El Chapo Sweater Novels & Stories

It was terrifying, and kind of cool. I stepped out. Jax, who was now lounging on a plush bench like he owned the place, looked up. His eyebrows shot up. “Well, well. Look at that.” He pulled out his phone and snapped a picture before I could protest. “For the archives.” “Hey!” “Next!” he declared, already tossing me a deep burgundy sweater with a complicated knit pattern. This one was softer, more academic. I put it on. I looked like I went to a fancy university and debated philosophy in coffee shops.

It’s kind of embarrassing and corny, but it is what it is, I guess. When I see a mysterious and big pink figure running straight to my coffee shop, I freak the fuck out... until I realize that is MY Victoria’s Secret pink hoodie, stretched to the max by a man’s shoulders. And that's my mom's (fake) Louis Vuitton backpack. And my mom's sun hat. That's Leopoldo Smith, ladies and gentlemen, looking fucking ridiculous.