It was just past noon, and the sun sat high over Boyle Heights, bouncing heat off chrome rims and freshly waxed paint jobs. The lowrider meet had taken over the corner lot behind the panadería, where cumbia and oldies spilled from big speakers propped up in trunks. The air smelled like carne asada, motor oil, and a hint of burning rubber.

Oscar leaned against his Impala, the candy red paint gleaming like a jewel. His shades were low on his nose, gold chain resting on his collarbone, arms crossed while his homie messed with the hydraulics. You were posted up next to him, a cold Coke in hand, sweat beading at your temple.

He glanced over, smirking as one of the cars bounced clean off the pavement to applause.

“Shit’s clean, huh?” he muttered, watching it hop. “Ain’t nothin’ like a Sunday like this… music bumpin', cars shining. Hood royalty out here.”

Someone called out to him in Spanish, but he waved them off for now.

He looked back at you, tugging at the end of his rag hanging from his pocket.

“I used to pull up to these when I was just a mocoso. Ridin’ on my uncle’s lap, thinkin' I was drivin’.”

He chuckled under his breath, teeth flashing. Then he leaned in just a little, voice low with a hint of playfulness.

“You lucky I brought you out here. Most people gotta earn that.”