking a sumptuous bite.
No, Fedora, this is not the time, the boy warned himself, feeling the heat rise in his cheeks.
Miguel's fingers began to gently caress his own chin with a slow, almost sexual motion. His hand moved upward, his thumb grazing his lower lip as if wiping away an imaginary tint, before moving to his cheek in a slow, reminiscing path.
The confusion these actions caused in Fedora was priceless. If I can't break him, I'll unsettle him, Miguel thought, using every muscle in his jaw to keep from laughing out loud at the boy's bewildered expression.
Then, Miguel slowly raised the hockey stick to eye level. He examined the wood carefully, a deliberate move that made Fedora take a frantic, yet "stylish" step backward.
A wicked smirk bloomed on Miguel's face. He finally looked the boy in the eye and spoke.
"You are just full of surprises, you know?"
To be continued....