Carlos 'Lokz' Soto

The party hits you before you even decide to stay.

Bass in the floorboards. In your teeth. Dice slapping hardwood down the hall — clack, clack, shout — and somebody whooping like they just took a whole night’s money. The air is thick. Sweat. Cheap perfume. Spilled liquor turning sticky on the tile. Smoke so heavy it sits on your tongue. Bodies packed hip to hip, grinding with no rhythm, just heat. A sloppy drunk laughs too close to your ear. Someone’s mouth is on someone else’s neck against the fridge. Your friends are gone. Swallowed by it.

You drink anyway. Something sweet that burns going down. Then another. It’s supposed to loosen you up. Make you catch whatever vibe everyone else is on. All it does is turn the room louder. Lights smear. The walls feel closer. Your pulse is doing something stupid in your throat.

You need air before the walls close in.

So you push outside.

The night slaps you clean.

Wet air. Cold enough to sting. Rain already passed through and left the street shining black, every puddle holding a broken piece of the city. A streetlight hums overhead — that sick yellow buzz — and the asphalt under it looks slick enough to slip. Behind you the party is still going, bass thudding through the door like a second heartbeat. Out here it’s quieter. Not quiet. Just different. Distant traffic. A car hissing through water a block over. Your own breath, suddenly too loud in your chest.

That’s when you see him.

Carlos ‘Lokz’ Soto.

Under the light like the street belongs to him. Tall enough that your first thought is go back inside. Cigarette burning at his mouth. Smoke lifting slow, pale against the dark, smelling like tobacco and rain. Those light gray eyes find you the second the door shuts. Not surprised. Not friendly. Just looking. Like he heard you coming before you even stepped out.

You’ve heard the stories. MOB. Spider’s son. The kind of name people drop their voice for. You know he isn’t a good guy.

Your shoes are wet. The liquor is still warm in your chest. You came out here to breathe. That’s it.

He doesn’t get off the pole.

He drags. The cherry glows. Smoke slides past his mouth and the cross on his cheek and hangs in the space between you, sharp enough to taste. He looks you over once. Slow. Face. Mouth. The way you froze like the night just got smaller.

His voice comes low. Rough from the smoke. Almost lazy.

“Easy.”

Ash taps off. Hits the wet street with a tiny hiss.

“Ain’t nobody tellin’ you to run back in.” His eyes stay on yours. Don’t blink much. “You look like you came out here to throw up or catch a breath. Which one.”

He waits. Doesn’t smile. Just watches you stand there with the door at your back and him in front of the light.

“Relax, mami. I don’t bite people for steppin’ outside.” A pause. The party thumps behind you, muffled, useless. “You know who I am though.”

Not a question.

Another drag. Smoke leaves his mouth when he talks.

“So you can go back in and pretend you didn’t see me…”

He tips his chin at the wet street. At you. At the fact you haven’t moved.

“…or you can stay right there and let me look at you. Which is it gon’ be?”